Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 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, and folk that wish me well, As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, May be some ither thing they gie me But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 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. Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, E'en love an' 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 heart 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, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. APRIL 21st, 1785. 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 dealing through amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs I would na write. The tapeless ramfeezl'd 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. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. In some bit brugh to represent E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Darkening the day! O nature! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the simmer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The muse, nae poet ever fand her, The warly 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, Bum 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 tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies: While terra firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 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. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. "New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was denied, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' burnt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane placed; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefaced. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better, Than mind sic brulzie. I've sent you home some rhyming ware, Yon sang,† ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danced my fill! "Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld used hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whizzle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. *A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country side. † A song he had promised the author. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Ld, I'se hae sportin by an' by, For my gowd guinea: Though I should herd the buckskin kye For't in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce through the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworth's again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. TAM O'SHANTER. A TALE.. Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; But to our tale: Ae market night, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; Care, mad to see a man sae happy, But pleasures are like poppies spread, That flit ere you can point their place; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg, By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks an' meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! A winnock-bunker in the east, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns ; Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies. |