TO W. Ś***** N, OCHILTREE. May, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie, Your flatterin strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Wi' Allen, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. O Ferguson! thy glorious parts My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry! Yet when a tale comes i' my head, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings. The' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnie's shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name what Scotish blood By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy❜d. O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! 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!' In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen; Ye bade me write you what they mean By this new-light', 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been At Majst like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed;' An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang. 1 See note, vol. i. p. 63. |