| |
| WHILE briers an’ woodbines budding green, | |
| An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en, | |
| An’ morning poussie whiddin seen, | |
| Inspire my muse, | |
| This freedom, in an unknown frien’, | 5 |
| I pray excuse. | |
| |
| On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin, | |
| To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin; | |
| And there was muckle fun and jokin, | |
| Ye need na doubt; | 10 |
| At length we had a hearty yokin | |
| At sang about. | |
| |
| There was ae sang, amang the rest, | |
| Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, | |
| That some kind husband had addrest | 15 |
| To some sweet wife; | |
| It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, | |
| A’ to the life. | |
| |
| I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel, | |
| What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; | 20 |
| Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele, | |
| Or Beattie’s wark?” | |
| They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel | |
| About Muirkirk. | |
| |
| It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t, | 25 |
| An’ sae about him there I speir’t; | |
| Then a’ that kent him round declar’d | |
| He had ingine; | |
| That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, | |
| It was sae fine: | 30 |
| |
| 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 an’ Teviotdale, | 35 |
| He had few matches. | |
| |
| Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith, | |
| Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith, | |
| Or die a cadger pownie’s death, | |
| At some dyke-back, | 40 |
| A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith, | |
| To hear your crack. | |
| |
| But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, | |
| Amaist as soon as I could spell, | |
| I to the crambo-jingle fell; | 45 |
| Tho’ rude an’ rough— | |
| Yet crooning to a body’s sel’ | |
| Does weel eneugh. | |
| |
| I am nae poet, in a sense; | |
| But just a rhymer like by chance, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| And say, “How can you e’er propose, | |
| You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, | |
| To mak a sang?” | |
| But, by your leaves, my learned foes, | |
| Ye’re maybe wrang. | 60 |
| |
| What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools— | |
| Your Latin names for horns an’ stools? | |
| If honest Nature made you fools, | |
| What sairs your grammars? | |
| Ye’d better taen up spades and shools, | 65 |
| Or knappin-hammers. | |
| |
| A set o’ dull, conceited hashes | |
| Confuse their brains in college classes! | |
| They gang in stirks, and come out asses, | |
| Plain truth to speak; | 70 |
| An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus | |
| By dint o’ Greek! | |
| |
| Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire, | |
| That’s a’ the learning I desire; | |
| Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire | 75 |
| At pleugh or cart, | |
| My muse, tho’ hamely in attire, | |
| May touch the heart. | |
| |
| O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee, | |
| Or Fergusson’s the bauld an’ slee, | 80 |
| Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be, | |
| If I can hit it! | |
| That would be lear eneugh for me, | |
| If I could get it. | |
| |
| Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, | 85 |
| Tho’ 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. | 90 |
| |
| I winna blaw about mysel, | |
| As ill I like my fauts to tell; | |
| But friends, an’ folk that wish me well, | |
| They sometimes roose me; | |
| Tho’ I maun own, as mony still | 95 |
| As far abuse me. | |
| |
| There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, | |
| I like the lasses—Gude forgie me! | |
| For mony a plack they wheedle frae me | |
| At dance or fair; | 100 |
| Maybe some ither thing they gie me, | |
| They weel can spare. | |
| |
| But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair, | |
| I should be proud to meet you there; | |
| We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, | 105 |
| If we forgather; | |
| 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; | 110 |
| 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, | 115 |
| Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace, | |
| Ev’n love an’ friendship should give place | |
| To catch-the-plack! | |
| I dinna like to see your face, | |
| Nor hear your crack. | 120 |
| |
| 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, | 125 |
| My friends, my brothers! | |
| |
| But, to conclude my lang epistle, | |
| As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle, | |
| Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, | |
| Who am, most fervent, | 130 |
| While I can either sing or whistle, | |
| Your friend and servant. | |
| |
