Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars ? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Ferguson'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,
Tho' 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 faults to tell ;
But friends, and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me:

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Guid forgie me!
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;

May be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

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,

An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware
Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water;
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

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

Awa, ye selfish warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship should give place To catch the plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But 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.

TO THE SAME.

APRIL 21, 1785.

WHILE new ca'd kye rout at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours bite,
My awkart-muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeel'd hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo, she, Ye ken ye've been sae busy
This month an' mair,

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 'Conscience,' says I, 'ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' 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,
An' thank him kindly!'

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink :
Quoth I, Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I'll close it;
An' 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 an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp; She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the L-d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' 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 glancin' cane,
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks ;

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me if Thou please adrift
Thro' Scotland wide:
Wi' cits nor lairds I would not 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 Heav'n! that's no the gate 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,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he !

O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor glorious devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line
Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an growl,

Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul
May in some future carcase howl
The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,
Each passing year