But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie a night's discharge to care
If we forgather,

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.

There's naething like the honest nappy!
Whar 'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft, and sappy,

"Tween morn and morn, As them wha like to taste the drappy In glass or horn?

I've seen me dais 't upon a time,
I scarce could wink, or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,
Aught less is little,

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle!

Awa' ye selfish war'ly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, E'en love and friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face

Nor hear you crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms,

'Each aid the others,'

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

Second.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout 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 dealin' through amang the naigs,
Their ten hours' bite,

My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie,

She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, 'Ye ken, we've been sae busy This month an' mair,

That trouth 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,
Though 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,
Though 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 bitch.

She's gi'en me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the Lord, though 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 upo' 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 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,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en,
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

Through 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,
An' none but he !'

O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

squeeze, an' growl,

Though here they scrape, an'
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, and joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,

Each passing year!