Yet, if your catalogue be fow,

I'se no infift;

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your lift.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends an' folk that wish me well,

They fometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still,

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the laffes-Gude forgie me!

For monie a Plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair:

Maybe fome ither thing they gie me

They weel can spare.

But MAUCHLINE Race or MAUCH

LINE Fair,

I should be proud to meet you there;

We'fe 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' kirfn him wi' reekin water;

Syne we'll fit down an' tak our whitter,

To chear our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, fenfe 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!
B b

As

But to conclude my lang epistle,

my auld pen's worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fifsle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either fing, or whissle,

Your friend and fervant.

TO THE SAME.

W

April 21st, 1785.

HILE new-ca'd kye rowte 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 honeft-hearted, auld L***** K,

For his kind letter.

Forjefket fair, with weary legs, Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,

Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours bite,

But by the L-d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' fing, an' fhake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

Now comes the fax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still perfecuted 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 kift to lie an' fklent,

Or purfe-proud, big wi' cent per cent,

An' muckle wame,

In fome bit Brugh to represent

A Baillie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,

Wi' ruffl'd fark an' glancin cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An, down gaed stumpie in the ink:

Quoth I, 'Before I fleep a wink,

' I vow I'll close it;

( An' if

ye

winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!'

Sae I've begun to fcrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,

Or fome hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But I fhall fcribble down some blether

Juft clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' Fortune ufe you hard an' fharp;

Come, kittle up your moorlan harp

Wi' gleefome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp;

She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,

Sin I could ftriddle owre a rig;