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My senses wad be in a creel,
The braes o' fame;
A deathless name.
(0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E’nburgh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
(0, sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed,
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
But tune their lays
Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her worth his while To set her name in measurd style! She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle
Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Ramsay an' famous Fergusson
Owre Scotland rings ;
Nae body sings.
Th' Illissus, 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 and burnies shine
Up wi' the best.
We'll sing auld Coila’s plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks and braes, her dens an' dells,
Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Southron billies.
At Wallace's name, what Scottish blood
By Wallace's side,
Or glorious died.
O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,
Their loves enjoy,
Wi' wailfu' cry!
Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,
Are hoary gray;
Dark’ning the day!
O Nature! a'thy shews an forms
Wi' life an' light,
The lang, dark night!
The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
An' no think lang!
A heart-felt sang !
The warly race may drudge an' drive,
And I, wi' pleasure,
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,
In ROBERT BURNS.
My memory's no worth a preen;
By this New Light,*
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans
Or rules to gie,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon
Gaed past their viewin';
They gat a new one.
• New Light, a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those religvous opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, defended so strenuously.
This past for certain, undisputed;
An' ca'd it wrang;
Baith loud and lang.
Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk, For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,
She grew mair bright.
This was denied, it was affirm’d;
That beardless laddies
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ;
Wi' hearty crunt;
Were hang'd an' brunt.
This game was play'd in monie lands,
Wi' nimble shanks,
Sic bluidy pranks.