Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic-folk may cock their nose, To make a sang ?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! Gie me ae spark of nature's fire, Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 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 folks that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses-Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 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 Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, 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, 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; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. April 21st, 1785. While new-ca'd kye rout 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, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 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 trouth 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 get paper in a blink, I vow I'll close it; 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 seribble 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 gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 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, 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; In a' their pride!" Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, |