Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 'Conscience,' says I, ye thowless jad! • I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, "This vera night : So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. • Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 'Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, Before I sleep a wink, 'I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink, 'Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. A My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jirt 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, 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 brugh to represent A Bailie's name? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffi'd sark and glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks ? O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! • Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, '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, O mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcass howl The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year! To W. S***** N, QCHILTREE. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; May, 1785. Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; An unco vain. Should I believe, my coaxin billie, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (0 Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E'nbrugh Gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Yet when a tale comes i' my head, (O sad disease!) X 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, To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New-Holland, |