While briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks scraichinloud at e’en,
An’ morning poussiewhiddinseen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e’enwe had a rockin,
To ca’the crackand weave our stockin;
And there was mucklefun and jokin,
Ye need nadoubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amangthe rest,
Aboonthem a’ it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl’dthe heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard oughtdescrib’d sae weel,
What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark?”
They tauldme ’twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It patme fidgin-fainto hear’t,
An’ sae about him there I speir’t;
Then a’ that kent him round declar’d
He had ingine;
That naneexcell’d it, few camnear’t,
It was saefine:

That, set him to a pint of ale,
An’ either douceor 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’ swooranaith,
Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith,
Or die a cadgerpownie’s death,
At some dyke-back,
A pintan’ gill I’d gie them baith,
To hear your crack.

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
Amaistas soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jinglefell;
Tho’ rude an’ rough-
Yet crooningto 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 naepretence;
Yet, what the matter?
Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cocktheir nose,
And say, “How can you e’erpropose,
You wha kenhardly verse frae prose,
To maka 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 taenup spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A seto’ dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gangin stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus
Bydint o’ Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire,
That’s a’the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge thro’ duban’ mire
At pleughor cart,
My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunko’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s the bauldan’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be leareneughfor me,
If I could getit.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fu’,
I’senoinsist:
But, gifye want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.

I winnablawabout mysel,
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, an’ folk that wish me well,
They sometimes rooseme;
Tho’ I maunown, as mony still
As far abuse me.

There’s ae weefautthey whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgieme!
For mony a plackthey wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe some itherthing they gie me,
They weelcan spare.

But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We’se gieaenight’s discharge to care,
If we forgather;
An’ haea swapo’rhymin-ware
Wi’ aneanither.

The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsenhim wi’reekin water;
Synewe’ll sit down an’ takour whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’sebe acquainted better
Before we part.

Awaye selfish, war’ly race,
Whathink that havins, sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’friendship should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinnalike to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.

Butye 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 langepistle,
As my auldpen’s worn to the gristle,
Twalines fraeyou wadgarme fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing orwhistle,
Your friend and servant.