Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, This freedom, in an unknown frien', G 30 40 On Fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife: It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, Thought I Can this be Pope, or Steele, They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 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, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, "Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. 40 30 20 ΤΟ But, first an' foremost, I should tell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars? A set o' dull conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. 50 бо 70 O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, an' folks that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as mony still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, For mony a plack they wheedle frae me, Maybe some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 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, Come to my bowl, come to my arms, But to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen While I can either sing, or whistle, TO THE SAME. WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, Forjeskit sair, with weary legs, My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs I 20 130 |