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TO THE SAME.

April 21, 1785.

WI

HILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake

An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,

This hour on e'ening's edge I take

To own I'm debtor

To honeft-hearted, auld L*****},

For his kind letter.

Forjefket fair with weary legs, Rattlin th' corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours-bite,

My awkart Mufe fair pleads and begs
I would na write.

The tapetlefs, ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's faft at beft an' fomething lazy :

Quo' fhe, Ye ken weve been fae busy

This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie,

• An' fomething fair.'

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Her dowff excufes pat me mad;

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Confcience,' fays I, ye thowlefs jad,
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

• This vera night,

< Sodinna ye affront

your trade,

But rhyme it right.

• Shall bauld L*****k, the king o' hearts, • Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, • Roofe you fae well for your deserts,

In terms fae friendly,

" Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts An' thank him kindly?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An down gaed ftumpie in the ink :

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Quoth I, Before I fleep a wink,

'I vow I'll clofe it;

'An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll profe it!

Sae I've begun to fcrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or profe, or baith thegither,
Or fome hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But I fhall fcribble down fome blether

Juft clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune ufe you hard an' fharp,

Come, kittle up your moorland harp

Wi' gleefome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp;

She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg Sin I could ftriddle owre a rig;

But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' fing, an' fhake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

Now comes the fax an' twentieth fimmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still perfecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year ;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here,

Do ye envy the city Gent,

Behint a kift to lie an' fklent,

Or purfe-proud, big wi' cent. per cent :

An' muckle wame,

In fome bit Brugh to reprefent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,

Wi' ruffl'd fark an glancing cane

Wha thinks himfel nae fheep-fhank bane,

While

But lordly ftalks,

caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

• O, Thou wha gies us each good gift! • Gie me o' wit an' fense a lift,

• Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift

Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna fhift

• In a' their pride!'

Were this the charter of our state 'On pain o' hell be rich an' great, Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead ;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal Mandate ran, When first the human race began, The focial, friendly, honeft man

'Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

And none but he.'

O Mandate, glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light.

While fordid fons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they fcrape, an' fqueeze, an' growl, Their worthlefs nievefu' of a foul

May in fome future carcafe howl

The foreft's fright;

Or in fome day-detefting owl

May fhun the light.

Then may Z*****k and B**** arise,
To reach their native kindred skies,
And fing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,

In fome mild fphere.

Still clofer knit in friendship's ties

Each paffing year!

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