SECOND EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK.

Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,

Aught less is little,

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle!'

Awa' ye selfish war'ly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace,
E'en love and friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack !2

I dinna 3 like to see your face,

But

Nor hear you crack.*

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

66

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.

171

SECOND EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK.

6

April 21, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout7 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.

66

1

The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy
This month an' mair,
my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair."

That trouth

66

Her dowff3 excuses pat me mad;
Conscience," says I, "ye thowless1 jad!
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,
Though 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?

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 ye winna mak' it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!"

99

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."

8

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
Though 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 bitch.

She's gi'en me monie a jirt an' fleg,"
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the Lord, though I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,10

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake

1 Heedless.

my leg,

As lang's I dow! 11

SECOND EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK.

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,3

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

And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A bailie's name?

4

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en,
As by he walks?

"O Thou wha gi'es us each guid gift!
Gi'e me o' wit an' sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift

Through 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,
An' none but he!"

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may
In glorious light,

shine

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

173

1 Skittish damsel.

+ Haughty.

2 Counter.

3 Deceive.

Though 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,
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!

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 2 OCHILTREE.

1 Handful.

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Though I maun say't, I wad be silly,
An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,3

Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 4

On my poor Musie;

May, 1785.

Though in sic phrasin' terms ye' ve penned it,
I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,"

Should I but dare a hope to speel"

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel',

The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

2 William Simpson was schoolmaster of the parish of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Cummoch. He was a tolerably good poet, and a very intelligent, clever man.

3 Brother.

To be crazed; crcel is, literally, a basket.

4 Cast sidelong.

6 Climb.

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON.

My curse upon your whunstane1 hearts,
Ye Enbrugh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad stowed his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,

Or lasses gi'e my
As whyles they're

3

heart a screed,2

like to be my deed,

(Oh, sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gi'es me ease.

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line;
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

6

An' cock your crest,
We'll gar our streams and 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 an' dells,
Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae southron billies.8

175