EPISTLE, TO J. B*CH*N*N. AUG. 1806. __ MY gude auld friend on Locher-banks, Your kindness claims my warmest
thanks, Yet, thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase, O’ little value now a-days: Indeed, it’s hardly worth the
heeding, Unless to shaw
a body’s breeding. Yet mony a poor, doil’t servile
body, Will scrimp his stomach o’ its
crowdy, An’ pride to rin a great man’s
erran's, An’ feed on smiles an’ sour
cheese-parin’s, An’ think himsel’ nae sma’
sheep-shank, Rich, laden wi’ his Lordship’s thank. The sodger too, for a’ his troubles, His hungry wames, an’ bludy hubbles, His agues, rheumatisms, cramps, Receiv’d in plashy
winter-camps, O blest reward! at last he gains His sov’reign’s thanks for a’ his pains. ’Twas wisely said by “Queer Sir
John,” That “Honour wudna buy a scone.” Sae yin, of thanks, may get a million, Yet live as poor’s a porter’s scullion: Indeed they’re just (But, beg
your pardon,) Priest-blessing like,
no’ worth a fardin’.* Thus, tho’ ’mang first o’ friends I rank you, ’Twere but sma’ compliment to thank you; Yet, lest you think me here
ungratefu’, Of hatefu’ names, a name most
hatefu’, The neist time that ye come to
town, By a’ the pow’rs beneath the
moon! I’ll treat you wi’ a Highland gill, Tho’ it should be my hindmaist
fill. Tho’ in the bustling town, the Muse Has gather’d little feck o’ News, —’Tis said, the court of Antiquarians, Has split on some great point
o’ variance, For yin has got, in gouden box, The spenctacles of auld John Knox; *Alluding to the Anecdote of
the sailor, who would not accept of the priest’s blessing, alleging that if it
was worth one farthing he would not part with it. A second proudly thanks his
fate wi’ The hindmaist Pen that Nelson wrate wi’; A third yin owns an antique
rare, A Saep-brush made o’ Mermaid’s
hair! But niggard wights they a’
refuse ’em, These precious relics to the Museum, Whilk selfish, mean, unlegal
deeds, hae set them a’ at loggerheads. ’Tis also said, our noble Prince, Has play’d the wee-saul’t loon
for ance, Has gien his bonny wife the
fling, Yet gars her wear Hans Carvel's ring, But a’ sic clish-clash cracks I’ll lea’ To yon sculdudry Committee. Sure Taste refin’d and
Public spirit, Stand next to genius in merit; I’m proud to see your warm
regard, For Caledonia’s dearest Bard: Of him ye’ve got sae gude a Painting, * That nocht but real life is
wanting, I think, yon rising genius, TANNOCK, May gain a niche in fame’s
heigh winnock, There with auld Rubens, plac’d sublime, Look down upon the wreck of
time. ____ *PORTRAIT of R. Burns, painted by Mr. J. Tannock, for the Kilbarchan BURNS’ ANNIVERSARY SOCIETY. I ne’er, as yet, hae found a Patron, For scorn be
till’t! I hate a’ flatt’rin’, Besides, I never had an itchin’ To slake about a great man’s
kitchin’, An’ like a spaniel lick his
dishes, An’ come, an’ gang just to his
wishes-- Yet studious to give worth its
due, I pride to praise the like of
you, Gude chields, replete wi’
sterling sense, Wha wi’ their worth mak’ nae pretence. Ay—there’s my worthy friend, M* M***, I’ll lo’e him till my latest
breath, An’ like a traitor-wretch be
hang’d, Before I’d hear that fallow wrang’d; His every action shows his
mind, Humanely noble, bright, an’
kind, An’ here’s the worth o’t,
doubly rootet, He never speaks ae word about it! —My compliments an’ warm
gude-will, To Misters S*mp**, B*rr,
an’ L**e; Wad rav’ning time but spare my
pges, They’d tel the warl in
after-ages, That it, to me, was wealth an’
fame, To be esteeme’d by chields like
them. O TIME, thou all-devouring Bear! Hear—“List, O list” my ardent
pray’r! I crave thee here, on bended
knee, To let my dear lov’d Pages be! O tak’ thy sharp-nail’d,
nibbling Elfs, To musty scrolls on college
shelfs! There, with dry Treatises on Law, Feast, cram, and gorge thy
greedy maw: But grant, amidst thy thin-sown
mercies, To spare, O spare my darling
Verses! Could I but up thro’ Hist’ry wimple, Wi’ Robertson, or sage Dalrymple; Or had I ha’f the pith an’ lear Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair! I aiblins then might tell some
story, Wad shaw the MUSE in bleezin’ glory; But scrimp’t o’ time,* an’ lear scholastic, My lines limp on in Hudibrastic, Till hope, grown sick, flings
down her claim, An’ draps her dreams o’ future fame. --Yes,
O waesuck! should I be vaunty? My Muse is just a Rosinante, She stammers forth, wi’
hilchin’ canter, Sagely intent on strange
adventure, Yet, sae uncouth in garb an’
feature, She seems the FOOL of Literature. But lest the Critic’s birsie
besom, Soop
aff this cant of Egotism, “Time”—Scottish idiom, for leisure I’ll sidelins hint--na, bauldly tell, I whyles think something o’
mysel’: Else, wha the deil! wad fash to scribble, Expectin’ scorn for a’ his
trouble? Yet, lest dear self should be mista’en, I’ll fling the bridle o'er the
mane, For after a’, I fear this
jargon, Is but a Willie G—-- bargain. |