It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, That set him to a pint of ale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swore an aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith Or die a cadger-pownie's death, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But first an' foremost, I should tell Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does weel enough. I am nae Poet, in a sense, Yet what tha matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull, conceited hashes, An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear enough for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, I'se no insist, But gif ye want a friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; But friends, and folk that wish me well, Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, Maybe some ither thing they gie me, But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 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 Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense an' grace, 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, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servants TO THE SAME. April 21, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, To own I'm debtor Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 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, And something sair." Her dowff excuses pat me mad: "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, That vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, Sac I gat paper in a blink, An' if you winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it!" Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; |