O, happy is that man an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him! Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkenned that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; To's ain het hame had sent him Hear how he clears the points o' faith His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, But hark! the tent has changed its voice; They canna sit for anger. What signifies his barren shine Of moral powers and reason? His English style, an' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld Pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in, That's right that day. In guid time comes an antidote Fast, fast that day. Wee Miller, niest, the guard relieves, Though in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: Now butt an' ben, the change-house fills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mair It pangs us fu' o' knowledge: By night or day. How drink gaed round, in cogs an' An' mony jobs that day begun caups, Amang the furms an' benches : An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. An' dawds that day. EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. [John Lapraik, a companion of Burns, though thirty-two years the latter's senior, was one of those mediocrities whom the poet was fond of idealizing into importance, out of the extravagant generosity of his friendship. Like David Sillar, this older rhyming dullard presumed to pass through the press, in 1788, in emulation of the then already famous bard of Ayrshire, a volume of verse of no intrinsic value what It pat me fidgin' fain to hear 't, That nane excelled it, few came near 't, That, set him to a pint of ale, ever. What we are alone indebted to him for is WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, Inspire my muse, On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang amang the rest, To some sweet wife; He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gi'e them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel', Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, It thirled the heart-strings through the An' ha'e to learning nae pretence, breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describes sae What generous, manly bosoms feel; Or Beattie's wark?" Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, F But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, This vera night;. My friends, my brothers! So dinna ye affront your trade, But, to conclude my lang epistle, Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Your friend and servant. Yet ye 'll neglect to shaw your parts, |