Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Till ye've got on it, The very tapmost, towering height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze on't, Wad dress your droddum! I wad na been surpris'd to spy On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie, How dare ye do't! O Jenny, dinna toss your head, The blastie's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin! O wad some pow'r the gifte gie us And foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion! EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK AN OLD SCOTISH BARD. April 1st, 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitrick's scraichin loud at e'en, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heartstrings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel, They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches, "Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swore 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, 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, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars? 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 o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee, Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be If I can bit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it.. Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 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 far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, For monie à plack they wheedle frae me, They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Before we part. |