Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jest an' fleg I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Behind a kist to lie and skient, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent, In some bit burgh to represent A bailie's name? Or, is't the paughty, feudal thane, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 66 As by he walks ? "O Thou, wha gies us each guid gift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. Were this the charter of our state But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, "Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he!" O, mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties TO W. S*****N. OCHILTREE, MAY, 1785. I GAI' your letter, winsome Willie; Should I believe, my coaxin billy, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it; On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it. My senses wad be in a creel, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes Yet when a tale comes i' my head, I kittle up my rustic reed, It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while Or whare wild-meeting ocean boil Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gled Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest; We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks and braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Southron billies. At Wallace's name, what Scottish blood By Wallace's side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, O sweet are Coila s haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While tho' the braes the cushat croods Wi' wailfu' crv! |