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Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

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
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie,

How dare ye do't!

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some pow'r the gifte gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free 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,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

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;
And there was muckle fun and jokin,

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife :

It thirl'd the heartstrings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel,
What generous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I,Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark!'

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,
It was sae fine.

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,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

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,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

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Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say,
'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?'

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're may be 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,
Or knappin-hammers.

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 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,
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 far abuse me.

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

For monie à plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;
May be 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.

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