The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

      In a’ their pride!”

      Were this the charter of our state,

      “On pain’ o’ hell be rich an’ great,”

      Damnation then would be our fate,

      Beyond remead;

      But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gate

      We learn our creed.

      For thus the royal mandate ran,

      When first the human race began,

      “The social, friendly, honest man,

      Whate’er he be,

      ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,

      An’ none but he!”

      O mandate, glorious and divine!

      The followers o’ the ragged 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 nievfu’ 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 Lapraik 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!

      XXXI. TO J. LAPRAIK

      (THIRD EPISTLE)

      [I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, “tapetless,” “ramfeezled,” and “forjesket,” as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

      Sept. 13th, 1785.

      Guid speed an’ furder to you, Johnny,

      Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonny;

      Now when ye’re nickan down fu’ canny

      The staff o’ bread,

      May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y

      To clear your head.

      May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

      Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

      Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs

      Like drivin’ wrack;

      But may the tapmast grain that wags

      Come to the sack.

      I’m bizzie too, an’ skelpin’ at it,

      But bitter, daudin’ showers hae wat it,

      Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

      Wi’ muckle wark,

      An’ took my jocteleg an’ whatt it,

      Like ony clark.

      It’s now twa month that I’m your debtor

      For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,

      Abusin’ me for harsh ill nature

      On holy men,

      While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better,

      But mair profane.

      But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,

      Let’s sing about our noble sel’s;

      We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

      To help, or roose us,

      But browster wives an’ whiskey stills,

      They are the muses.

      Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it

      An’ if ye mak’ objections at it,

      Then han’ in nieve some day we’ll knot it,

      An’ witness take,

      An’ when wi’ Usquabae we’ve wat it

      It winna break.

      But if the beast and branks be spar’d

      Till kye be gaun without the herd,

      An’ a’ the vittel in the yard,

      An’ theekit right,

      I mean your ingle-side to guard

      Ae winter night.

      Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitæ

      Shall make us baith sae blythe an’ witty,

      Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty,

      An’ be as canty,

      As ye were nine year less than thretty,

      Sweet ane an’ twenty!

      But stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast,

      An’ now the sin keeks in the west,

      Then I maun rin amang the rest

      An’ quat my chanter;

      Sae I subscribe myself in haste,

      Yours, Rab the Ranter.

      XXXII. TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, OCHILTREE

      [The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet’s comrades;—of verses which rose not above the barren level of mediocrity: “one of his poems,” says Chambers, “was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul.” In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.]

      May, 1785.

      I gat your letter, winsome Willie;

      Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;

      Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,

      An’ unco vain,

      Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie,

      Your flatterin’ strain.

      But I’se believe ye kindly meant it,

      I sud be laith 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’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,

      The braes o’ fame;

      Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,

      A deathless name.

      (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts

      Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts!

      My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

      Ye Enbrugh gentry!

      The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes

      Wad stow’d his pantry!)

      Yet

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