A set o' dull, conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, and folk that wish me well,

They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As sair abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to mẹ, I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;

Maybe some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,'
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,

An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

W' ane anither,

The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water;
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should gie place To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

Each aid the others,'

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; you wad gar me fissle,

Twa lines frae

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

TO THE SAME.

April 21, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or' dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours bite,
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I wouldna write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,

Quo' she, 'Ye ken, we've been sae busy,

That trowth my

This month an' mair,

head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
Conscience (says I), ye thowless jad!

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This very night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,
An' thank him kindly!'

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

Quoth I,

An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp;
She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L―d, tho' I should beg,
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city Gent,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.

And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride!'