HAIL, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie!
Tho fortunes road be rough an hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unbackd filly,
Proud o her speed.
When, idly goavin, whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the scathe an banter
Were forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O this wild warl.
Until you on a crummock driddle,
A grey haird carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy croon
O cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day,
Nae lente largo in the play,
But allegretto forte gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An never think o right an wrang
By square an rule,
But, as the clegs o feeling stang,
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords jar a base
To a their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I th ither warl, if theres anither,
An that there is, Ive little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
Ise neer bid better.
Weve faults and failingsgranted clearly,
Were frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eves bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa;
But still, but still, I like them dearly
God bless them a!
Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa foul o earthly jinkers!
The witching, cursd, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi girninspite.
By by yon moon!and thats high swearin
An every star within my hearin!
An by her een wha was a dear ane!
Ill neer forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
Ill seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf Ill yet be dinted;
Then vive lamour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An trowth my rhymin wares nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hours leisure,
Bet light, bet dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.ROBERT BURNS.Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
