Come, kittle up your moorland harp Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jest an' fleg, I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city Gent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. And muckle wane, In some bit burgh to represent A Bailie's name! Or, is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffled sark an' 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 good gift Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; 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, 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! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, The forest fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. an' growl, Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year! TO W. S***** N, OCHILTREE, May, 1785. I GAI' your letter winsome Willie; Should I believe, my coaxin billy, 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, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles the're like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed It gies my 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-ofisle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. 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, Will 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 By Wallace's side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 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 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! 1 1 |