third epistle to j. lapraik

guid speed and furder to you, johnie,

guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie;

now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie

the staff o' bread,

may ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y

to clear your head.

may boreas never thresh your rigs,

nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

like drivin wrack;

but may the tapmost grain that wags

come to the sack.

i'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it,

but bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;

sae my auld stumpie pen i gat it

wi' muckle wark,

an' took my jocteleg an whatt it,

like ony clark.

it's now twa month that i'm your debtor,

for your braw, nameless, dateless letter,

abusin me for harsh ill-nature

on holy men,

while deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,

but mair profane.

but let the kirk-folk ring their bells,

let's sing about our noble sel's:

we'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills