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　　Postcript

　　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 viewin;

　　An' shortly after she was done

　　They 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 neuk

　　An' out of' sight,

　　An' backlins-comin to the leuk

　　She grew mair bright.

　　This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;

　　The herds and hissels were alarm'd

　　The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,

　　That beardless laddies

　　Should 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 sands

　　Wi' 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 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 lied on

　　By word an' write.

　　But shortly they will cowe the louns!

　　Some auld-light herds in neebor touns

　　Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,

　　To tak a flight;

　　An' stay ae month amang the moons

　　An' 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' 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 tulyie,

　　I hope we bardies ken some better

　　Than mind sic brulyie. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns