There was ae fang, among the reft, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That fome kind husband had addrest

To fome fweet wife :

It thrill'd the heart-ftrings thro' the breaft, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought difcrib'd fae weel, What gen'rous, manly bofoms feel;

་

Thought I, Can this be Pope, or Steel, Or Beattie's wark?

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't;

An' fae about him there I fpier't;

Then a' that kent him round declar'd,

He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was fae fime.

That, fet him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' fangs he'd made himfel,

Or witty catches,

He had few matches.

'Tween Invernefs and Tiviotdale

Then up I gat' an' fwoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death

At fome dyke back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,

To hear you crack.

But, firft an' foremost, I fhould tell,

Amaist as foon as I could fpell,

I to the crambo jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's fell,

Does weel enough.

I am nae Poet in a sense,

But juft a Rhymer, like, by chance,

An' hae to Learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my Mufe does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your Critic-folk may cock their nose, And fay, How can you e'er propose, • You wha ken hardly verse frae profe,

• To mak a fang "

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

What's a' your jargon o' your Schools,

Your Latin names for horns an' ftools,

If honeft nature made you fools,

Ye'd better taen up fpades and fhools,
Or knappin hammers.

A fet o' dull, conceited Hashes, Confufe their brains in College-claffes! They gang in Stirks, and come out Alles,

Plain truth to speak;

An' fyne they think to climb Parnaffus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae fpark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I defire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Mufe, the hamely in attire,

May touch the heart,

O for a fpunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's the bauld an' flee,

Or dright Z*****k's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear enough for me,

If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

Ife no infift;

But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your lift.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, an' folk that wish me well,

They fometimes roofe me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the laffes-Gude forgie me !

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair:

May be fome ither thing they gie me

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 fwap o' rhymin-ware

Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'fe gar him clatter,

An' kirfen him wi' reekin water;

Syne we'll fit down an' tak our whitter,

To cheer our heart;

An' faith, we'fe be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye felfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, fenfe, an' grace,

Ev'n love an' friendship, fhould give place,

Whofe 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 grifsle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fifsle,

Who am, moft fervent,

While I can either fing, or whifsle,

Your friend and fervant.