Were this the charter of our state, "On pain o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, 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,

An' none but he!"

O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers of the ragged nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

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,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,

In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

TO W. S*****N;

OCHILTREE.

May, 1785.

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted

Ironic satire, sidelens sklented

On my poor Musie;

Tho' in sie phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,

I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allen, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,
As whiles they're like to be my dead,

(O sad disease!)

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 stile;

She lay like some unken'd-of isle

Beside New-Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ;
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,
Nae body sings.

Th' Illissus, 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 an' dells,

Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood

But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,

Or glorious dy'd.

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
With 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 shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms,

Wi' life an' light,

Or winter howls, in gusty storms,

The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
'Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
An' no think lang;

O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive,

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 an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

In Robert Burns.

POSTSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen ;
I had amaist forgotten clean,

Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this new-light",

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon

Gaed past their viewing,

An' shortly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;
An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,

An' out o' sight,

See note, p. 41.