Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the nags
Their ten-hours' bite,

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

The tapetless, 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, And 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,
Tho' mankind were a pack of cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts,
And thank him kindly

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

And down gaed stumpie in the ink;
Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink.
I vow I'll close it;

An' if you 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 an' warp;
She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jest an' fleg
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg
Wi' layart 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,

Behind a kist to lie and skient,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent,
And muckle wane,

In some bit burgh to represent

A bailie's name?

Or, is't the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi' ruffled 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 of hell be rich an' great,”
Damnation then would be our fate,
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!

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.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,
Their worthless, neivefu' of a soul
May in some future carcass howl,
The forest 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 passing year!

TO W. S*****N.

OCHILTREE, MAY, 1785.

I GAI' your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi' grateful heart I thank you brawlie,
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billy,
Your flatt'rin 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.

(0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E'nburgh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,
As whyles 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