EPISTLE, TO J. B*RR. Wherever he may be
found. MARCH, 1804. __ GUDE Pibrocharian,
jorum-jirger, Say, hae ye turn’d an Antib--r? Or lang-fac’d Presbyt--n El--r, Deep read in wiles o’
gath’rin’ siller? Or cauld splenetic solitair, Resolv’d to herd wi’ man nae mair? As to the second, I’ve nae fear for’t; For siller, faith! ye ne’er did care for’t, Unless to help a needful' body,
An’ get an antrin glass o’
toddy. But what the black mischief’s
come owr you; These three months I’ve been
spierin’ for you, Till e’en the muse, wi’ downright grievin’, Has worn her chafts as thin’s a
shavin’, Say, hae ye ta’en a tramp to
Lon'on, In Co wi’ worthy auld B*ch*n*n,* Wha mony a mile wud streek his
shanks, To hae a crack wi’ Josie Banks, Concerning “Shells, an’ birds, an' metals, Moths, spiders,
butterflies, an’ beetles.” For you, I think ye’ll cut a
figure, Wi'
king o’ Pipers, Malc. McGregor, An’ wi’
your clarion, flute, an’ fiddle, Will gar their southron
heart-strings diddle.
Or are ye through the kintra whiskin’, Accoutr’t wi’ the sock an’
buskin’, Thinkin’ to climb to wealth an’
fame, By adding ROSCIUS to your name? Frae thoughts o’ that, pray
keep abeigh! Ye’re far owr auld, an’ far owr heigh; Since in thir novel-huntin’
days, There’s nane but bairns can act our plays. At twal-year-auld, if ye had
tried it, I doubtna’ but ye might
succeedet; But full-grown boordly chields
like you, Quite
monst’rous man, ’twill never do! *A much respected Naturalist in
the west country. Or
are ye gane, as there are few sic’, For teachin’ o’ a band
o’ music? O’ hear auld Scotland’s fervent pray’rs! And teach her genuine native
airs; Whilk simply play’d, devoid of
art, Thrill through the senses to
the heart. Play, when ye’d arouse the Patriot’s saul, True Valour’s tune, “The garb of Gaul.” An’ when laid low in glory’s
bed, Lest, “Roslin castle,” soothe his shade. “The bonny bush aboon Traquair," It’s every accent breathes
despair; An’ “Ettrick Banks,” celestial strain! Mak’s simmer’s gloamin mair
serene; An’, O how sweet the plaintive
muse, Amang
“The broom o’ Cowdenknowes!” To hear the love-lorn swain complain, Lone, on “The braes o’ Balandine;” It e’en might melt the dortiest
she, That ever sklinted
scornfu’ e'e. When Beauty tries her vocal pow’rs Amang the green wood’s echoing
bow’rs, “The bonny birks of Invermay,” Might mend a seraphs
sweetest lay. Then, should grim care invest your castle, Just knock him down wi’ “Willie Wastle,” An’ rant blythe “Lumps o’ pudding” owr him, An for his dirge sing “Tullochgorum.” When Orpheus charm’d his wife frae h-ll, ’Twas nae Scotch tune he play’d
sae weel; Else had the worthy auld
wire-scraper Been keepet for his D—lship’s
piper. Or if ye’re turn’d a feather’d fop, Light dancing upon fashion’s
top, Wi’ lofty brow an’ selfish e'e, Despising low-clad dogs like me; Uncaring your contempt or
favour, Sweet butterfly, adieu forever! But, hold--I’m wrong to doubt your sense; For pride proceeds from
ignorance. If peace of mind lay in fine clothes, I’d be the first of flutt’ring Beaux, An’ strut as proud as ony
peacock, That ever craw’d on tap o’
hay-cock; An’ ere I’d know one vexing
thought, Get dollar-buttons on my coat, Wi’ a’ the lave o’ fulsome trash on, That constitutes a man o’
fashion. O, grant me this, kind
Providence; A moderate decent competence; Thou’lt see
me smile in independence, Above weak-saul’d
pride-born ascendence. But whether ye’re gane to teach the Whistle, Midst noise an’ rough
reg’mental bustle; Or gane to strut upon the stage, Smit wi’ the Mania o’ the age; Or Scotchman-like, hae tramp’t abreed, To yon big town far south the
Tweed; Or dourin’ in the hermit’s cell, Unblessing an’ unblest yoursel’-- In God’s name write!--tak up your pen, A’ how ye’re doin’ let me ken. Sae hoping, quickly your
epistle, Adieu! thou
genuine SON of SONG an’ WHISTLE. POSTSCRIPT We had a CONCERT here short syne, L--d man! the Music was divine, Baith plaintive sang, an merry Glee, In a’ the soul of
Harmony. When Sm**h and St****t leave
this earth, The gods, in token o’ their
worth, Will welcome them at heaven’s
portals, The brightest, truest, best o’
mortals; Apollo proud, as weel he may, Will walk on tip-toe a’ that
day; While a’ the Muses kindred
claim, Rememb’ring what they’ve done for them. |