EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

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
Naebody sings.

Th' 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,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree,b as story tells,

Frae Suthron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
Or glorious died!

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,
When lintwhitesd chant amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy;

While thro' the braes the cushat croods'
With wailfu' cry!

• a hoist up. ⚫ linnets.

won the victory.

⚫ starts.

e meadows.

f wood-dove coos.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave thro' the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

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 trottin burn's meander,
An' no think lang:

O sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!

The war'ly race may drudge an' drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive;
Let me fair Nature's face descrive,b
And 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 an' taxes;
While moorlan' herds like guid, fat braxies";

B push and jostle.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

While terra firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns;

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,
In Robert Burns.

POSTSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen* ;
I had amaist forgotten clean,

Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this 'new-light,' 1

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callansb
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.

e

In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark,d or pair o' shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon'

Gaed past their viewin;

An' shortly after she was done

They gat a new ane.

This passed for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.

b boys.

• broad Lowland Scots.
f shred.
6 fellows.

⚫ shoes. 1 New-Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland for those religious

4 shirt.

opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.-R. B.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON

a

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 and hissels were alarm'd

C

b

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' 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' nicksd;
An monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt*;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in mony lands,
An' auld-light caddies' bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks;

Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stoweb;

Till now, amaist on ev'ry knowe

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 an' sweatin;

ONE NIGHT AS I DID WANDER

Mysel', I've even seen them greetin
Wi girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor touns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight;

An' stay ae 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 hindmaist 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
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;'
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,

с

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulyie.d