Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; The ponderous walls and massy bar, Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Famed heroes! had their royal home: Alas! how changed the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wandering roam! Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: E'en I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII. Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785. On fasten-een we had a rockin, There was ae sang, amang the rest, It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, 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. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars: A set o' dull conceited hashes, An' syne they think to climb Parnassu; Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire ; Then though I drudge through dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 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, As far abuse me. May be some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware Wi' ane anither. 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 warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, E'en love an' friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear you crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose heart 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. 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 Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing through amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs I would na write. The tapeless 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 truth 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, Though mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms so friendly; Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, I vow I'll close it; By Jove I'l prose it!" Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Though fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp: She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 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 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 At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. "New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. This past for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud and lang. Some herds, we learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was denied, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' burnt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane placed; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefaced. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better, Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. R****** ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******, The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin! There's mony godly folks are thinkin, Your dreams* an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Straught to auld Nick's. Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked druncken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou ; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lca'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you home some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,t ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danced my fill! I'd better gane an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, [ gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, deil-ma-care ' Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld used hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whizzle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country side. A song he had promised the author. Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, |