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WHILE briers an’ woodbines budding green,
This freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.
On Faften-een we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun an jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.
There was ae fang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addreft
To fome sweet wife :
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A' to the life.
.: . . I've scarce heard ought describ’d fae weel, What gen'rous, manly bofoms feel ; Thought I, “ Can this þe Pope, or Steele,
• Or Beattie's wark!'
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muir kirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
He had ingine,
It was fae fine. .
That fet him to a pint of ale,
Or witty catches,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an'fwoor an aith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,
At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,
To hear your crack.
But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Tho' rude an' rough,
Does weel eneugh,
I am nae Poet, in a sense,
Yet, what the matter?
I jingle at her.
Your Critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, “How can you e'er propose, * You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
• To mak a sang ?' 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 honest nature made you fools,
What fairs your
Grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
A set o' dull, conceited Hashes,
Plain truth to speak;