EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMSON SCHOOLMASTER, OCHILTREE.-MAY, 1785 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; Should I believe, my coaxin billie Your flatterin strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it: 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, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Ramsay an' famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest; We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies. At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died! O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The muse, nae poet ever fand her, The war'ly race may drudge an' 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 unkenn'd 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, Diurnal turns; Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT My memory's no worth a preen; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon Gaed past their viewin; An' shortly after she was done They gat a new ane. This passed for certain, undisputed; Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk An' backlins-comin to the leuk She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, Should think they better were inform'd, Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in mony lands, Till lairds forbad, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Till now, amaist on ev'ry knowe Ye'll find ane plac'd; 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 an' sweatin; Mysel', I've even seen them greetin Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an' write. |