EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD
SCOTTISH BARD.1

April 1st, 1785.

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie3 whiddin' seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin:
And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin5

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark ?"
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,

And sae about him there I spier't,

1 The "Epistle to John Lapraik" was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem, "On fasten-e'en we had a rockin." I believe he has omitted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock, or distaff. This simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning, "When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we w informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first Epistle to Lapraik; and his second in reply to his answer.-G. B. 3 Hare. • Running. 5 A bout. 7 Very anxious.

2 Partridges.

6 Thrilled.

Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd
He had ingine,1

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine;

That, set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches,

"Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,3
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 an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel,

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 Muse does on me glance,
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' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Ör knappin'-hammers.

1 Louts.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,1
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks,2 and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne3 they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub1 an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik'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,7

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends and folk that wish me well,

They sometimes rooses me ;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;

Maybe some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,9
An' hae a swap10 o' rhymin-ware

10

Wi' ane anither.

2 Cows. 6 Learning.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen' him wi' reekin water:

Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

· An' faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa ye selfish warly3 race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms.

Each aid the others,'

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.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout" at the stake,
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,8
This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor,

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
For his kind letter.

Forjesket10 sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours' bite,
My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

1 Foolish.

The tapetless,' ramfeezl'd2 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 dowff3 excuses pat me mad;
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless1 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,5
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,

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 prose it!"
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
Just clean aff-loof.7

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

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp;
She's but a b-h.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,'

Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,
my leg,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake

2 Tired.
7 Unpremeditated.

As lang's I dow !10

3 Silly.
4 Lazy.
5 Cards
8 Tickle. 9 Kick.

6 Nonsense.

10 Can.