This is
the one in which he calls himself “no poet, but just a rhymer” J
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Epistle
To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard
By Robert
Burns
While
briers an' woodbines budding green,
An'
paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An'
morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire
my muse,
This
freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray
excuse.
On
Fasten-e'en 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
tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About
Muirkirk.
It pat me
fidgin-fain to hear't,
An' sae
about him there I speir'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 douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes
an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty
catches-
'Tween
Inverness an' Teviotdale,
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 college 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
Fergusson's the bauld an' slee,
Or bright
Lapraik'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 fu',
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 mony still
As far
abuse me.
There's
ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like
the lasses-Gude forgie me!
For mony
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'
kirsen him wi' reekin water;
Syne
we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer
our heart;
An'
faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we
part.
Awa ye
selfish, war'ly 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 gristle,
Twa lines
frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am,
most fervent,
While I
can either sing or whistle,
Your
friend and servant.
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