The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guide fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; Ye bade me write you what they mean *New light, a cant phrase iu the West of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of wich defended so strenuously. 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight, In days when mankind were but callans At Grammar, Logic, and sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallains Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like sark, or pair c' shoon, Wore, by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewin', An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed: An' muckle din there was about it, 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 o' sight. An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissles were alarm'd; rev'rend.gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies The Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to blours an' nicks; And monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, The Lairds forbade, by strict commands, But new light herds gat sic a cowe, Yell 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 But shortly they will cowe the loups An' stay ae month amang the moons Guid observation they will gie them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae' ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better EPISTLE TO J. R****** ENCLOSING SOME POEMS OROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******, Will send you Korah-like, a sinkin, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye make a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, a' wants, Are an' seen thro', certain humourous dream of his was then manoise in the country-side. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, Your sang*, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king, 'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun, An', as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. *A song he had promised the Author. |