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' backlinsin 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,