On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; At length we had a hearty yokin, There was ae sang, among the rest, It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, They tald me 't was an odd kind chiel It pat me fidgin-fain to hear 't, Then a' that kent him round declar'd That nane excell'd it, few cam near 't, That, set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, But, first an' foremost, I should tell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho' rude an' rough Yet crooning to a body's sel, I am nae poet, in a sense; But just a rhymer like by chance, Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your Schools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes, They gang in stirks, and come out asses, An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, Robert Burns EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH DEAR SMITH, the slee'st, pawkie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry ither pair that's done, That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; For me, an aim I never fash; The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat, But, in requit, Has blest me with a random shot This while my notion's taen a sklent, "There's ither poets, much your betters, Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs An' teach the lanely heights an' howes I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, But why o' Death begin a tale? Then top and maintop crowd the sail, |