To serve their king and country weel, I will not wind a lang conclusion, But if (which powers above prevent!) That iron-hearted carl, want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor? But by a poor man's hopes in heaven! While recollection's power is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, through the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother! O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a’abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin! And foolish notion ; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us And e'en devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. 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. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. TO A LOUSE. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Owre gauze and lace; On sic a place. Sae fine a lady? On some poor body. In shoals and nations ; Your thick plantations. Till ye've got on it, O'miss's bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; And sae about him there I spier't ; The ponderous walls and massy bar, Then a' that ken’t him round declared Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; He had ingine, Have oft withstood assailing war, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, Or rhymes an’ sangs he'd made himsel, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Or witty catches, 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, To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, Haply my sires have left their shed, I to the crambo-jingle fell, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Though rude an' rough, Bold following where your fathers led ! Yet crooning to a body's oel, Does well eneugh. 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. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? I jingle at her. To mak a sang ?” Ye're may be wrang. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, WHILE briers and woodbines budding green, an' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, I pray excuse. Ye need na doubt ; At sang about. To some sweet wife: A' to the life. Or Beattie's wark !" About Muirkirk. What's a' your jargon o'your schools, What sairs your grammans: Or knappin hammers. Plain truth to speak ; By dint o'Greek! At pleugh or cart, May touch the heart. 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, I'm on your list. They sometimes roose me, Though I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, Plike the lasses–Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair ; They weel can spare. If we forgather, Wi' ane anither. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing through amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite, I would na write. This month an' mair, An' something sair.” This vera night; 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, An' thank him kindly !” Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' 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 Just clean aff-loof. 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, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name? Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my deed, (O sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Were this the charter of our state, « On pain o'hell be rich an' great,” Damnation then would be our fate Beyond remead; We learn our creed. Whate'er he be, *Tis he fulfils great nature's plan, An' none but he !" In glorious light, 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; May shun the light. In some mild sphere, Each passing year. Auld Coila now may fidge fu’fain, But tune their lays, 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 Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a list aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Naebody sings. Th’ Illyssus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. Dark E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray ; Darkening the day! Wi’ life an’ light, The lang, dark night! An' no think lang; A heartfelt sang! And I, wi' pleasure, Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel,“ my rhyme-composing brither!” We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies : While terra firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns, In Robert Burns. Some herds, weel 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. POSTSCRIPT. By this “new-light,"** 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. 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 Jallans, 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. 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 By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-light herds in neebor towns Are mind't in things they ca? balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to leave them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, I think they'll crouch! In logic tulzie, Than mind sic brulzie. * "New-light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended 80 strenuously. |