Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
142 . Epistle to Major Logan
H
Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unback’d filly,
Proud o’ her speed.
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter, Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter We’re forced to thole. Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O’ this wild warl’. Until you on a crummock driddle, A grey hair’d carl. Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon A fifth or mair The melancholious, lazy croon O’ cankrie care. Nae “lente largo” in the play, But “allegretto forte” gay, Harmonious flow, A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— Encore! Bravo! Wha dearly like a jig or sang, An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang By square an’ rule, But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang, Are wise or fool. The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace; Their tuneless hearts, May fireside discords jar a base To a’ their parts. I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither, An’ that there is, I’ve little swither About the matter; We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither, I’se ne’er bid better. We’re frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa’; But still, but still, I like them dearly— God bless them a’! When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers! The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi’ girnin’spite. An’ every star within my hearin! An’ by her een wha was a dear ane! I’ll ne’er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin In fair play yet. I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it; Ance to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantraip hour By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted; Then vive l’amour! To sentimental sister Susie, And honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple Fate allows ye, To grace your blood. An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure, Be’t light, be’t dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.