Her dowff excuses pat me mad; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. • Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, An' if ye By Jove I'll prose it! winna mak it clink, Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, Now comes the sax an' 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. 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? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!' Were this the charter of our state, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, O mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' 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. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year. TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, Ochiltree. May, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, My senses wad be in a creel, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name! (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry!) 1 Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 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 To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Th' Ilissus, 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. |