Postcript

My memory’s no worth a preen;I had amaist forgotten clean,Ye bade me write you what they meanBy this “new-light,”’Bout which our herds sae aft hae beenMaist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callansAt 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 roonGaed past their viewin;An’ shortly after she was doneThey gat a new ane.

This passed 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 turn’d a neukAn’ out of’ sight,An’ backlins-comin to the leukShe grew mair bright.

This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;The herds and hissels were alarm’dThe rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,That beardless laddiesShould think they better wer 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 mony lands,An’ auld-light caddies bure sic hands,That faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi’ nimble shanks;Till lairds forbad, 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 ev’ry knoweYe’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 greetinWi’ girnin spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lied onBy word an’ write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!Some auld-light herds in neebor tounsAre mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons,To tak a flight;An’ stay ae month amang the moonsAn’ see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ themJust i’ their pouch;An’ when the new-light billies see them,I think they’ll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatterIs naething but a “moonshine matter”;But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatterIn logic tulyie,I hope we bardies ken some betterThan mind sic brulyie.