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 ck 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.

e wealth, e poortith,te or soon,

heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,

and screw your temper-pins aboon

a fifth or mair

the mncholious,zy croon

o' cankrie care.

may still your life from day to day,

nae “lentergo” in the y,

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 e, your hand, my careless brither,