Or Beattie's wark!' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And fae about him there I fpier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd, He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was fae fine. That fet him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' fangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' fwoor an aith, Tho' I fhould pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At fome dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, To hear your crack. But, firft an' foremost, I fhould tell, Amaift as foon as I could spell, 1 I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's fel, Does weel eneugh. I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Mufe does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your Your Critic-folk may cock their nofe, And fay, How can you e'er propose, • You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, • 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' stools; If honeft nature made you fools, What fairs your Grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades 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 Gie me ae fpark 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 fpunk 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 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 still 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 fhould be proud to meet you there; We'fe gie ae night's difcharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware Wi' ane anither. The |