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Or die a cadger pownie's death
At some dyke back, A pint an'gill I'd gie them baith,
To hear you crack.
But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Tho' rude an' rough,
Does weel enough.
I am nae Poet in a sense,
Yet, what the matter?
I jingle at her.
· Your Critic-folk may cock their nose,
• To mak a fang But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
may be wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your Schools,
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin hammers,
A set o'dull, conceited Halhes, Confuse their brains in College-classes! They gang in Stirks, and come out Alies,
Plain truth to speak; An' fyne they think to climb Parnaffus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
At pleugh or cart,
May touch the heart,
O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
If I can hit it!
If I could get iti
Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Thoreal friends I b'lieve are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'fe no infift; But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your lift,
I winna blaw about mysel,
They sometimes roose me ; Tho'l maun own, as monie ftill
As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
At dance or fair :
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race or Mauchline Fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We'fe 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'le gar him clatter,
To cheer our heart ;
Before we parte
Awa ye felfish, warly race,
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,
• My friends, my brothers! !
But, to conclude my lang epiftle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, moft fervent, While I can either fing, or whissle,
Your friend and servant.
TO THE SAME.
April 21, 1785
HILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
To own I'm debtor
For his kind letter,
Forjesket fair with weary legs, Rattlin th' corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
Their ten hours-bite, My awkart Muse fair pleads and begs
I would na write.
The tapetless, ramfeezl d hizzie,
• This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie,
An' fomething fair.'