To J. Lapraik. - An Old Scottish Bard. (First Epistle.)

April 1st, 1785.         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-een 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 pleas'd me best,         That some kind husband had addrest             To some sweet wife;         It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,             A' to the life.         I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel,         What gen'rous manly bosoms feel,         Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele,             Or Beattie's wark?"         They told 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 ken't him round declar'd             He had injine,         That, nane excell'd it, few cam 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 Tiviotdale,             He had few matches.         Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,         Tho' 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,             Tho' rude an' rough,         Yet crooning to a body's sel',             Does weel eneugh.         I am nae 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 leaves, my learned 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 taen 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 ae spark o' Nature's fire!         That's a' the learning I desire;         Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire             At pleugh or cart,         My muse, though hamely in attire,             May touch the heart.         O 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,         Tho' 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;         Tho' I maun own, as monie still             As far abuse me.         There's ae wee faut they whiles 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.         But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair;         I should be proud to meet you there!         We'se gie ae 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.         Awa, ye selfish, warly race,         Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,         Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place             To catch-the-plack!         I dinna like to see your face,             Nor hear your 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.