It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, That set him to a pint of ale, Of rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, "Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swore an aith, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith But first an' foremost, I should tell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, I am nae poet, ir a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars? A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire, My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear enough for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, But gif ye want a friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends and folk that wish me well They sometimes roose me Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me - May be, some ither thing they gie me, But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We'se 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' kirsen him wi' reekin water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense an' grace, Ev'n love and 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, Come to my bowl, come to my arms, But, to conclude my lang epistle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. な Forjesket sair, with weary legs, My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy; That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzi», Her dowff excuses pat me mad: This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, And down gaed stumpie in the ink; Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink, An' if you winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it'” |