The His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, quack's 'Sae white and bonie, achieve- 'Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; ments 'They'll ruin Johnie!' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 'They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh, 'Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, "This night I'm free to tak my aith, 'An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 'Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. 'A country laird had ta'en the batts, 'An' pays him well: The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, A bonie lass-ye kend her name— 'Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, • Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; An's weel paid for't; 'Yet stops me o' my lawful prey, Wi' his d-n'd dirt: But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 'Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 'As dead's a herrin; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel', And sae did Death. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.—APRIL 1, 1785. Inspire my muse, This freedom, in an unknown frien', I pray excuse. Death's confid ences end abruptly Lapraik's On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, love-song To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, Thought I "can this be Pope, or Steele, They tauld me 'twas an odd-kind chiel It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, He had ingine; 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, "Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho' rude an' rough Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense; An' hae to learning nae pretence; Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, To mak a sang ?" But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools— What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. Nature and Education The genesis of critics A set o' dull, conceited hashes An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear enough for me, If I could get it. But, gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your I winna blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts to tell; list. But friends, an' folk that wish me well, They sometime roose me ; Tho' I maun own, as mony still As far abuse me. |