On fasten-e'en we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye needna doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife: It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark!' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier'd, Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches, "Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' 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, 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, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, 'How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?" 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, 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, tho' hamely in attire, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, ye If I could get it. Now, sir, if hae friends enow, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As sair 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, Maybe some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware W’ane anither. The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter, Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should gie place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, 6 Each aid the others,' Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! But, to conclude my lang epistle, 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 rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Their ten-hours bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 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 trowth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' |