TO THE SAME

APRIL 21, 1785.

1 WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte 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.

2 Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn outowre the rigs,
Or dealing through amang the naigs
Their ten-hours' bite,

My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write,

3 The tapetless ramfeezled 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.'

4 Her dowff excuses pat me mad:
'Conscience,' says I, 'ye thowless jad!
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud,

So dinna

This vera night;

ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

5 Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Though 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?'

6 Sae I gat paper in a blink,

And down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, 'Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

And if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove, I'll prose it!'

7 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 scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.

8 My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Though 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 but a b.

9 She's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the L, though I should beg,
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

10 Now comes the sax-and-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.

11 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?

12 Or is 't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

13 O Thou, wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift

Through Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride!

14 Were this the charter of our state, 'On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heaven! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

15 For thus the royal mandate ran,

When first the human race began,

"The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

An' none but he !'

16 Oh mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

17 Though here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

18 Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,

Each passing year!

TO W. SIMPSON,1 OCHILTREE.

MAY, 1785.

1 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie

you brawlie ;

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank
Simpson parish teacher in Cumnock; a man of considerable talent.

Though I maun say 't, I wad be silly,
And unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin' billic,

Your flatt'rin' strain.

2 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie ;

Though in sic phraisin' terms ye 've penn ́d it,
I scarce excuse ye.

3 My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel,

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,1

The bracs o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless namie.

4 (0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited Law's dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes,

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

5 Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,

As whyles they're like to be my dead,

(Oh sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

''Gilbertfield:' William Hamilton, a poet contemporary with Allan

Ramsay.