Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer,
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city Gent,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.

And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks ?

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift

'Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

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 ragged followers of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze,

an' growl,

Their worthless nievefu' of a soul

May in some future carcase howl

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then

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!

ΤΟ

ΤΟ

W. S***** N,

OCHILTREE.

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

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.

(0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh Gentry!

The tithe 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 deed,

(O sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld