| |
| HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie! | |
| Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly | |
| To every fiddling, rhyming billie, | |
| We never heed, | |
| But take it like the unback’d filly, | 5 |
| Proud o’ her speed. | |
| |
| When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter, | |
| Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter, | |
| Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter, | |
| Some black bog-hole, | 10 |
| Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter | |
| We’re forced to thole. | |
| |
| Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle! | |
| Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, | |
| To cheer you through the weary widdle | 15 |
| O’ this wild warl’. | |
| Until you on a crummock driddle, | |
| A grey hair’d carl. | |
| |
| Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, | |
| Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, | 20 |
| And screw your temper-pins aboon | |
| A fifth or mair | |
| The melancholious, lazy croon | |
| O’ cankrie care. | |
| |
| May still your life from day to day, | 25 |
| Nae “lente largo” in the play, | |
| But “allegretto forte” gay, | |
| Harmonious flow, | |
| A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— | |
| Encore! Bravo! | 30 |
| |
| A blessing on the cheery gang | |
| Wha dearly like a jig or sang, | |
| An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang | |
| By square an’ rule, | |
| But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang, | 35 |
| Are wise or fool. | |
| |
| My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase | |
| The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, | |
| Wha count on poortith as disgrace; | |
| Their tuneless hearts, | 40 |
| May fireside discords jar a base | |
| To a’ their parts. | |
| |
| But come, your hand, my careless brither, | |
| I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither, | |
| An’ that there is, I’ve little swither | 45 |
| About the matter; | |
| We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither, | |
| I’se ne’er bid better. | |
| |
| We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly, | |
| We’re frail backsliding mortals merely, | 50 |
| Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly | |
| For our grand fa’; | |
| But still, but still, I like them dearly— | |
| God bless them a’! | |
| |
| Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers, | 55 |
| When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers! | |
| The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers | |
| Hae put me hyte, | |
| And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, | |
| Wi’ girnin’spite. | 60 |
| |
| By by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin— | |
| An’ every star within my hearin! | |
| An’ by her een wha was a dear ane! | |
| I’ll ne’er forget; | |
| I hope to gie the jads a clearin | 65 |
| In fair play yet. | |
| |
| My loss I mourn, but not repent it; | |
| I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it; | |
| Ance to the Indies I were wonted, | |
| Some cantraip hour | 70 |
| By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted; | |
| Then vive l’amour! | |
| |
| Faites mes baissemains respectueuses, | |
| To sentimental sister Susie, | |
| And honest Lucky; no to roose you, | 75 |
| Ye may be proud, | |
| That sic a couple Fate allows ye, | |
| To grace your blood. | |
| |
| Nae mair at present can I measure, | |
| An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure; | 80 |
| But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure, | |
| Be’t light, be’t dark, | |
| Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure | |
To call at Park.
ROBERT BURNS.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. | |
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