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Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch!
She's but a b-tch.
She's gien me monie a jest an' fleg,
Wi' layart pow,
As langs I dow!
Frae year to year;
1, Rob, am here.
Do ye envy the city Gent,
And muckle wane,
A Bailie's name!
Or, is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
But lordly stalks,
As by he walks ?
Thro' Scotland wide;
Wi' Cits nor Lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride!"
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!
In glorious light,
Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growTheir wortbless neivefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl,
The forest fright; Or in some day-detesting owl
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 W. S***** N,
I Gal your letter winsome Willie ;
An' unco vain,
Your flatt'rin strain.
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,
I scarce excuse ye.
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 Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's, dry musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E’nburgh gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes,
Wad stow'd his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
(O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed
It gies my ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain
But tune their lays
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-ofisle
Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an Tay a lift aboon; Yairow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, on' Doon,
Nae body sings.
Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
An'cock your crest, W'U gar our streams and burnies shine
Up wi' the best.
We'll sing auld Coila's plains an fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather-bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,
Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Southron billies.
At Wallace's name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace's side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,
Or glorious dy'd.
O'sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jirkin bares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods
Wi' wailfu' cry!
Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild furious flee,
Dark'ning the day!
O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling pensive hearts nae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!