Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense an' grace, Ev'n love and 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, But, to conclude my lang epistle, While I can either sing or whissle, TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 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, "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, And down gaed stumpie in the ink; An' if you 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, Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp; She's gien me monie a jest an' fleg But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg 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, Do ye envy the city gent, Behind a kist to lie and skient, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent, In some bit burgh to represent A bailie's name? Or, is't the paughty, feudal thane, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, "O Thou, wha gies us each guid gift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a' their pride! " Were this the charter of our state But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate For thus the royal mandate ran, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, O, mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties TO W. S*****N. OCHILTREE, MAY, 1785. I GAI' your letter, winsome Willie; Should I believe, my coaxin billy, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it; On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye |