To William Simpson, Ochiltree.

May, 1785.         I gat your letter, winsome Willie;         Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;         Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,             An' unco vain,         Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,             Your flatterin' 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.         (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts         Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!         My curse upon your whunstane hearts,             Ye Enbrugh gentry!         The tythe 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 whiles 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 stile;         She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle             Beside New-Holland,         Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil             Besouth Magellan.         Ramsay an' famous Fergusson         Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;         Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,             Owre Scotland rings,         While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,             Nae body sings.         Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine,         Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line!         But, Willie, set your fit to mine,             An' cock your crest,         We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine             Up wi' the best.         We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells,         Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells,         Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,             Where glorious Wallace         Aft bure the gree, as story tells,             Frae southron billies.         At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood         But boils up in a spring-tide flood!         Oft have our fearless fathers strode             By Wallace' side,         Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,             Or glorious dy'd.         O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,         When lintwhites chant amang the buds,         And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids             Their loves enjoy,         While thro' the braes the cushat croods             With wailfu' cry!         Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me         When winds rave thro' the naked tree;         Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree             Are hoary gray:         Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,             Dark'ning the day.         O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms         To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!         Whether the summer kindly warms,             Wi' life an' light,         Or winter howls, in gusty storms,             The lang, dark night!         The muse, nae Poet ever fand her,         'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander,         Adown some trotting burn's meander,             An' no think lang;         O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder             A heart-felt sang!         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 an' taxes;         While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies;         While terra firma, on her axes             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,         Ye bade me write you what they mean,             By this New Light,         'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been,             Maist like to fight.         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.         This past for certain, undisputed;         It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,         'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,             An' ca'd it wrang;         An' muckle din there was about it,             Baith loud an' lang.         Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,         Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;         For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk,             An' out o' sight,         An' backlins-comin', to the leuk,             She grew mair bright.         This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;         The herds an' hissels were alarm'd:         The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and 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' brunt.         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,         'Till 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 plac'd;         An' some their New Light fair avow,             Just quite barefac'd.         Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin';         Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin':         Mysel', I've even seen them greetin'             Wi' girnin' spite,         To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on             By word an' write.         But shortly they will cowe the loons;         Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns         Are mind't in things they ca' balloons,             To tak a flight,         An' stay ae month amang the moons             And see them right.         Guid observation they will gie them:         An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,         The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,             Just i' their pouch,         An' when the New Light billies see them,             I think they'll crouch!         Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter         Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"         But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter             In logic tulzie,         I hope we bardies ken some better             Than mind sic brulzie.