Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/131

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
79

EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1st, 1785.

While briers an' woodbines budding green,An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,An' morning poussie whiddin seen,Inspire my Muse,This freedom, in an unknown frien',I pray excuse.
On fasten-een we had a rockin,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 yokinAt sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,That some kind husband had addrestTo some sweet wife:It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,A' to the life.
I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;Thought I, 'Can this be Pope, or Steele,Or Beattie's wark!'They tald me 'twas an odd kind chielAbout Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,And sae about him there I spier't;Then a' that ken'd him round declar'dHe had ingine,That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,It was sae fine.
That, set him to a pint of ale,An' either douce or merry tale,Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,Or witty catches,'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,Or die a cadger pownie's death,At some dyke-back,A pint an' gill I'd gie them baithTo hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,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.
I am nae Poet, in a sense,But just a Rhymer, like, by chance,An' hae to learning nae pretence,Yet, what the matter?Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,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.
What's a' your jargon' o' your schools,Your Latin names for horns and stools;If honest nature made you fools,What sairs your grammars?Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools,Or knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes,Confuse their brains in college classes!They gang in stirks, and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An' syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o' Greek!
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