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 tterin strain.

but i'se believe ye kindly meant it:

i sud beith 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' an, or wi' gilbertfield,

the braes o' fame;

or fergusson, the writer-chiel,

a deathless name.

(o fergusson! thy glorious parts

ill suitedw'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 es i' my head,

orssies 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 co now may fidge fu' fain,

she's gotten poets o' her ain;

chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

but tune theirys,

till echoes a' resound again

her weel-sung praise.

nae poet thought her worth his while,

to set her name in measur'd style;

shey like some unkenn'd-of-isle

beside new hond,

or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

besouth magen.

ramsay an' famous fergusson

gied forth an' tay a lift aboon;

yarrow an' tweed, to monie a tune,

owre scond 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!