Another
epistolary poem. Signed and dated at the
bottom, so I didn’t add the “Burns” between the title and the text:
___________________
Epistle
To Major Logan
Hail,
thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Tho'
fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every
fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never
heed,
But take
it like the unback'd filly,
Proud o'
her speed.
When,
idly goavin', whiles we saunter,
Yirr!
fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill,
down brae, till some mischanter,
Some
black bog-hole,
Arrests
us; then the scathe an' banter
We're
forced to thole.
Hale be
your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may
your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer
you through the weary widdle
O' this
wild warl'.
Until you
on a crummock driddle,
A grey
hair'd carl.
Come
wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send
your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw
your temper-pins aboon
A fifth
or mair
The
melancholious, lazy croon
O'
cankrie care.
May still
your life from day to day,
Nae
"lente largo" in the play,
But
"allegretto forte" gay,
Harmonious
flow,
A
sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-
Encore!
Bravo!
A
blessing on the cheery gang
Wha
dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never
think o' right an' wrang
By square
an' rule,
But, as
the clegs o' feeling stang,
Are wise
or fool.
My
hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The
harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count
on poortith as disgrace;
Their
tuneless hearts,
May
fireside discords jar a base
To a'
their parts.
But come,
your hand, my careless brither,
I' th'
ither warl', if there's anither,
An' that
there is, I've little swither
About the
matter;
We, cheek
for chow, shall jog thegither,
I'se
ne'er bid better.
We've
faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're
frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's
bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our
grand fa';
But
still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless
them a'!
Ochone
for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they
fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!
The
witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers
Hae put
me hyte,
And gart
me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi'
girnin'spite.
By by yon
moon!-and that's high swearin-
An' every
star within my hearin!
An' by
her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll
ne'er forget;
I hope to
gie the jads a clearin
In fair
play yet.
My loss I
mourn, but not repent it;
I'll seek
my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to
the Indies I were wonted,
Some
cantraip hour
By some
sweet elf I'll yet be dinted;
Then vive
l'amour!
Faites
mes baissemains respectueuses,
To
sentimental sister Susie,
And
honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be
proud,
That sic
a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace
your blood.
Nae mair
at present can I measure,
An'
trowth my rhymin ware's nae treasure;
But when
in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't
light, be't dark,
Sir Bard
will do himself the pleasure
To call
at Park.
Robert
Burns.
Mossgiel,
30th October, 1786.
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