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 an' 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, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms,

• Each aid the others,'

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But,

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my
auld pen's worn to the grissle:
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

ΤΟ

то

THE SAME.

April 21st, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake,
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

VOL. III.

R

Forjesket

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours bite,

My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,

Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy
This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 'An' something sair.'

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,

In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,

An' thank him kindly!'

Sae

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink :
Quoth I, Before I sleep a wink,

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.

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 but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

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