Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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 fu',

       I'se no insist:

       But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,

       I'm on your list.

       I winna blaw about mysel,

       As ill I like my fauts to tell;

       But friends, an' folk that wish me well,

       They sometimes roose me;

       Tho' I maun own, as mony still

       As far abuse me.

       There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

       I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!

       For mony a plack they wheedle frae me

       At dance or fair;

       Maybe some ither thing they gie me,

       They weel can spare.

       But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,

       I should be proud to meet you there;

       We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,

       If we forgather;

       An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

       Wi' ane anither.

       The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,

       An' kirsen him wi' reekin water;

       Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,

       To cheer our heart;

       An' faith, we'se be acquainted better

       Before we part.

       Awa ye selfish, war'ly race,

       Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,

       Ev'n love an' friendship should give place

       To catch—the—plack!

       I dinna like to see your face,

       Nor hear your crack.

       But ye whom social pleasure charms

       Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

       Who hold your being on the terms,

       “Each aid the others,”

       Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

       My friends, my brothers!

       But, to conclude my lang epistle,

       As my auld pen's worn to the gristle,

       Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

       Who am, most fervent,

       While I can either sing or whistle,

       Your friend and servant.

Second Epistle To J. Lapraik

       Table of Contents

      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 honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

       For his kind letter.

       Forjesket sair, with weary legs,

       Rattlin the corn 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 lazy:

       Quo' she, “Ye ken we've been sae busy

       This month an' mair,

       That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,

       An' something sair.”

       Her dowff excuses pat me mad;

       “Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jade!

       I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

       This vera night;

       So dinna ye affront your trade,

       But rhyme it right.

       “Shall bauld Lapraik, 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 neglect to shaw your parts

       An' thank him kindly?”

       Sae I gat paper in a blink,

       An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

       Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink,

       I vow I'll close it;

       An' if ye winna mak it clink,

       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 neither,

       Let time mak proof;

       But I shall scribble down some blether

       Just clean aff-loof.

       My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,

       Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;

       Come, kittle up your moorland harp

       Wi' gleesome touch!

       Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;

       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 laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,

       As lang's I dow!

       Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer

       I've seen the bud upon the timmer,

       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' cent. per cent.

       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' glancing cane,

       Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,