Were this the charter of our state, But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, "Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, O mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl, The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year. TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, Ochiltree. May, 1785. IGAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Should I believe, my coaxin billie, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name! (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts My curse upon your whunstane hearts, The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 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 measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Ilissus, 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 an' burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' 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 By Wallace' side, 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 thro' the braes the cushat croods Wi' wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, VOL. I. The lang dark night! R The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, O sweet! to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy grumbling hive 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, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, |