Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,1 Do I, Rob, am here. ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent,3 Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent, An' muckle wame,* In some bit Brugh to represent A Bailie's name? Or is't the paughty,5 feudal Thane, While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, "O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!" Were this the charter of our state, But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, O mandate glorious and divine! The ragged followers of the Nine, In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. 1 Skittish girl. 2 Counter. 8 Deceive. + Belly. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 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 Each passing year! TO WILLIAM SIMPSON,2 OCHILTREE. May, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie,3 Your flatterin strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel," Should I but dare a hope to speel," Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel',7 The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 1 Handful. 3 Brother. 6 Climb. 2 Schoolmaster of Ochiltree. Sidelong flung. Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed,1 I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila, now, may fidge? fu' fain, She's gotten Poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,3 Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae Poet thought her worth his while, Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Ower Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest, We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Aft bure1 the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,5 Rent. Or glorious dy❜d. 2 Be right glad. 3 Will not spare their bagpipes. • Did bear. 5 Walking in blood over the shoe-tops. O, sweet are Coila's haughs' an' woods, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder The war'ly race may drudge an' drive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bums owre their treasure. Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither!" In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds' like guid, fat braxies ;10 Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen1; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans2 They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,3 In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,5 An' backlins7-comin, to the leuk She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirmed; The herds an' hirsels were alarm'd; Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours9 an' nicks; 1 Pin. $ Book. 2 Boys. ♦ Shred. 3 Lowland speech. 7 Returning. 8 Flocks. 9 Bumps. |