TO THE SAME.

April 21. 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the ftake,
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor,

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

For his kind letter.

Forjesket

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

Their ten hours bite,

My awkart Mufe fair pleads and begs,

I wou'd na write.

The tapetlefs ramfeezl'd hizzie,

She's faft at beft, and fomething lazy,

Quo' fhe, Ye ken, we've been fae busy,

This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' fomething fair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad;

Confcience,' fays I, 'ye thowlefs jad!

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

• Shall

• Shall bauld L*****k, the king o' hearts, • Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,

• Roofe you fae weel for your deferts,

In terms fae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to fhaw your parts,

• An' thank him kindly!'

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

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

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

Do ye envy the city Gent,

Behint a kift to lie and sklent,

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

And 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;

But lordly ftalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

6

6

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' fenfe a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou pleafe, adrift,

Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna fhift,

In a' their pride!'

Were