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On fasten-e'en we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye needna 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 heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;

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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'd,

Then a' that ken'd 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' swoor 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.

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 maybe 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 tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

ye

If I could get it.

Now, sir, if 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 sair abuse me.

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

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;

Maybe 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

W’ane anither.

The four-gill caup, 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.

Awa, ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should gie place To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

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But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

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Each aid the others,'

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

TO THE SAME.

April 21, 1785.

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.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours bite,

My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I wouldna write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,

She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair,

That trowth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.'

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