ΤΟ W. S*****N, OCHILTREE. May 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 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, 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 Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Ferguson! 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, (O sad disease!) It gies me ease. I kittle up my rustic reed; 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 unkend-of isle Beside New-Hollan', Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Naebody sings. Th' Illissus, 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 an' 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. O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant among the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 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 summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! The warly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither! We've been our lang unkenn'd to ither : |