EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April 1st, 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; And there was muckle fun an' jokin', Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, That, set him to a pint of ale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches, "Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. 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, 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, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk And say, I jingle at her. may cock their nose, You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang ?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 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 o' 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, That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it! Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true- I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends an' folk 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, May be some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 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. |