AULD NEIBOR,

Second.

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auldfarrant friendly letter;
Though I maun say 't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair,

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld grey hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye 're glaikit,
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

For me,

Be hain't wha like.

I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin' the words to gar them clink;

Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink,
Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think,

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil haet, that I sud ban

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while aught's there,

Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',
An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! its aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Though rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl' may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she 'll never leave ye,
Though e'er sae puir,
Na, even though limpin' wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

EPISTLES TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

First.

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,

An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,

An' morning poussie whidden seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en 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,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thirled the heart-strings through the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel,
What generous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, 'Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?'

They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin fain to hear 't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that kent him round declared
He had ingine,

That nane excelled it, few came near 't,
It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel',

Or witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale

Then up

He had few matches.

I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Though 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,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel',

Does weel eneugh.

I am na poet, in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,

And say,

'How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?'

But, by your leave, my learnèd foes,
Ye're may be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better ta'en 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 a spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge through dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

Oh, for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

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;

Though I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me,— I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair;

May be some ither thing they gie me,

They weel can spare.