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Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

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,

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,
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,
And say,
"How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To make a sang ?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're maybe wrang.

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,
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;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark of nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
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, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell ;

But friends and folks that wish me well,

They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;

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,

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;

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 warly race,

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.

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; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

TO THE SAME.

April 21st, 1785.

While new-ca'd kye rout 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.

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Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattling the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
Their ten hours bite,

My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy

This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! 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 get paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpic in the ink:
Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,

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 In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof;

But I shall seribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland-harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp;
She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin 1 could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer

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,
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing 'cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

"O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Thro' Scotland wide;

In a' their pride!"

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

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