Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard

On fasten-een we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;

And there was muckle fun and jokin,

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,

That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,

What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;

Thought I, 'Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark!'

They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,

And sae about him there I spier't;

Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd

He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,

Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae Poet, in a sense,

But just a Rhymer, like, by chance,

An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

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 maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon' o' your schools,

Your Latin names for horns and stools;

If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better ta'en 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 an' 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 fauts to tell;

But friends, an' folks 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 whiles lay to me,

I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair;

Maybe 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' rhymin-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 an' 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.