No More Learning

Wm. Auld of Mauchline. ]

Dalrymple^6 has been lang our fae,
M'Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^8
And baith the Shaws,^9
That aft hae made us black an' blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch'd mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,^11
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel',
There's Smith^12 for ane;
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An' get the brutes the power themsel's
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,
An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banished o'er the sea to France:
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence

[Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr. ]

[Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.
]

[Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox. ]

[Footnote 9: Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of
Coylton. ]

[Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton. ]

[Footnote 11: Rev. John M'Math, a young assistant and successor
to Wodrow. ]

[Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston. ]

M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,
An' guid M'Math,
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.






1785




Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet

January

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
An' hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't;
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear;
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na, nor fear na,"^1
Auld age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't, the warst o't
Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is doubtless, great distress!