Tho' here they scrape, an' fqueeze, an' growl, Their worthlefs nievefu' of a foul May in fome future carcafe howl, The foreft's fright; Or in fome day-detesting owl May fhun the light. Then may L*****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! ΤΟ то W. S*****N, Ochiltree. May 1785. IGAT your letter, winfome Willie ; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 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 Mufie; Tho' in fic phraifin terms ye've penn'd it, My fenfes wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to fpeel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathlefs name. (O 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 wafte at cartes Wad ftow'd his pantry!) Yet Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or laffes gie my heart a fcreed, As whiles they're like to be my deed, (O fad disease !) I kittle up my ruftic 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' refound again Her weel-fung praise. Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To fet her name in measur'd ftile; She lay like fome unkend-of ifle Befide New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Befouth Magellan. G 3 Ramfay Ramfay an' famous Fergufon Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illiffus, 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 fhine We'll fing 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 ftory tells, Frae Southron billies. At |