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,1
Or glorious dyed.

Oh, sweet are Coila's haughs2 an' woods,
When lintwhites" chant amang the buds,
And jinkinhares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy,

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

E'en winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave through the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary grey;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Darkening the day!

O Nature! a' thy shows an' forms,
To feeling, pensive hearts ha'e 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 learned to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
An' no think lang;
Oh, sweet to stray an' pensive ponder
A heartfelt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, and strive,
Let me fair Nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

6

Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither!
We've been owre lang unkenned to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal:

May Envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal!

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON.

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes;
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,
In ROBERT BURNS.

1

177

In days when mankind were but callans *
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

3

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gi'e,

But spak' their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,*
Like you or me.

6

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

7

Gaed past their viewing,

And shortly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

This past 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 and lang.

Some herds, well learned upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk;
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins comin', to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

1 Sheep which died of disease, and were the herdsmen's perquisites.

2 Pin.

5 Shirt.

3 Children.

6 Shoes.

4 Lowland words.

7 Shred.

This was denied, it was affirmed;
The herds an' hissels' were alarmed;
The reverend grey-beards raved an' stormed,
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were informed

Than their auld daddies

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;2
An' monie a fallow gat his licks

Wi' hearty crunt;3

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hanged and brunt,

This game was played in monie lands,
And auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

The lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,5
Folk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe,
Till now amaist on every knowe

Ye'll find ane placed;

An' some their new-light fair avow

Just quite barefaced.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin';
Their zealous herds are vexed an' sweatin';
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' 6

7

Wi' girnin' spite,

To hear the moon sa sadly lied on

1 Flocks.

By word an' write.

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

An' stay a month amang the moons,
An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gi'e them;

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies see them,

4 Fellows.

I think they'll crouch!

2 Blows and cuts.

5 Fright.

3 Dint.

6 Crying.

7 Grinning.

8 Fellows.

TO J. RANKINE.

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter

Is naething but a "moonshine matter;
But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,'

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.2

EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale" o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'

4

Your dreams an' tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'

Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants,5
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou;Ĝ

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants

Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, oh, dinna tear it!
Spare 't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives 't aff their back.

7

8

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithing;
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts: tak' that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by,
Frae ony unregenerate heathen

179

1 Quarrelling.

Like you or I.

A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.

5 Stories and tricks.

6 Make them tipsy. 7 Injuring.

8 An allusion to the dress of the privileged beggars, or gaberlunzie men, who wore a blue dress.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargained for an' mair;
Sae when ye ha'e an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang,' ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Though, faith, sma' heart ha'e I to sing!
My Muse dow2 scarcely spread her wing:
I've played mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danced my fill;

I'd better gaen an' saired3 the King
At Bunker's Hill.

"Twas ae night lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen,

And, as the twilight was begun,

5

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;

I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for 't;

But, de'il ma care!

Somebody tells the poacher court

The hale affair.

Some auld used hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorned to lie;

So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my powther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

The

game shall

I vow an' swear!

pay

o'er moor an' dale
For this niest year.

As soon's the clockin' time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se ha'e sportin' by-an'-by

For my gowd guinea:

Though I should herd the buckskin kye
For 't, in Virginia.