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: 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, EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785. This freedom in an unknown frien', On fasten-een we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; There was ae sang, amang the rest, It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, 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. 219 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; 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, Who am, most fervent, 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, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs 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 thow less 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 purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, "O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 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, My senses wad be in a creel Should I but dire 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 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. 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, 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! 221 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; 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 ; Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 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, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, And, as the twilight was begun, The poor wee thing was little hurt; Somebody tells the poacher-court 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. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, For my gowd guinea: Though I should herd the buckskin kye Trowth, they had muckle for to blame : 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame 223 Scarce through the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworth's again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. TAM O'SHANTER. A TALE. 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, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doou; By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. |