Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye, This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefu'; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough And when I dinna yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, The Patron, (Sir, ye man forgie me, I readily and freely grant, But then, na thanks to him for a' that; Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Learn three mile pray'rs, an half-mile graces, I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Thue winks and finger ends, I dread, Are notice takin'! O wad some power the giftie gie us ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. EDINA! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, EDINA, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine: I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine ! V. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold veteran grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pon'drous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock: Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought and pitying tears, VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LA PRAIK. AN OLD SCOTTIsh bard, april 1st, 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 fasten-een we had a rockin' At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang amang the rest, I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; 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 spiert, 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, Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me! Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. |