THIS 1 wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A neer-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far I sprackld up the brae,
I dinnerd wi a Lord.
Ive been at drucken writers feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou mang godly priests
Wi revrence be it spoken!
Ive even joind the honourd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi a Lord!stand out my shin,
A Lorda Peeran Earls son!
Up higher yet, my bonnet
An sic a Lord!lang Scoth ells twa,
Our Peerage he oerlooks them a,
As I look oer my sonnet.
But O for Hogarths magic powr!
To show Sir Bardies willyart glowr,
An how he stard and stammerd,
When, goavin, as if led wi branks,
An stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammerd.
I sidying shelterd in a nook,
An at his Lordship stealt a look,
Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
An (what surprisd me) modesty,
I markèd nought uncommon.
I watchd the symptoms o the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.
Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weels another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.
Note 1. At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart. [back]