The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie, Her dowff excuses pat me mad; So dinna ye affront your trade, 'Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: An if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove, I'll prose it!' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; 20 30 40 She's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, Do ye envy the city gent, Behind a kist to lie an' sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent In some bit brugh to represent 50 60 Or is 't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, 70 While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 'O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 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 80 For thus the royal mandate ran, "Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, O mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons of Mammon's line Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 90 100 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it: On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, My senses wad be in a creel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Yet when a tale comes i' my head, I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, Ramsay an' famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Frae Southron billies. At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 70 60 50 |