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 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 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!

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 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?"

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 b.i.t.c.h.

She 's gien me mony 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-an'-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' h.e.l.l be rich an' great,"

d.a.m.nation 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 ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night!

Tho' here they sc.r.a.pe, 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 pa.s.sing year!

Epistle To William Simson

Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.--May, 1785

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, And unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie Your flatterin strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it: I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The t.i.the o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or la.s.sies gie my heart a screed-- As whiles they're like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease.

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain; Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings; While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon Naebody sings.

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line: But Willie, set your fit to mine, An' c.o.c.k your crest; We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best!

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, Whare glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died!

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy; While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are h.o.a.ry gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day!

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an light; Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trottin burn's meander, An' no think lang: O sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The war'ly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive; Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive b.u.m owre their treasure.

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing" brither!

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tools an' taxes; While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns; Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns.

Postcript

My memory's no worth a preen; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this "new-light,"

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie; But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me.