то

W. S*****N, Ochiltree.

IGAT YO

May, 1785.

your letter, winfome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie,

Tho' I maun fay't, I wad be filly,

An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin ftrain.

But I'fe believe ye kindly meant it,

I fud be laith to think ye hinted

Ironic fatire, fidelins sklented

On my poor Mufic;

Tho' in fic phrafin terms ye've penn'd it,

I fearce excufe ye.

My fenfes wad be in a creel, Should I but dare to hope to speel

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame;

Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,

A deathleis name.

(0 Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill fuited law's dry mufty arts!

My curfe upon your whunftane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh Gentry !

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad ftow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' 'my head,
Or laffes gie my heart a screed,
As whyles they're like to be my dead,

(O fad disease!)

I kittle up my ruftic reed;

It gies me cafe.

Auld Coil, now, may fidge fu' fain,

She's gotten Bardies o' her ain,

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' refound again

Her weel-fung praise.

Nae Poet thought her worth his while,

To set her name in measur'd style;

She lay like fome unkend of isle

Befide New Holland,

Or where wild-meeting oceans boil

Befouth Magallan.

Ramfay an' famous Fergufon

Gied Forth an' Tay a lift abcon;

Tarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune

Owre Scotland rings,

While, Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,
Naebody fings.

Th' Illius, Tiber, Thames an' Seine,
Glide fweet in monie a tunefu' line;
But, Willie, fet your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest,

We'll gar our ftreams an' burnies shine
Up wi' the beft.

We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' brae, her dens an' dells,

Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Suthron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearlefs fathers ftrode

By Wallace' fide,

Still preffing onward, red-wat fhod

Or glorious dy❜d!

O fweet are Coila's haughs and woods,

When lintwhites chant amang

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 frofts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild furious-flee,

Dark'ning the day!

O Nature! a' thy fhews an' forms To feeling, penfive hearts hae charms! Whether the Summer kindly warms,

Wi' life an' light,

Or Winter howls; in gufty ftorms

The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown fome trotting burn's meander,

An' no think lang ;

O fweet, to ftray an' penfive ponder

A heart-felt fang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, ftretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the bufy, grumbling hive

Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel,

my rhyme-compofing 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 toils 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.

POS STSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen;

I had amaift forgotten clean,

Ye bade me write you

what they mean

By this new-light*,

'Bout which our herds fae aft hae been

Maift like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans
At Grammar, Logic, an' fic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie,

But fpak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,