EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1, 1785.

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On fasteen-een we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin
And there was muckle fun an' jokin
Ye need na doubt:

At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the real.
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;

It thrill'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describe sae wee,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel:
Thought I," Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark ?"

They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that kent him round declar'd
He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near'1,
It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale
An' either douce or merry tale,
Of rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches,

"Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swore an aith, Though 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 enough.

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 may be 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
Af 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 enough for me.

If I could get it!

Now, sir, if ye 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 a 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 far 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;

May be 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
Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, 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 give place
To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms Who hold your being on the terms,

"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 rout 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 would na 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 trouth my head is grown right dizzie,
And something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad : "Conscience," says, I, "ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

That vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack of cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts,
And thank him kindly!"

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink

Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I'll close it;

An' if you winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!"

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
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.

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 an' warp;
She's but a b-tch.

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

I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As langs I dow!

Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer I've seen the bud ope' 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,
Behind a kist to lie and skient,
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.,

And muckle wane,

In some bit burgh to represent

A Bailie's name!

Or, is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffled 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 good gift, Gle 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 of hell be rich an' great,"