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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,

But

Nor hear your crack.

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;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

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Their ten-hours bite.

My awkart muse sair pleats and begs.

I wenkina wre

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie.

She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, 'Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair,

That trowth my 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 vera 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, 'Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

An' if ye winua 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!'

Were this the charter of our state,
'On pain o' hell be rich an' great,'
Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human ace began, 'The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

An' none but he!'

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul

May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

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