Your Critic-folk may cock their nose,

And fay,

• How can you e'er propofe, You wha ken hardly verse frae profe,

To mak a fang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your Schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' ftools;
If honeft nature made you fools,

What fairs your Grammars?

Ye'd better taen up fpades and fhools,

Or knappin-hammers.

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

Plain truth to speak;

An' fyne they think to climb Parnaffus
By dint o' Greek!

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

Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire,

At pleugh or cart,

My Mufe, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and flee,

Or bright L*****k's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh 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,

I'fe no infift,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your lift.

I

I winna blaw about myfel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends and folks that with me well,

They fometimes roofe me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie ftill

As far abufe 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;

Maybe 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'se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather,

An' hae a fwap o' rhymin-ware

Wi' ane anither.

The

The four-gill chap, we'fe gar him clatter, An' kirfen him wi' reekin water;

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

To chear our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye selfish warly race,

Wha think that havins, fenfe, an' grace,
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place

To catch-the-plank!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom focial pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindnefs 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,

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fifle,

Who am, moft fervent,

While I can either fing, or whifsle,

Your friend and fervant.

ΤΟ