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.