Postscript

My memory's no worth a preen: I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean, By this New Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans, At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one.

This past for certain--undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks, An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands, An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, 'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks.

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some their New Light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin'; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin': Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the loons; Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay ae month amang the moons And see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them: An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the New Light billies see them, I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie.

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XXXIII.