THE LOYAL NATIVE VERSES.* Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every throng, With, Craken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. BURNS-Extempore. YE true 'Loyal Natives,' attend to my song, *At this period of our Poet's life, when political animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the following foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns and his friends for their politi cal opinions. They were written by some member of a club styling themselves the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united genius of that club, which was more distinguished for drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poetical talent. The verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endorsed the subjoined reply. Reliques, p. 168. TO J. LAPRAIK. Sept. 13th, 1785. GUID speed an' furder to you, Johny, The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany To clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Like drivin' wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack. I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like ony clerk. It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, To help, or roose us, But browster wives* and whiskie stills, They are the muses. Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 'Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spar'd An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theckit right, Ae winter night. I mean your ingle-side to guard Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty! But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Your's, Rab the Ranter. * Browster wives-Alehouse wives. TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. Sept. 17th, 1785. WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, Lest they should blame her An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Louse h-ll upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces, Their raxan conscience, Whas greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast, Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him, An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him. See him,† the poor man's friend in need, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? O Pope, had I thy satire's darts Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Than under gospel colours hid be, Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, Gavin Hamilton, Esq. + The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. |