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, awawe canter,
Up hill, down brae, tillsome mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the scathean’ banter
We’re forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! halebe your fiddle!
Langmay your elbuckjinkand diddle,
To cheer you throughthe weary widdle
O’ this wild warl’.
Until you on a crummockdriddle,
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’ cankriecare.
May still your life from day to day,
Nae “lente largo” in the play,
But “allegretto forte” gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauldstrathspey-
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 orfool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortithas disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords jar a base
To a’their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I’th’ itherwarl’, if there’s anither,
An’ that there is, I’ve little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I’sene’er bidbetter.
We’ve faults and failings-granted clearly,
We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve’s boniesquad, priests wytethem 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
Haeput me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrifewinkers,
Wi’girnin’spite.
By by yonmoon!-and that’s high swearin-
An’ every star within my hearin!
An’ by her eenwhawas a dear ane!
I’ll ne’er forget;
I hope to giethe jads a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I’ll seek my pursiewhare I tintit;
Anceto the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraiphour
Bysome sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted;
Then vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; noto rooseyou,
Ye may be proud,
That sica couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mairat present can I measure,
An’trowthmy rhymin ware’s naetreasure;
Butwhen 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.