218 To serve their king and country weel, I will not wind a lang conclusion, But if (which powers above prevent!) By sad mistakes, and black mischances, TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH, HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, Till ye've got on it, My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine! V. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 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: 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. This freedom in an unknown frien', On fasten-een we had a rockin, There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife: It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life. 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. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't; Then a' that ken't him round declared He had ingine, 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, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 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, Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's wel, Does well eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic folk may cock their nose, 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, 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, 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. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to 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 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, 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'll 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, Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, "O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 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 an' 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, 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. Though 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 tie Each passing year. TO W. S***** N, OCHILTREE. May, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Though 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, sidelin's sklented On my poor musie; Though in sic phrasin' 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' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, (0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 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, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Ramsay an' famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illyssus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown with heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name what Scottish blood Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While through the braes the cushat croods. With wailfu' cry! POSTSCRIPT. 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; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 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 Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay a month amang the moons 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. |