EPISTLE ΤΟ J. L* ***K, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April 1. 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien', I pray excuse. On fastin-een we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun an jokin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest 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't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd, He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near❜t, 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, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Does weel eneugh. Yet crooning to a body's sel, I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, |