epistle to william simson

schoolmaster, ochiltree.—may, 1785

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 talees 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