To J. Lapraik

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast 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 onie clerk.

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 sels;

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives an' whiskie stills,

They are the Muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye make objections at it,

Then han'in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd

Till kye be gaun without the herd,

An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe and witty

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty,

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,

An' now the sinn keeks in the west,

Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quit my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

Yours, Rab the Ranter.