On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin,
At "sang about."

There was ae sang, among the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"

They tald me 't was an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear 't,
An' sae about him there I spier't;

Then a' that kent him round declar'd
He had ingine;

That nane excell'd it, few cam near 't,
It was sae fine;

That, set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches,

'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,
To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell;

Tho' rude an' rough

Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense;

But just a rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your Schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools?
If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes

Confuse their brains in college classes,

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld an' slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fow,
I'se no insist:

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

Robert Burns

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH

DEAR SMITH, the slee'st, pawkie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,
Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you off, a human creature
On her first plan;

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature
She's wrote "The Man."

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancy yerkit up sublime,

Wi' hasty summon:

Hae ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin?

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat,

But, in requit,

Has blest me with a random shot
O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,
Something cries, "Hoolie!
I red you, honest man, tak tent!
Ye'll shaw your folly:

"There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
A' future ages;

Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages."

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till Fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o' Death begin a tale?
Just now we're living sound an' hale;

Then top and maintop crowd the sail,