Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year ;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city Gent,
Behint a kist to lie and sklent,
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.'

And muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin 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 guid 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,

In a' their pride!

Were this the charter of our state,
• On pain o’ hell be rich an' great,'
Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;
But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human ace 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 !
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,
While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an' growl,
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's 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 WILLIAM SIMPSON,

OCHILTREE.

May, 1785.
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin 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 Furgusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts !
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh 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 they're like to be my deed,

(O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me 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-of isle

Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,

Nae body sings.

Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line!
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' 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 and dells,

Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood !
Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace' side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dy'd.

0, sweet are Coila's haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, 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 thro' the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltrce

Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee,

Dark’ning the day!

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the simmer kindly warms

Wi’ life an’ light,
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,

The lang dark night!