A moonshine matter

Adown some trottin burn’s meander  J

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Epistle To William Simson, Schoolmaster, Ochiltree

By Robert Burns

I gat your letter, winsome Willie;

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;

Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,

And 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 Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts

Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,

Or lassies 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 poets 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 unkenn'd-of-isle

Beside New Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson

Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;

Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings;

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, 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 and dells,

Whare 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 died!

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 war'ly 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 tools an' taxes;

While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies;

While terra firma, on her axis,

Diurnal turns;

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

In Robert Burns.

Postcript

My memory's no worth a preen;

I had amaist forgotten clean,

Ye bade me write you what they mean

By this "new-light,"

'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,

Wore by degrees, till her last roon

Gaed past their viewin;

An' shortly after she was done

They gat a new ane.

This passed 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 neuk

An' out of' sight,

An' backlins-comin to the leuk

She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;

The herds and hissels were alarm'd

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,

That beardless laddies

Should think they better wer inform'd,

Than their auld daddies.

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 mony 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 bleatin;

Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;

Mysel', I've even seen them greetin

Wi' girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on

By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!

Some auld-light herds in neebor touns

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 lea'e them,

The hindmaist 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 tulyie,

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulyie.

A social, friendly, honest man

Another letter to this poet.  I earlier posted the first letter (which was a friend request from Burns to him):

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Second Epistle To J. Lapraik

By Robert Burns

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake

An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,

This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,

Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,

Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours' bite,

My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs

I would na write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,

She's saft at best an' something lazy:

Quo' she, "Ye ken we've been sae busy

This month an' mair,

That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,

An' something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad;

"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jade!

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,

Tho' 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

An' thank him kindly?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove, I'll prose it!"

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether

In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;

Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,

Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;

Come, kittle up your moorland harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;

She's but a bitch.

She 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,

Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer

I've seen the bud upon 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 an' sklent;

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

An' muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal thane,

Wi' ruffl'd sark an' 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,

In a' their pride!"

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 heaven, 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,

And none but he."

O mandate glorious and divine!

The ragged followers o' the Nine,

Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' 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 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! 

Personal favorite :)

Address to a Haggis is definitely more famous, but here’s the one that matches my own taste  J

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Scotch Drink  

By Robert Burns

Gie him strong drink until he wink,

That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief and care:

There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.

Let other poets raise a fracas

"Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,

An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug:

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!

Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,

An' aits set up their awnie horn,

An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn,

Perfume the plain:

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

In souple scones, the wale o'food!

Or tumblin in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin;

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;

But, oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o'doited Lear;

Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care;

Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil;

Though even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine;

His weep drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants?

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in,

O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

Or reekin on a New-year mornin

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,

An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,

O rare! to see thee fizz an freath

I' th' luggit caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death

At every chap.

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel;

The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,

Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an reel,

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirling weanies see the light,

Though maks the gossips clatter bright,

How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea,

An' just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the barley brie

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason,

To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

But mony daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter season,

E'er Spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!

Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash!

Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor, plackless devils like mysel'!

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,

An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,

What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch

Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!

Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses!

Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks,

At ither's a-s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa?

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise,

Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!

Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,

An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Tuesday :( Again :(

I wonder whether the tailor had also written in verse  J

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Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor

By Robert Burns

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch

To thresh my back at sic a pitch?

Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld;

I didna suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,

I gie their wames a random pouse,

Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,

An' jag-the-flea!

King David, o' poetic brief,

Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief

As filled his after-life wi' grief,

An' bluidy rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,

My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,

I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts

An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,

At Davie's hip yet!

But, fegs! the session says I maun

Gae fa' upo' anither plan

Than garrin lasses coup the cran,

Clean heels ower body,

An' sairly thole their mother's ban

Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport,

How I did wi' the Session sort;

Auld Clinkum, at the inner port,

Cried three times, "Robin!

Come hither lad, and answer for't,

Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,

An' snoov'd awa before the Session:

I made an open, fair confession-

I scorn't to lee,

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator-loun he call'd me,

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

"But, what the matter?

(Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better!"

"Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no?

If that your right hand, leg or toe

Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,

You should remember

To cut it aff-an' what for no

Your dearest member?"

"Na, na, (quo' I,) I'm no for that,

Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;

I'd rather suffer for my faut

A hearty flewit,

As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,

Tho' I should rue it.

"Or, gin ye like to end the bother,

To please us a'-I've just ae ither-

When next wi' yon lass I forgather,

Whate'er betide it,

I'll frankly gie her 't a' thegither,

An' let her guide it."

But, sir, this pleas'd them warst of a',

An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,

I said "Gude night," an' cam' awa',

An' left the Session;

I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.