To C. L. Esq. With A Present Of A Large Bottle Of Old Jamaica Rum Poem by Hector Macneill

Dear honest hearted, canty Charlie!
To whom I'd trust baith late and earlie;
Accept, in token o' regard,
Frae rhyming Mac, your friend and bard,
A gift to raise on Sunday's even
Your mind frae earthly thoughts to heaven;
Or what's far mair, to keep frae quaking
Thy graceless aul for Sunday-breaking,
As reckless ay o' prayer or kirk
Ye ply your sinfu' wark till mirk,
Grunting owre deeds o' black rascality
In Session Courts and Admirality;
Till tir'd o' horning and memorial,
Ye turn frae tricks to things corporeal;
For lang law draughts, take ane that's shorter,
(I mean a draught o' Skae's good porter):
For desperate debts and pleas unlucky,
Sit down and carve your roasted chucky,
And helping round ilk friend and cousin
That mak, at least, a round half dozen,
Wi' crack - and joke - and steeve rum toddy,
Lord! but ye turn a dainty body!

Now Charles, without a Sunday's blessing,
Wi' a' your want o' Sunday's dressing;
Wi' hair unkaim'd, and beard unshorn,
And slip-shod bachles, auld, and torn.
Coat, that nae decent man wad put on,
And waistcoat aft without a button,
And breeks (let sans culottes defend them)
I hope in God, ye'll change, or - mend them.
I say, wi' a' these black transgressions,
(The fruits o' your curst courts and sessions)
There's yet sic sparks o' grace about you;
Sic radiant truth that shines throughout you;
Sic friendship firm ;- sic qualms o' honour
Whan sneaking rascals mak you sconner,
That ('pon my faith! I should be skelpit)
I find a secret, inward greeting
O' peace at ilka Sunday meeting;
And feel - ye hash, wi' a' your duds on,
For you attractions like a loadstone;
That warm the heart wi' glows diviner
Than e'er I find for chiels that's finer.

Come, Charlie, then, my friend and brither!
Whan neist wi' a' convene thegither
To crack and joke in converse happy,
I' faith! w'se hae a hearty drappy;
And though I dinna like to buckle
Wi' hours owre late, or drink owre muckle,
Nor think it a' thegither right
To keep folk up on Sunday night,
I am resolv'd, be't right or sinfu';'
To hae at least - a decent skinfu';'
Wi' heart and hand keep friendship waking
And trust to heaven for Sunday-breaking.
And sure, if bounteous heaven tak pleasure
In harmless mirth, and social leisure,
And grant us aye the power to borrow
Some thoughtless hours to banish sorrow,
To crack, and laugh, and drink, nae sin is
Wi' modest worth and Jeanie I---s;
After Sunday's feast - or pascal
Wi' you, ye kirkless canty rascal.

Mind then, whan honest trusty Peter
(Aboon a' praise in prose or metre)
Removes ilk dish, whar late, fu' dainty,
Stood roasted hen, and collops plenty;
And roddickins, and penches too,
And mussels picked nice wi' broo;
And haddies caller at last carting,
Or rizzer'd sweet by Mrs. Martin!
- W' kipper (brander'd het and broun)
A present sent frae Stirling town.
I say, when Pate wi' solemn face,
Removes ilk thing wi' steddy pace,
And brings the reeking burn and bowl
To cheer ilk presbyterian soul;
Whan ance that ye, a' fidging fain
Draw the first cork wi' mony a grane,
And sometimes girning, sometimes blawin,
Examine gin its rightly drawn.
Whan three times round the port wine passes
And ilka friend has drank three glasses;
Nae langer grane, nor fyke, nor daidle,
But brandish ye the - langshak'd ladle,
That magic wand that has the knack ay
To mak us a' sae pleas'd and cracky;
That Moses' rod that weets ilk mouthie
And maks streams gush for hearts that's drowthie,
And has the double power, sae curious!
To mak some chiels baith pleas'd and furious!

Now, as I've heard some hair-brain'd hempy
Growl whan your chappin bottle's empty,
And roar, and swear, wi' aiths that's sinfu'
For what's ay ca'd - 'anither spoonfu';'
To satisfy sic maws rapacious,
I herewi' send o' size capacious
A bottle prim'd, my dainty callan,
Somewhat mair than half a gallon
O' precious gear, I've lang been huntin,
Till caught at last frae Wattie Br---n.
Fill then! - and drink! - and banish dread
O' after sair wame, or sair head;
There's naithing here, our harns to daver,
But rare auld stuff to mark us claver;
For hear I swear in rhyming letter,
D---n me! if e'er ye tasted better!