But tho' the tout o' fame may please you, Letna the flatt'rin ghaist o'erheeze you: Nier flyte nor fraise tae gar fock roose you: For men o' skill When ye write weel, will always praise you Great numbers on this earthly ba', An' straught forgot Forbid that ever this should fa' To be your lot. I ever had an anxious wish; Forgive me, Heav'n! if 'twas amiss, It from the cruel tyrant's crush, Beyond the grave. Tho' th' fastest liver soonest dies, An' length o' days sud mak ane wise; An' spur your horse; They're shortest ay wha gain the prize Sae to conclude, auld Frien' an' Neebor, Whase soun' shall reach ayont the Tiber SILLAR'S VERSES OCCASIONED BY A REPLY TO A preachin' Ca'f-a Poet wearin' cloots- WERE Father Adam now tae rise, Tho' in his days mischief there was, Balaam, 'twas strange, an ass he heard, But surely cloots upon a Bard, An' preachin' calves, are stranger. For Gude's sake, Sirs, your flytin' cease, Lest calves an' stirks, by keepin' peace, gape, Tae rout, tae girn, an' Ye're hafflins beasts; in naething mair, Ye differ but the shape. Gae satire vice; let men alane, I'm sorry, Sirs, I hae't tae say, But, Sirs, mair sorry I am still, Then for the future let's be mute, Wi' such as we, let's not dispute, Sae rout or no, just tak your will, The actions which befit a bull Affront the human race. LAPRAIK'S REPLY TO BURNS' EPISTLE. Vide Vol. I. p. 187. O FAR fam'd Rab! my silly Muse, Unconscious of the least desert, When sitting lanely by myself, And when I was amaist half-drown'd Or when I met a chiel like you, I'd aiblins catch a wee bit spark An' rhyme awa like ane half mad, I lik'd the lasses unco weel, Yet still it ne'er ran in my head, Till your kind Muse, wi' friendly blast, And sounded loud, through a' the Wast, Quoth I, "Shall I, like to a sumph, "He says that I can sing fu' weel, Syne I gat up, wi' unco glee, And snatch'd my grey goose quill, An' cry'd, "Come here, my Muse, fy come, An' rhyme wi' a' your skill." |