The Reply. (The Reproof.)

    Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name
    Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
    Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
    Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

    Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
    And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
    I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
        Wad bring ye to:
    Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,
        And then ye'll do.

    The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
    And never drink be near his drouth!
    He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth,
        He'd tak my letter:
    I lippen'd to the chief in trouth,
        And bade nae better.

    But aiblins honest Master Heron,
    Had at the time some dainty fair one,
    To ware his theologic care on,
        And holy study;
    And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
        E'en tried the body.

    But what dy'e think, my trusty fier,
    ...

    To Riddel, much-lamented man,
        This ivied cot was dear;
    Reader, dost value matchless worth?
        This ivied cot revere.

    Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
    How do you this blae eastlin wind,
    That's like to blaw a body blind?
    For me, my faculties are frozen,
    My dearest member nearly dozen'd,
    I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
    Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
    Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
    An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
    Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
    An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
    Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
    An' in the depth of science mir'd,
    To common sense they now appeal,
    What wives and wabsters see and feel.
    But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly
    Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
    For now I'm grown sae curse...

    Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
    And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
    A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
    'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
    So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
    Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
    Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
    And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
    "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
    "I know your bent, these are no laughing times:
    Can you, but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
    Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;
    With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
    Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
    Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
    Waving on high the des...

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2 - "And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."


    Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
        Though Heretics may laugh;
    For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
        God knows, an unco Calf!

    And should some patron be so kind,
        As bless you wi' a kirk,
    I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
        Ye're still as great a Stirk.

    But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
        Shall ever be your lot,
    Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power,
        You e'er should be a stot!

    Tho', when some kind, connubial dear,
        Your but-and-ben adorns,
    The like has been that you may wear
        A noble head of horns.

    And in your lug, most reverend Jame...