Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
Their ten-hours bite,

My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'dh hizzie,

She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, Ye ken we've been sae busy, This month an' mair,

Let time mak proof;

But 1 shall scribble down some blether!
Just clean aff-loof.m

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
Tho' Fortune use you hard and sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
She's but a bitch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddlen owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,P

I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg
As lang's I dow !!

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,t
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent.,

Behint a kist" to lie and sklent,"

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.

And muckle wame,*

In some bit burghy to represent

A bailie's name?

Or, is 't the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi' ruffled sark an' glancing cane,
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane,*

But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks ?

O Thou, wha gies us each good gift!
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me,

if Thou please, adrift,
Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride !'

Were this the charter of our state--
On pain of hell be rich and great ;'
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead ;b

But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate
We learn our creed :-

For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began-
• The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,
An' none but he.'

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu'd of a soul

May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl,

Remedy,

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

TO THE SAME.

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you Johnie,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonnie;
Now when ye 're nickane down fu' cannie'
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoops o' brany

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh

your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggsh
Like drivin wrack;

But may the tapmast gram that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie1 too, an' skelpin❜k at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it,
Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' whattm it,
Like ony clerk.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel ye 're better,
But mair profane.

Dexterous.

e Cutting.

g Jug or dish with a handle.
i Busy.
7 A kind of knife.

h Scars or gulfs in mosses.

▲ Driving or pressing forward.

m To polish by cutting.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,

But browster wives and whiskie stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat" it,
An' if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we 'll knot it,
An' witness take,

An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it
It winna break.

But if the beast and branksP be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theckits right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Åe winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye 're auld an' gatty,'
An' be as canty,"

As ye were nine years less than thretty,
Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,
An' now the sun keeksy in the west,
Then I maun rin2 amang the rest
An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.