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,
An' hae to Learning nae pretence,

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
By dint o' Greek!

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