W. SIMPSON, OCHILTREE. May, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 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 My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allen, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. (0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, (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 Nae poet thought her worth his while, 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' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest, 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 At Wallace' name what Scottish blood Oft have our fearless fathers strode Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, O 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 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 The muse, nae poet ever fand her, O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' 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 owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. |