EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April 1, 1785. Gil Early in this year, on Fasten's e'en (Anglicè, Shrovetide), there was a rocking at Mossgiel. bert explains this term: It is derived from those primitive times when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on a rock or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbor's house; hence the phrase of going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the connection the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women.' There was then a simple frugal social meeting at Mossgiel, when, among other entertainments, each did his or her best at singing. One sang a pleasing specimen of the rustic lore of Ayrshire, understood to be the composition of a person now in advanced years, named Lapraik, residing at Muirkirk: "When I upon thy bosom lean, Enraptured I do call thee mine, I glory in those sacred ties, That made us ane wha ance were twain."1 1 The verses which passed for Lapraik's were in reality denved, with slight alterations, from a poem in the Weekly Burns was so much pleased with the ditty, that he soon after sent a versified epistle to the supposed author. WHILE briers and woodbines budding green, And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, This freedom in an unknown frien' partridges hare scudding On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; chat And there was muckle fun and jokin', At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife: It thirled the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life. [thrilled I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, Magazine, Oct. 14, 1773, entitled Lines addressed by a Husband to his Wife after being six Years married, and sharing a great Variety of Fortune together. Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, excitedly eager And sae about him there I spier't, Then a' that kent him round declared That nane excelled it, few cam near't, That, set him to a pint of ale, And either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel', 'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, and swore an aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death At some dyke back, A pint and gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first and foremost, I should tell, inquired geniua grave harness peddle: I to the crambo-jingle fell, Though rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sell, humming I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, And say: Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, A set o' dull conceited hashes, stone hammers Confuse their brains in college-classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, bullocks Plain truth to speak; And syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire! That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge through dub and mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart, Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, [puddle spark 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. boasi praise |