epistle to james tennant of glenconner
  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 an' latin mangled,
  till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
  and 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 cursed douce
  i pray and ponder butt the house;
  my shins, my lane, i there sit roastin',
  perusing bunyan, brown, an' boston,
  till by an' by, if i haud on,
  i'll grunt a real gospel-groan:
  already i begin to try it,
  to cast my e'en up like a pyet,
  when by the gun she tumbles o'er
  flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
  sae shortly you shall see me bright,
  a burning an' a shining light.
  my heart-warm love to guid auld glen,
  the ace an' wale of honest men:
  when bending down wi' auld grey hairs
  beneath the load of years and cares,
  may he who made him still support him,
  an' views beyond the grave comfort him;
  his worthy fam'ly far and near,
  god bless them a' wi' grace and gear!
  my auld schoolfellow, preacher willie,
  the manly tar, my mason-billie,
  and auchenbay, i wish him joy,
  if he's a parent, lass or boy,
  may he be dad, and meg the mither,
  just five-and-forty years thegither!
  and no forgetting wabster charlie,
  i'm tauld he offers very fairly.
  an' lord, remember singing sannock,
  wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!
  and next, my auld acquaintance, nancy,
  since she is fitted to her fancy,
  an' her kind stars hae airted till her
  ga guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.
  my kindest, best respects, i sen' it,
  to cousin kate, an' sister janet:
  tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
  for, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;
  to grant a heart is fairly civil,
  but to grant a maidenhead's the devil.
  an' lastly, jamie, for yoursel,
  may guardian angels tak a spell,
  an' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
  but first, before you see heaven's glory,
  may ye get mony a merry story,
  mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
  and aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.
  now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you:
  for my sake, this i beg it o' you,
  assist poor simson a' ye can,
  ye'll fin; him just an honest man;
  sae i conclude, and quat my chanter,
  your's, saint or sinner,
  rob the ranter.