The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
An' 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.

162

II

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.

III

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's saft at best an' something lazy:
Quo' she: ‘Ye ken we've been sae busy
This month an' mair,
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair.’

IV

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.

V

‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,

163

Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly;
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts
An' thank him kindly?’

VI

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!’

VII

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.

VIII

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 an' warp;
She's but a bitch.

164

IX

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,
I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

X

Now comes the sax-an-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.

XI

Do ye envý the city gent,
Behint a kist to lie an' sklent;
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.
An' muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie's name?

XII

Or is't the paughty feudal thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane,

165

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks;
While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?

XIII

‘O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift
Thro' Scotland wide;
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride!’

XIV

Were this the charter of our state,
‘On pain o' hell be rich an' great,’
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven, that's no the gate
We learn our creed.

XV

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,
And none but he.’

166

XVI

O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine—
Poor, thoughtless devils!—yet may shine
In glorious light;
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line
Are dark as night!

XVII

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,
Their worthless neivefu' of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,
The forest's fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.

XVIII

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in friendship's ties,
Each passing year!