1 Tackle.

Then up I gat, and swore an aith,

Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith,1
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dike back,

A pint and gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle2 fell,

Though rude and rough :

Yet crooning3 to a body's sel

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like by chance,

And 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 and stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools,
Or knappin'-hammers.*

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,"

Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks,5 and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

6

And syne 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, though I drudge through dub and mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,

2 Doggerel versifying.

May touch the heart.

3 Humming.

4 Blockheads.

* Hammers for breaking stones

4

They sometimes roose1 me;

Though I maun own, as mony still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgie me !

For mony 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,

6

And hae a swap o' rhymin' ware

Wi' ane anither.

7

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

Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, 10
To cheer our heart;

And faith, we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

There's naething like the honest nappy !11
Whar'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft, and sappy

*

'Tween morn and morn,

As them wha like to taste the drappy

In glass or horn!

I've seen me dais't1 upon a time,
I scarce could wink, or see a styme ; 2
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,
Aught less is little,

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle! 13

Awa' ye selfish war'ly race,

4

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace,
E'en love and friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack ! 5

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 long epistle,

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;
Twa lines frae you would gar me fissle,6

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

SECOND EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK.

IT is easy to see that Burns-notwithstanding his humility and his praise and worship of the humbler lights of Scottish song, several of whom are only now known to their countrymen through his allusions and laudations-knew his power. One would much like to know what was the real feeling regarding him of those for whose benefit in his early epistles he lavished such a wealth of poetic imagery.

1 Stupid.

April 21, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte? at the stake,
And pownies reeks in pleugh or braik,"

This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair,10 wi' weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,*

2 See in the least.

3 As keen as a knife.

4 Decorum.

*He had been sowing-very heavy work-now rendered needless through

the introduction of machinery.

Or dealing through amang the naigs
Their ten-hours' bite,

My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs
I wouldna write.

The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie,1
She's saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
This month and mair,

That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzy,
And something sair."

Her dowff' excuses pat me mad :

66

Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad!3
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud,*

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Though 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,

And thank him kindly?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink,5

And down gaed stumpie in the ink :
Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

And 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 6
Just clean aff-loof.t

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp,
Though Fortune use you hard and sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;

*Hotch-potch, the name of a soup made of all sorts of vegetables. No other explanation can give the meaning the poet intended conveying. † Scotticism for extemporaneous.

She's gien me mony a jirt and fleg,1
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, though I should beg
Wi' lyart pow, 2

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

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,4
Still persecuted by the limmer5

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,6

I, Rob, am here.

Or is't the paughty,8 feudal thane,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en,

As by he walks.

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Through 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 and great,".
Damnation then would be our fate

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heaven, 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,

And none but he !"