Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city-gent, Behint a kist to lie an' sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent, An' muckle wame, In some bit Brugh to represent A Baillie's name? Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, While But lordly stalks, As by he walks? caps an' bonnets aff are taen, 'O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 'Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 'Thro' Scotland wide; 'Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!' Were this the charter of our state, 'On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate We learn our creed. 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 'And none but he.' O Mandate, glorious and divine! In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night! Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul, May in some future carcase howl, The forest's fright; May shun the light. Or in some day-detesting owl Then may *****K and B**** arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year! *"The followers o' the ragged Nine: "-This line stands so in all the author's editions; but is there no mistake? Have not the words followers and ragged got unobservedly transposed in passing through the press? The followers of the Muses are proverbially "ragged," but who ever heard of those nine beautiful daughters of Jupiter being arrayed in rags. Hamilton Paul, Allan Cunningham, and Motherwell concur in adopting the following alteration : "The ragged followers of the Nine." In the poet's common-place book this poem is recorded under date "June, 1785. " The 10th verse does not appear there, and in the closing stanza the first line stands thus:-"Lapraik and Burness then may rise." When he came to publish the poem a year thereafter, he altered its construction, in order to fit the contracted pronunciation of his name then adopted. [William Simpson, to whom this beautiful Epistle is addressed, was, at the date thereof, Schoolmaster of Ochiltree. He seems, from talent as well as education, to have better merited the designation, "my rhyme-composing brither," than either Sillar or Lapraik, although he was never, like them, induced to give his effusions to the public. He removed in 1788 to Cumnock, where he discharged the duties of parish teacher with great efficiency, and died in 1815, much respected. Cunningham, Hogg, and other editors, in making reference to "WS- Ochiltree," have confounded him with his brother Patrick, who succeeded him as teacher there in 1788, and was still alive in 1844. It has been often remarked that Burns was partial to schoolmasters: this is plainly evinced in his loving intercourse with Murdoch, Nicol, Masterton, Cruickshanks, Clarke, and James Gray. "Indeed," remarks Cunningham, "he was social and friendly with all who had any claim to education and intelligence, with the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Hornbook." The following passage from his early Scrap-Book, entered under August, 1784 -some nine months prior to the date of this Epistle, seems to have been the poet's prose outline of the subject matter of the poem :-" However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, woods, rivers, haughs, &c., immortalised in such celebrated performances, while my dear native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cuninghame, famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants-a country where civil, and particularly religious liberty, have ever found their first support, and their last asylum-a country, the birthplace of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish history, particularly actions of the glorious WALLACE, the saviour of his country; yet we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source and winding sweep of Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy; but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be; though no young poet's, nor young soldier's heart, ever beat more fondly for fame than mine."] I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie, Your flatterin strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, On my poor Musie; I scarce excuse ye. H My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (0 Ferguson! thy glorious parts, The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!) Auld COILA, now, may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten Bardies o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkend-of isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Aire an' Doon, Naebody sings. Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; But Willie set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld COILA'S plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious WALLACE Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies. At WALLACE' name, what Scottish blood, But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By WALLACE' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious dy'd! O sweet are COILA'S haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O NATURE! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the Summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light, Or Winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night ! |