sed epistle to j. praik
april 21, 1785
while new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
an' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
this hour on e'enin's edge i take,
to own i'm debtor
to ho-hearted, auld praik,
for his kier.
forjesket sair, with weary legs,
rattlin the 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, ramfeezl'd hizzie,
she's saft at best an' something zy:
quo' she, “ye ken we've been sae busy
this month an' mair,
that trowth, my head is grht dizzie,
an' something sair.”
her dowff excuses pat me mad;
“sce,” says i, “ye thowless jade!
i'll write, an' that a hearty bud,
this vera night;
so dinna ye affront your trade,
but rhyme it right.
“shall bauld praik, the king o' hearts,
tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
roose you sae weel for your deserts,
in terms sae friendly;
yet ye'll o shaw your parts
an' thank him kindly?”
sae i gat paper in a blink,
an' dowumpie in the ink:
"h i, “before i sleep a wink,
i vow i'll close it;
an' if ye winna mak it k,
by jove, i'll prose it!”
sae i've begun to scrawl, but whether
in rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;
or some hotch-potch that's rightly her,
let time mak proof;
but i shall scribble down some blether
just aff-loof.
my worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;
e, kittle up your moornd harp
wi' gleesome touch!
ne'er mind how fortune waft and ;
she's but a bitch.
she 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,
sin' i could striddle owre a rig;
but, by the lord, tho' i should beg
wi' lyart pow,
i'll ugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,
as ng's i dow!
now es the sax-an'-tweh simmer
i've seen the bud upoimmer,
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' t. per t.
an' muckle wame,
in some bit brugh to represent
a bailie's name?
or is't the paughty, feudal thane,
wi' ruffl'd sark an' gng e,
wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
but lordly stalks;
while caps and bos 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' sd wide;
wi' cits nor irds i wadna shift,
in a' their pride!”
were this the charter of our state,
“on pain o' hell be ri' great,”
damnation then would be our fate,
beyond remead;
but, thanks to heaven, that's no the gate
we learn our creed.
for thus the royal mandate ran,
when first the human race began;
“the social, friendly, ho man,
whate'er he be—
'tis he fulfils great nature's pn,
and 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' mammon's 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 forest's fright;
or in some day-detesting owl
may shun the light.
then may praik and burns arise,
to reach their native, kindred skies,
and sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,
in some mild sphere;
still closer knit in friendship's ties,
each passing year!