| |
| WHILE new-ca’d kye rowte 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, | 5 |
| For his kind letter. | |
| |
| Forjesket sair, with weary legs, | |
| Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, | |
| Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs | |
| Their ten-hours’ bite, | 10 |
| My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs | |
| I would na write. | |
| |
| The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, | |
| She’s saft at best an’ something lazy: | |
| Quo’ she, “Ye ken we’ve been sae busy | 15 |
| This month an’ mair, | |
| That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie, | |
| An’ something sair.” | |
| |
| Her dowff excuses pat me mad; | |
| “Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jade! | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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?” | 30 |
| |
| Sae I gat paper in a blink, | |
| An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink: | |
| Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink, | |
| I vow I’ll close it; | |
| An’ if ye winna mak it clink, | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| But I shall scribble 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 | 45 |
| Wi’ gleesome touch! | |
| Ne’er mind how Fortune waft and warp; | |
| She’s but a bitch. | |
| |
| She ’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg, | |
| Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| I’ve seen the bud upon the timmer, | |
| Still persecuted by the limmer | |
| Frae year to year; | |
| But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, | |
| I, Rob, am here. | 60 |
| |
| Do ye envy the city gent, | |
| Behint a kist to lie an’ sklent; | |
| Or pursue-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent. | |
| An’ muckle wame, | |
| In some bit brugh to represent | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| Thro’ Scotland wide; | |
| Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift, | |
| In a’ their pride!” | |
| |
| Were this the charter of our state, | |
| “On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,” | 80 |
| Damnation then would be our fate, | |
| Beyond remead; | |
| But, thanks to heaven, that’s no the gate | |
| We learn our creed. | |
| |
| For thus the royal mandate ran, | 85 |
| When first the human race began; | |
| “The social, friendly, honest man, | |
| Whate’er he be— | |
| ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan, | |
| And none but he.” | 90 |
| |
| O mandate glorious and divine! | |
| The ragged followers o’ the Nine, | |
| Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine | |
| In glorious light, | |
| While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line | 95 |
| 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; | 100 |
| 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, | 105 |
| In some mild sphere; | |
| Still closer knit in friendship’s ties, | |
| Each passing year! | |
| |
