epistle to william simson
saster, ochiltree.—may, 1785
i gat your letter, winsome willie;
wi' gratefu' heart i thank you brawlie;
tho' i maun say't, i wad be silly,
and unco vain,
should i believe, my coaxin billie
your ftterin strain.
but i'se believe ye kindly meant it:
i sud be ith 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' aln, or wi' gilbertfield,
the braes o' fame;
or fergusson, the writer-chiel,
a deathless name.
(usson! thy glorious parts
ill suited w's dry, musty arts!
my curse upon your whunstas,
ye e'nbrugh gentry!
the tithe o' what ye waste at cartes
wad stow'd his pantry!)
yet when a tale es i' my head,
or ssies 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 ow may fidge fu' fain,
she's gottes o' her ain;
chiels wha their ters winna hain,
but tuheir ys,
till echoes a' resound again
her weel-sung praise.
nae poet thought her worth his while,
to set her name in measur'd style;
she y like some unkenn'd-of-isle
beside new holnd,
or whare wild-meeting os boil
besouth mageln.
ramsay an' famous fergusson
gied forth an' tay a lift aboon;
yarrow an' tweed, to moune,
owre sd rings;
while irwin, lugar, ayr, an' doon
naebody sings.
th' illissus, tiber, thames, an' seine,
glide sweet in mounefu' line:
but willie, set your fit to mine,
an' cock your crest;
we'll gar our streams an' burnies shine
up wi' the best!
we'll sing auld coi's pins an' fells,
her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,
her banks an' braes, her dens and dells,
whare glorious walce
aft bure the gree, as story tells,
frae suthron billies.
at walce' name, what scottish blood
but boils up in a spring-tide flood!
oft have our fearless fathers strode
by walce' side,
still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
lorious died!
o, sweet are coi's haughs an' woods,
when lintwhites t 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 ree;
or frosts on hills of ochiltree
are hray;
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 ng, dark night!
the muse, nae poet ever fand her,
till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
adown some trottin burn's meander,
an' no think ng:
o sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder
a heart-felt sang!
the war'ly race may drudge an' drive,
hog-shouther, juretch, an' strive;
let me fair nature's face descrive,
and i, wi' pleasure,
shall let the busy, grumbling hive
bum owre their treasure.
fareweel, “my rhyme-posing” brither!
we've been unkenn'd to ither:
now let us y our heads thegither,
in love fraternal:
may envy in a tether,
bck fiend, infernal!
while highndmen hate tools an' taxes;
while moorn's herds like guid, fat braxies;
while terra firma, on her axis,
diurnal turns;
t on a friend, in faith an' practice,
in robert burns.