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It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, 'Then a' that kent bim round declar'd
He had ingine, That pane excell'd it, few
cam near't, It was sae fine.
That set him to a pint of ale,
Or witty catches,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an' swore an aith,
At some dyke-back,
To hear your crack.
'Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does weel enough.
Yet what tha matter?
I jingle at her.
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?” But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're may be wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools, If honest Nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Plain truth to speak :
By dint o' Greek!
At pleugh or cart,
May touch the heart.
If I can hit it!
If I could get it!
I’se no insiste
But gif ye want a friend that's true,
I'm on your list.
They sometimes roose me,
As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses–Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
They weel can spare.
If we forgather,
Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; Syoe 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, 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:
TO THE SAME.
April 21, 1785.
WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake,
To own I'm debtor
For his kind letter.
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 ramfeezld hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, “ Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
This month an' mair,
And something sair."
That vera night;
But rhyme it right. "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack of cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,
And thank him kindly!":
I vow I'll close it;
By Jove I'll prose it!" 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, Thos fortune use you hard an' sharp;