Thro' hoftile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody Lion bore; Ev'n I who fing in ruftic lore, Haply, my Sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your Fathers led ! VIII. Edina! Scotia's darling feat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, EPISTLE WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, An' Paitricks fcraichin loud at e'en, An' morning Pouffie whiddin feen, Infpire my Mufe, This freedom, in an unknown frien', I pray excufe. On Faften-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 fang about. There was ae fang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That fome kind husband had addreft To fome fweet wife! It thirl'd the heart-ftrings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought defcrib'd fae weel, What gen'rous, manly bofoms 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 fae about him there I spier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd, He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was fae fine. That fet him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' fangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' fwoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger-pownie's death, At fome dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, To hear your crack, But, firft an' foremost, I fhould tell, Amaift as foon as I could fpell, I to the crambo jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's fel, Does weel eneugh. 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 Mufe does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your |