WHILE new-cad kye rowte at the stake
An pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on eenins edge I take,
To own Im 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, ramfeezld hizzie,
Shes saft at best an something lazy:
Quo she, Ye ken weve been sae busy
This month an mair,
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An something sair.
Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
Conscience, says I, ye thowless jade!
Ill 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 yell 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 Ill close it;
An if ye winna mak it clink,
By Jove, Ill prose it!
Sae Ive begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;
Or some hotch-potch thats rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend, neer grudge an carp,
Tho fortune use you hard an sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi gleesome touch!
Neer mind how Fortune waft and warp;
Shes but a bitch.
She s gien me mony a jirt an fleg,
Sin I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Ld, tho I should beg
Wi lyart pow,
Ill laugh an sing, an shake my leg,
As langs I dow!
Now comes the sax-an-twentieth simmer
Ive seen the bud upon 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 an sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big wi cent. per cent.
An muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
A bailies name?
Or ist the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi ruffld sark an glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks;
While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?
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!
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, thats no the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began;
The social, friendly, honest man,
Whateer he be
Tis he fulfils great Natures plan,
And none but he.
O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,
While sordid sons o Mammons line
Are dark as night!
Tho here they scrape, an squeeze, an growl,
Their worthless nievefu of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,
The forests 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 an joys,
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in friendships ties,
Each passing year!