The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 22

x.x.xI.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

_Sept._ 13th, 1785.

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin' wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our n.o.ble sel's; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills, They are the muses.

Your friends.h.i.+p, Sir, I winna quat it An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd, An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty, As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, An' now the sin keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe myself in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter.

x.x.xII.

TO

WILLIAM SIMPSON,

OCHILTREE.

[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet's comrades;--of verses which rose not above the barren level of mediocrity: "one of his poems," says Chambers, "was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul." In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.]

_May, 1785._

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or la.s.ses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they're like to be my dead (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed, It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd stile; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings.

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line!

But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' c.o.c.k your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies s.h.i.+ne Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy'd.

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are h.o.a.ry gray: Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day.

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive b.u.m owre their treasure.

Fareweel, my "rhyme-composing brither!"

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns.

POSTSCRIPT

My memory's no worth a preen: I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean, By this New Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans, At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one.