There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, Maybe 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, 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, war'ly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! The brotherhood of man An unwilling Muse But, to conclude my lang epistle, Who am most fervent, While I can either sing or whistle, Your friend and servant. SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK WHILE new-ca'd kye rowt at the stake To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, This month an' mair, That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie, Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 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, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae 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 : 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 But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Wi' gleesome touch! Defy Fortune and be merry Wit before Wealth Now comes the sax-an-twentieth simmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie an' sklent; Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. An' muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, "O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!" Were this the charter of our state, But, thanks to heaven, that's no the gate We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began; "The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, And none but he." O mandate glorious and divine! 'The followers o' the ragged Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night! Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 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! EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON Should I believe, my coaxin' billie Your flatterin strain. The poets' future triumph |