Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, Each aid the others,' Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! But, to conclude my lang epistle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing, or whissle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. April 21st, 1785. WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Their ten hours bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie, This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 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: 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 But I shall scribble down some blether 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 an' warp : She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 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 upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; I, Rob, am here. But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A Bailie's name? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks? O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!' Were this the charter of our state, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n, 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, An' none but he!' O mandate glorious and divine! In glorious light, While sordid sons of 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, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year! |