Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle: Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant

TO THE SAME.

April 21st, 1785.

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

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapráik,

For his kind letter.

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

Their ten hours bite,

My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

The tape tless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy

Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy "This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, "An" something, sair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad';
'Conscience,' says I, ye thowless jad!
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,
This vera night :

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, • Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly,

• Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,zat "An thank him kindly!**

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink
Quoth I, Before I sleep a wink,

'I vow I'll close it ;

An' if ye winna mak it clink,......

"By Jove I'll prosesin !!

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warps.
She's but a bitch.

She's gien me monie à jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Ld, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer,
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here:

Do ye envy the city Gent,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

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

And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the pauglity, feudal Thane;
Wi' ruffl'd' sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank. bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen, --
As by he walks ?

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

'Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift
'Thro' Scotland wide;

'Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride!'

Were this the charter of our state, On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

An' none but he!'

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,

Their worthless nievefu' of a soul

May in some future carcass howl
The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,

Each passing year!

To W. S

OCHILTREE.

May, 1785.

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An unco vain.

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,
Your flatterin strain,

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie;

Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,

I scarce excuse ye