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 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’ Gilberfield,
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 E’nbrugh gentry!
The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow’d his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed –
As whyles they’re like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain,
She’s gotten bardies o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,
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 lay like some unkend-of isle
Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar, Aye, an’ Doon
Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line:
But, Willie, set your fit in mine,
An’ cock your crest!
We’ll gar our streams and burnies shine
Up wi’ the best.
We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
All bure the gree, as stories tell,
Frae Suthron billies.
At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood?
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
Or glorious dy’d!
O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant 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 naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
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 lang, 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 lang:
O, sweet to stray, an’ pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!
The warly race may drudge and drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, 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-composing brither!
We’ve been owre lang unkend to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal:
May Envy wallop in a tether,
Black fiend infernal!
While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;
While moorlan’ herds like guid, fat braxies;
While Terra Firma, on her axis,
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.
My memory’s no worth a preen:
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye made me write you what they mean
By this New-Light,
‘Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callan;
At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,
They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts in plain braid Lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after she was done,
They gat a new and.
This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,
An’ ca’d it wrang;
An’ muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an’ lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the Beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For ’twas the auld moon turn’d a neuk
An’ out of sight.
An’ backlins-comin to the leuk,
She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels were alarm’d;
The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better were inform’d
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an’ aiths, to clours an’ nicks;
An’ monie a fallow gat his licks,
Wi’ hearty crunt;
An some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang’d an’ brunt.
This game was play’d in monie lands,
An’ Auld-Light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But New-Light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on ev’ry knowe
Ye’ll find ane placed;
An’ some, their New-Light fair avow,
Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the Auld-Light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex’d and sweatin;
Myself, I’ve even seen them greetin
Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae sadly lie’d on
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some Auld-Light herds in neebor touns
Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons,
To tak a flight,
An’ stay ae month amang the moons
An’ see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them;
An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmost shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them,
Just i’ their pouch;
An’ when the New-Light billies see them,
I think they’ll crouch!
Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter
Is naething but a ‘ moonshine matter’;
But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,
I hope we, Bardies, ken some better
Than mind sic brulzie.