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, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 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 though I drudge thro' dub an mire, At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee, Or bright L*****k's, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, 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 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 far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses-Gude forgi'e me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 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 chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To chear 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 give 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, As 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, me Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant. |