TO W. S*****N, OCHILTREE. 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. 208-217. 240p.; 8⁰.

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TO 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 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 Ferguson , the writer-chiel , A deathless name . ( O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts , Ill-suited law's dry , musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts , Ye Enbrugh 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 whiles 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 Besouth Magellan . Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed , to monie a tune , Owre Scotland rings , While Irwin , Lugar , Aire an' Doon , Naebody sings . Th' Illissus , Tiber , Thames an' Seine , Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ; But Willie set your fit to mine , An' cock your crest , We'll gar our streams an' 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 , Where glorious WALLACE Aft bure the gree , as story tells , 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 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 ; I had amaist forgotten clean , Ye bad me write you what they mean By this new-light , A cant-term for those religious opinions , which Dr TAYLOR of Norwich has defended so strenuously . 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight . In days when mankind were but callans , 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 , Woor by degrees , till her last roon Gaed past their viewin , An' shortly after she was done They gat a new ane . 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 newk An' out o' sight , An' backlins-comin , to the leuk , She grew mair bright . This was deny'd , it was affirm'd ; The herds an' 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 dadies . 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 forbad , 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 plac'd ; An' some , their New-light fair avow , Just quite barefac'd . Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatan ; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatan ; Mysel , I've ev'n seen them greetan Wi' girnan 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 towns 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 le'ae 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 .