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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,
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,
My awkward 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
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 jad!'
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,
Tho' mankind were a pack of cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly;
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts
An thank him kindly?'
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,
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;
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
Wi gleesome touch!
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
She's but a bitch.
She 's gien me monie a jirt an fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, 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-and-twentieth simmer
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.
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
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;
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,
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,'
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,
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.'
O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o the ragged Nine-
Poor, thoughtless devils!- yet may shine
In glorious light,
While sordid sons o 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!
Poem Index
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