But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, make And kirsen him wi' reekin' water; Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; And, faith, we'se be acquainted better Awa' ye selfish warly race, christen Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, manners Even love and friendship should give place To catch the plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. doit conversation But ye whom social pleasure charms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 1 This was celebrated on the road adjoining to Burns's farm of Mossgiel. 2 A hearty draught of liquor. But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; While I can either sing or whissle, fidget SECOND EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. Lapraik was not slow to apprehend the value of the offered correspondence. He sent an answer by the hands of his son.- Without long delay, the poet replied. April 21, 1785. low smoke WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, And pownies reek in pleugh or braik,' To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjeskit sair, wi' weary legs, Or dealing through amang the naigs Their ten hours' bite, Jaded 1 "Braik, a kind of harrow." — Burns's Glossary. More precisely, a heavy harrow; a harrow loaded with a log. It is an implement much used in Ayr and Renfrew shires. My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, heedless — overspent That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, Her dowff excuses pat me mad: stupid "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! feeble I'll write, and that a hearty blaud, Sae dinna This very night; ye affront your trade, "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Though mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, Sae I gat paper in a blink, And down gaed stumpie in the ink: And if ye winna mak it clink, VOL. I. By Jove I'll prose it!" 6 effusion Praise Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether But I shall scribble down some blether, nonsense My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, Wi' gleesome touch; Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, off-hand tickle Now comes the sax-and-twentieth simmer, 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, gray can skittish wench chest-deceive Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. In some bit brugh to represent Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, Were this the charter of our state, burgh haughty But, thanks to Heaven, that's no the gaet For thus the royal mandate ran, shirt |