Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, "While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings. The' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name what Scottish blood By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy❜d. O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, An' I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies: While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTCRIPT. Mr memory's no worth á preen ; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. 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, And shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. See note, p. 92. This past for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, And ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud and lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, VOL. XXXVIII. Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac❜d. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word and write. But shortly they will cowe the louns! Some auld-light herds in neebor towns Are mind 't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter In logic tulzie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. |