SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK

a

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 would na write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,b
She's saft at best an' 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."

Her dowffe excuses pat me mad;
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jade!
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' 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?"

SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 1
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.b

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
She's but a bitch.

She's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,d
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,

e

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

Now comes the sax-an-twentieth simmer
I've seen the bud upon the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmerg

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.2

Do ye envy the city gent,

Behint a kist to lie an' sklent1;

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.

An' muckle wame,1

In some bit brugh to represent

A bailie's name?

SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK

a

Or is't the paughty feudal thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks;

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?

"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,
"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.

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,
And none but he."

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o' the Nine,1
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night!

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

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,1
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,
In some mild sphere;

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,
Each passing year!

Epistle to William Simson.2

SCHOOLMASTER, OCHILTREE.-MAY 1785.
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;b
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
And unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie
Your flatterin strain.

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

On my poor Musie;

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

⚫ handful. b heartily. ⚫ fellow. 1 Originally this line gave the fuller form of the poet's name :

"Lapraik and Burness then may rise And reach," &c.

An example of Burns's modesty. He has certainly left Gilbertfield behind (who was a writer on his favourite hero, William Wallace), and more or less eclipsed the "deathless name of young Fergusson. It is probable that

"

d directed sideways. ⚫ flattering.

the "Enbrugh gentry" with their "whunstane hearts" never heard of that enfant perdu, who died in a madhouse (Oct. 16, 1774). His tomb, in Canongate kirkyard, was erected at the expense of Burns, who gloried in being his pupil. As a boy, Scott thought that Burns over-rated Fergusson, a generous error if an error it was.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

My senses wad be in a creel,a
Should I but dare a hope to speelb
Wi' Allan,1 or wi' Gilbertfield,2

The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(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!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lassies gie my heart a screed-
As whiles they're like to be my dead,
(0 sad disease!)

I kittled up my rustic reed;

e

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.