My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

Oh 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,
Though 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 and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me;
Though I maun own, as monie still
As far abuse me.

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,

And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware
Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we 'se gar him clatter, And kirsen him wi' reekin' water;

Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

And, faith, we 'se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa' ye selfish warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, Even love and friendship should give place To catch the plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

But

Nor hear your crack.

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.

SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake,

And 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.

Forjeskit sair, wi' weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing through amang the naigs
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 and 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, and that a hearty blaud,

Sae dinna

This very night;

ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Though mankind were a pack o' cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye 'll neglect to shaw 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;

And if ye 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 and carp,
Though fortune use you hard and sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch;

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp-
She's but a b-h!

She 's gien me monie a jirt and fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the L-, though I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax-and-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,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

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

In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie's name?

Or is 't the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks ?

Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Through Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride!

Were this the charter of our state,
"On pain o' hell be rich and great,”
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead ;

But, thanks to Heaven, that's no the gaet
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,