Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
60 . Epistle on J. Lapraik
W
An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, To some sweet wife; It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, A’ to the life. What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie’s wark?” They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. An’ sae about him there I speir’t; Then a’ that kent him round declar’d He had ingine; That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, It was sae fine: An’ either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel, Or witty catches— ’Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale, He had few matches. Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith, Or die a cadger pownie’s death, At some dyke-back, A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith, To hear your crack. Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho’ rude an’ rough— Yet crooning to a body’s sel’ Does weel eneugh. But just a rhymer like by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. And say, “How can you e’er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?” But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye’re maybe wrang. Your Latin names for horns an’ stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye’d better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o’ Greek! That’s a’ the learning I desire; Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, tho’ hamely in attire, May touch the heart. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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! 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.