A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it. Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As sair abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to mẹ, I like the lasses-Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, Maybe some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,' An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware W' ane anither, The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter, An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should gie place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts 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; you wad gar me fissle, Twa lines frae Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing, or whissle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. April 21, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte 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, Their ten-hours bite, The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, Quo' she, 'Ye ken, we've been sae busy, That trowth my This month an' mair, head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' Her dowff excuses pat me mad; I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This very night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, An' if ye winna mak it clink, 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, Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 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? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!' |