He had ingine, Think for a moment on his wretched fate, | Then a' that ken't him round declar'd [wall, While through the ragged roof and chinky Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap; Think on the dungeon's grim confine, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" I hear nae mair, for chanticleer Shook off the poutheray snaw, But deep this truth impressed my Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles GOD. Epistle to 3. Tapraik. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.) April 1, 1785. That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, That, set him to a pint of ale, "Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, To hear your crack. Tho' rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sell, I am nae poet, in a sense, Your critic folk may cock their nose, WHILE briers and woodbines budding green, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, And paitricks scraichin' loud at e’en, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang, amang the rest, It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, Ye're may be wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, A set o' dull, conceited hashes, And syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire! My muse, tho' hamely in attire, Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my faults to tell; But friends and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. But Mauchline race (26), or Mauchline fair, And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, And, faith, we'se be acquainted better Awa ye selfish war'ly race, Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye "Each aid the others." Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! But, to conclude my lang epistle, To the Same. April 21, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, Their ten hours' bite, My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, Her dowff excuses pat me mad : So dinna ye affront your trade, Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, And if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it!" But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, Wi' gleesome touch; She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, Were this the charter of our state, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, "Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, Oh mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl, May in some future carcase howl, The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties To William Simpson), OCHILTREE. (27) May, 1785, I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it My senses wad be in a creel, Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, (Oh Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Yet when a tale comes i' my head, I kittle up my rustic reed; Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise Nae poet thought her worth his while, Ramsay and famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, Th' Illissus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, At Wallace' name what Scottish blood Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Oh sweet are Coila's haughs and woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the crushat croods With wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me Are hoary gray : Oh nature! a' thy shows and forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The muse, nae poet ever fand her, Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, The war❜ly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive; Let me fair nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy grumbling hive Fareweel," my rhyme-composing brither!" May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal ! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes: While moorlan' heads like guid fat braxies; While terra firma on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith and practice, In ROBERT BURNS. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, And shortly after she was done, This past for certain-undisputed; And muckle din there was about it, Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk, And backlins-comin', to the leuk This was denied-it was affirmed Should think they better were inform❜d Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; And some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, ! Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; And some their New-Light fair avow, Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin'; Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on But shortly they will cowe the loons! Guid observation they will gie them; And then, its shanks, And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e They were as thin, as sharp and sma', them. The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope we bardies ken some better Death and Dr. Bornbook. A TRUE STORY. (28) SOME books are lies frae end to end, A rousing whid at times to vend. But this that I am gaun to tell, That e'er he ne nearer comes oursel The clachan yıll had made me canty— I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches; As cheeks o'branks. Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been At length says I," Friend, whare ye gaun, It spake right howe-"My name is Death, I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith. "Guidman,” quo' he, "put up your whittle, To be mislear'd; I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out-owre my beard." Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, and sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat Come, gies your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head, "It's e en a lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, And choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, And sae maun Death. Sax thousand years are near hand fled And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye | Sin' I was to the butching bred, Frae ghaists and witches. The rising moon began to glow'r I set mysel; And mony a scheme in vain's been laid, Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade, Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin', "See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, Has made them both no worth a f―t;- ""Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, It just play'd dirl on the bane, |