EPISTLE TO J. L*****K, AN OLD SCOTCH BARD. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. 195-202. 240p.; 8⁰.

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EPISTLE TO J. L*****K , AN OLD SCOTCH BARD . April 1st , 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green , An' Paitricks scraichan loud at e'en , And morning Poossie whiddan seen , Inspire my Muse , This freedom , in an unknown frien' , I pray excuse . On Fasteneen 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 yokin , At sang about . There was ae sang , amang the rest , Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best , That some kind husband had addrest , To 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 chiel About Muirkirk . It pat me fidgean-fain to hear't , An' sae about him there I spier't ; Then a' that kent him round declar'd , He 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 douse 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 an' graith , Or die a cadger pownie's death , At some dyke-back , A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith , To 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 an' stools ; If honest Nature made you fools , What sairs your Grammars ? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools , Or knappin-hammers . A set o' dull , conceited Hashes , Confuse their brains in Colledge-classes ! They gang in Stirks , and come out Asses , Plain truth to speak ; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek ! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire , That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart , My Muse , tho' hamely in attire , May touch the heart . O for a spunk o' ALLAN'S glee , Or FERGUSON'S , the bauld an' slee , Or bright L*****K'S , my friend to be , If I can hit it ! That would be lear eneugh for me , If I could get it . Now , Sir , if ye hae friends enow , Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few , Yet , if your catalogue be fow , I'se no insist ; But gif ye want ae friend that's true , I'm on your list , I winna blaw about mysel , As ill I like my fauts to tell ; But friends an' folk that wish me well , They sometimes roose me ; Tho' I maun own , as monie still , As far abuse me . There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me ; I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! For monie a Plack they wheedle frae me , At dance or fair : Maybe some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare . But MAUCHLINE Race or MAUCHLINE Fair , I should be proud to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care , If we forgather , An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware , Wi' ane anither The four-gill chap , we'se gar him clatter , An kirs'n him wi' reekin water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter , To chear our heart ; An' faith , we'se be acquainted better Before we part . Awa ye selfish , warly race , Wha think that havins , sense an' grace , Ev'n love an' friendship should give place To catch-the-plack ! I dinna like to see your face , Nor hear your crack . But ye whom social pleasure charms , Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms , Who hold your being on the terms , ' Each aid the others , ' Come to my bowl , come to my arms , My friends , my brothers ! But to conclude my lang epistle , As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me sissle , Who am , most fervent , While I can either sing , or whissle , Your friend and servent .