Lapas attēli

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,

Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars ? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,

Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes !
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,

Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

I'se no insist,
But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

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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,

At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing they gie me

They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We’se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather,
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

Wi’ ane anither.

The four-gill caup, 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

Before we part.

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,

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,

my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

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The tapetiesa, rumfeezl d hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy.
Quo' she, Ye ken, we're been see basy,

This month an' mair, That trowth my head is grown right dizzie,

An' something sair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
* Conscience, says I, “ye thowless jad!
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,

An' thank him kindly!

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, ‘ Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;
An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp

Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp:

She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, tho’ I should beg,

Wi' lyart pow,
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,

As lang 's I dow!

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