Epistle To Davie,A Brother Poet January While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,An'bar the doors wi'driving snaw,An'hing us owre the ingle,I set me down to pass the time,An'spin a verse or twa o'rhyme,In hamely,westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,Ben to the chimla lug,I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,That live sae bien an'snug:
I tent less,and want less Their roomy fire-side;But hanker,and canker,To see their cursed pride.
It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep,at times,frae being sour,To see how things are shar'd;How best o'chiels are whiles in want,While coofs on countless thousands rant,And ken na how to wair't;But,Davie,lad,ne'er fash your head,Tho'we hae little gear;We're fit to win our daily bread,As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na,nor fear na,"^1
Auld age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't,the warst o't Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,When banes are craz'd,and bluid is thin,Is doubtless,great distress!
[Footnote 1:Ramsay.-R.B.]
Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then,sometimes,we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,However Fortune kick the ba',Has aye some cause to smile;An'mind still,you'll find still,A comfort this nae sma';Nae mair then we'll care then,Nae farther can we fa'.
What tho',like commoners of air,We wander out,we know not where,But either house or hal',Yet nature's charms,the hills and woods,The sweeping vales,and foaming floods,Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,And blackbirds whistle clear,With honest joy our hearts will bound,To see the coming year:
On braes when we please,then,We'll sit an'sowth a tune;Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,An'sing't when we hae done.
It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,To purchase peace and rest:
It's no in makin'muckle,mair;
It's no in books,it's no in lear,To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat An'centre in the breast,We may be wise,or rich,or great,But never can be blest;Nae treasures,nor pleasures Could make us happy lang;The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang.
Think ye,that sic as you and I,Wha drudge an'drive thro'wet and dry,Wi'never-ceasing toil;Think ye,are we less blest than they,Wha scarcely tent us in their way,As hardly worth their while?
Alas!how aft in haughty mood,God's creatures they oppress!
Or else,neglecting a'that's guid,They riot in excess!
Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell;Esteeming and deeming It's a'an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu'acquiesce,Nor make our scanty pleasures less,By pining at our state:
And,even should misfortunes come,I,here wha sit,hae met wi'some-An's thankfu'for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel';
They make us see the naked truth,The real guid and ill:
Tho'losses an'crosses Be lessons right severe,There's wit there,ye'll get there,Ye'll find nae other where.
But tent me,Davie,ace o'hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,And flatt'ry I detest)This life has joys for you and I;
An'joys that riches ne'er could buy,An'joys the very best.
There's a'the pleasures o'the heart,The lover an'the frien';Ye hae your Meg,your dearest part,And I my darling Jean!
It warms me,it charms me,To mention but her name:
It heats me,it beets me,An'sets me a'on flame!
O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro'my heart,Or my more dear immortal part,Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest,Her dear idea brings relief,And solace to my breast.
Thou Being,All-seeing,O hear my fervent pray'r;Still take her,and make her Thy most peculiar care!
All hail!ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love,the friendly tear,The sympathetic glow!
Long since,this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days,Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,In ev'ry care and ill;And oft a more endearing band-
A tie more tender still.
It lightens,it brightens The tenebrific scene,To meet with,and greet with My Davie,or my Jean!
O,how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin,rank an'file,Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,As Phoebus an'the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,Till ance he's fairly het;And then he'll hilch,and stilt,an'jimp,And rin an unco fit:
But least then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride,I'll light now,and dight now His sweaty,wizen'd hide.
Holy Willie's Prayer "And send the godly in a pet to pray."-Pope.
Argument.
Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder,in the parish of Mauchline,and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering,which ends in tippling orthodoxy,and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion.In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline-a Mr.Gavin Hamilton-Holy Willie and his priest,Father Auld,after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr,came off but second best;owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr.Robert Aiken,Mr.Hamilton's counsel;but chiefly to Mr.Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county.On losing the process,the muse overheard him [Holy Willie]at his devotions,as follows:-O Thou,who in the heavens does dwell,Who,as it pleases best Thysel',Sends ane to heaven an'ten to hell,A'for Thy glory,And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore Thee!
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,When thousands Thou hast left in night,That I am here afore Thy sight,For gifts an'grace A burning and a shining light To a'this place.
What was I,or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation,I wha deserve most just damnation For broken laws,Five thousand years ere my creation,Thro'Adam's cause?
When frae my mither's womb I fell,Thou might hae plunged me in hell,To gnash my gums,to weep and wail,In burnin lakes,Where damned devils roar and yell,Chain'd to their stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,To show thy grace is great and ample;I'm here a pillar o'Thy temple,Strong as a rock,A guide,a buckler,and example,To a'Thy flock.
O Lord,Thou kens what zeal I bear,When drinkers drink,an'swearers swear,An'singin there,an'dancin here,Wi'great and sma';For I am keepit by Thy fear Free frae them a'.
But yet,O Lord!confess I must,At times I'm fash'd wi'fleshly lust:
An'sometimes,too,in wardly trust,Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,Defil'd wi'sin.
O Lord!yestreen,Thou kens,wi'Meg-
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,O!may't ne'er be a livin plague To my dishonour,An'I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.
Besides,I farther maun allow,Wi'Leezie's lass,three times I trow-But Lord,that Friday I was fou,When I cam near her;Or else,Thou kens,Thy servant true Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn,That he's sae gifted:
If sae,Thy han'maun e'en be borne,Until Thou lift it.
Lord,bless Thy chosen in this place,For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,An'blast their name,Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An'public shame.
Lord,mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts;
He drinks,an'swears,an'plays at cartes,Yet has sae mony takin arts,Wi'great and sma',Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.
An'when we chasten'd him therefor,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,An'set the warld in a roar O'laughing at us;-Curse Thou his basket and his store,Kail an'potatoes.
Lord,hear my earnest cry and pray'r,Against that Presbyt'ry o'Ayr;Thy strong right hand,Lord,make it bare Upo'their heads;Lord visit them,an'dinna spare,For their misdeeds.
O Lord,my God!that glib-tongu'd Aiken,My vera heart and flesh are quakin,To think how we stood sweatin',shakin,An'p-'d wi'dread,While he,wi'hingin lip an'snakin,Held up his head.
Lord,in Thy day o'vengeance try him,Lord,visit them wha did employ him,And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em,Nor hear their pray'r,But for Thy people's sake,destroy 'em,An'dinna spare.
But,Lord,remember me an'mine Wi'mercies temp'ral an'divine,That I for grace an'gear may shine,Excell'd by nane,And a'the glory shall be thine,Amen,Amen!
Epitaph On Holy Willie Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode;His saul has ta'en some other way,I fear,the left-hand road.
Stop!there he is,as sure's a gun,Poor,silly body,see him;Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,Observe wha's standing wi'him.
Your brunstane devilship,I see,Has got him there before ye;But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,Till ance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,For pity ye have nane;Justice,alas!has gi'en him o'er,And mercy's day is gane.
But hear me,Sir,deil as ye are,Look something to your credit;A coof like him wad stain your name,If it were kent ye did it.
Death and Doctor Hornbook A True Story Some books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,In holy rapture,A rousing whid at times to vend,And nail't wi'Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell,Is just as true's the Deil's in hell Or Dublin city:
That e'er he nearer comes oursel'
'S a muckle pity.
The clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou,but just had plenty;I stacher'd whiles,but yet too tent aye To free the ditches;An'hillocks,stanes,an'bushes,kenn'd eye Frae ghaists an'witches.
The rising moon began to glowre The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns,wi'a my pow'r,I set mysel';But whether she had three or four,I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,An'todlin down on Willie's mill,Setting my staff wi'a'my skill,To keep me sicker;Tho'leeward whiles,against my will,I took a bicker.
I there wi'Something did forgather,That pat me in an eerie swither;An'awfu'scythe,out-owre ae shouther,Clear-dangling,hang;A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay,large an'lang.
Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,The queerest shape that e'er I saw,For fient a wame it had ava;And then its shanks,They were as thin,as sharp an'sma'
As cheeks o'branks.
"Guid-een,"quo'I;"Friend!hae ye been mawin,When ither folk are busy sawin!"^1I seem'd to make a kind o'stan'
But naething spak;
At length,says I,"Friend!whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back?"
It spak right howe,-"My name is Death,But be na fley'd."-Quoth I,"Guid faith,Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;But tent me,billie;
I red ye weel,tak care o'skaith See,there's a gully!""Gudeman,"quo'he,"put up your whittle,I'm no designed to try its mettle;But if I did,I wad be kittle To be mislear'd;I wad na mind it,no that spittle Out-owre my beard.""Weel,weel!"says I,"a bargain be't;
Come,gie's your hand,an'sae we're gree't;We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat-
Come,gie's your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,At mony a house."^2[Footnote 1:This recontre happened in seed-time,1785.-R.B.]
[Footnote 2:An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.-R.B.]
"Ay,ay!"quo'he,an'shook his head,"It's e'en a lang,lang time indeed Sin'I began to nick the thread,An'choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,An'sae maun Death.
"Sax thousand years are near-hand fled Sin'I was to the butching bred,An'mony a scheme in vain's been laid,To stap or scar me;Till ane Hornbook's^3ta'en up the trade,And faith!he'll waur me.
"Ye ken Hornbook i'the clachan,Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi'Buchan^4And ither chaps,The weans haud out their fingers laughin,An'pouk my hips.
"See,here's a scythe,an'there's dart,They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;But Doctor Hornbook,wi'his art An'cursed skill,Has made them baith no worth a f-t,Damn'd haet they'll kill!
"'Twas but yestreen,nae farther gane,I threw a noble throw at ane;Wi'less,I'm sure,I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,It just play'd dirl on the bane,But did nae mair.
"Hornbook was by,wi'ready art,An'had sae fortify'd the part,[Footnote 3:This gentleman,Dr.Hornbook,is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula;but,by intuition and inspiration,is at once an apothecary,surgeon,and physician.-R.B.]
[Footnote 4:Burchan's Domestic Medicine.-R.B.]
That when I looked to my dart,It was sae blunt,Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt.
"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,I near-hand cowpit wi'my hurry,But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock;I might as weel hae tried a quarry O'hard whin rock.
"Ev'n them he canna get attended,Altho'their face he ne'er had kend it,Just-in a kail-blade,an'sent it,As soon's he smells 't,Baith their disease,and what will mend it,At once he tells 't.
"And then,a'doctor's saws an'whittles,Of a'dimensions,shapes,an'mettles,A'kind o'boxes,mugs,an'bottles,He's sure to hae;Their Latin names as fast he rattles as A B C.
"Calces o'fossils,earths,and trees;
True sal-marinum o'the seas;
The farina of beans an'pease,He has't in plenty;Aqua-fontis,what you please,He can content ye.
"Forbye some new,uncommon weapons,Urinus spiritus of capons;Or mite-horn shavings,filings,scrapings,Distill'd per se;Sal-alkali o'midge-tail clippings,And mony mae.""Waes me for Johnie Ged's^5Hole now,"
Quoth I,"if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,Sae white and bonie,Nae doubt they'll rive it wi'the plew;They'll ruin Johnie!"
The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,And says "Ye needna yoke the pleugh,Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,Tak ye nae fear:
They'll be trench'd wi'mony a sheugh,In twa-three year.
"Whare I kill'd ane,a fair strae-death,By loss o'blood or want of breath This night I'm free to tak my aith,That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i'their last claith,By drap an'pill.
"An honest wabster to his trade,Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,When it was sair;The wife slade cannie to her bed,But ne'er spak mair.
"A country laird had ta'en the batts,Or some curmurring in his guts,His only son for Hornbook sets,An'pays him well:
The lad,for twa guid gimmer-pets,Was laird himsel'.
"A bonie lass-ye kend her name-
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;
She trusts hersel',to hide the shame,In Hornbook's care;Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,To hide it there.
[Footnote 5:The grave-digger.-R.B.]
"That's just a swatch o'Hornbook's way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,Thus does he poison,kill,an'slay,An's weel paid for't;Yet stops me o'my lawfu'prey,Wi'his damn'd dirt:
"But,hark!I'll tell you of a plot,Tho'dinna ye be speakin o't;I'll nail the self-conceited sot,As dead's a herrin;Neist time we meet,I'll wad a groat,He gets his fairin!"But just as he began to tell,The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal',Which rais'd us baith:
I took the way that pleas'd mysel',And sae did Death.
Epistle To J.Lapraik,An Old Scottish Bard April 1,1785While briers an'woodbines budding green,An'paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,An'morning poussie whiddin seen,Inspire my muse,This freedom,in an unknown frien',I pray excuse.
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin,To ca'the crack and weave our stockin;And there was muckle fun and jokin,Ye need na doubt;At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about.
There was ae sang,amang the rest,Aboon them a'it pleas'd me best,That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife;It thirl'd the heart-strings thro'the breast,A'to the life.
I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,What gen'rous,manly bosoms feel;Thought I "Can this be Pope,or Steele,Or Beattie's wark?"They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,An'sae about him there I speir't;Then a'that kent him round declar'd He had ingine;That nane excell'd it,few cam near't,It was sae fine:
That,set him to a pint of ale,An'either douce or 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'swoor an aith,Tho'I should pawn my pleugh an'graith,Or die a cadger pownie's death,At some dyke-back,A pint an'gill I'd gie them baith,To hear your crack.
But,first an'foremost,I should tell,Amaist as soon as I could spell,I to the crambo-jingle fell;Tho'rude an'rough-
Yet crooning to 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 nae pretence;Yet,what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,And say,"How can you e'er propose,You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,To mak a 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 taen up spades and shools,Or knappin-hammers.
A set o'dull,conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks,and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An'syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o'Greek!
Gie me ae spark o'nature's fire,That's a'the learning I desire;Then tho'I drudge thro'dub an'mire At pleugh or cart,My muse,tho'hamely in attire,May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o'Allan's glee,Or Fergusson's the bauld an'slee,Or bright Lapraik's,my friend to be,If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,If I could get it.
Now,sir,if ye hae friends enow,Tho'real friends,I b'lieve,are few;Yet,if your catalogue be fu',I'se no insist:
But,gif ye want ae friend that's true,I'm on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,As ill I like my fauts to tell;But friends,an'folk that wish me well,They sometimes roose me;Tho'I maun own,as mony still As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me At dance or fair;Maybe some ither thing they gie me,They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race,or Mauchline Fair,I should be proud to meet you there;We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,If we forgather;An'hae a swap o'rhymin-ware Wi'ane anither.
The four-gill chap,we'se gar him clatter,An'kirsen him wi'reekin water;Syne we'll sit down an'tak our whitter,To cheer our heart;An'faith,we'se be acquainted better Before we part.
Awa ye selfish,war'ly race,Wha think that havins,sense,an'grace,Ev'n love an'friendship should give place To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,Nor hear your crack.
But ye 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 lang epistle,As my auld pen's worn to the gristle,Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,Who am,most fervent,While I can either sing or whistle,Your friend and servant.
Second Epistle To J.Lapraik April 21,1785While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake An'pownies reek in pleugh or braik,This hour on e'enin's edge I take,To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted,auld Lapraik,For his kind letter.
Forjesket sair,with weary legs,Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,Or dealing thro'amang the naigs Their ten-hours'bite,My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs I would na write.
The tapetless,ramfeezl'd hizzie,She's saft at best an'something lazy:
Quo'she,"Ye ken we've been sae busy This month an'mair,That trowth,my head is grown right dizzie,An'something sair."Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
"Conscience,"says I,"ye thowless jade!
I'll write,an'that a hearty blaud,This vera night;So dinna ye affront your trade,But rhyme it right.
"Shall bauld Lapraik,the king o'hearts,Tho'mankind were a pack o'cartes,Roose you sae weel for your deserts,In terms sae friendly;Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts An'thank him kindly?"Sae I gat paper in a blink,An'down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I,"Before I sleep a wink,I vow I'll close it;An'if ye winna mak it clink,By Jove,I'll prose it!"Sae I've begun to scrawl,but whether In rhyme,or prose,or baith thegither;Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,Let time mak proof;But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend,ne'er grudge an'carp,Tho'fortune use you hard an'sharp;Come,kittle up your moorland harp Wi'gleesome touch!
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
She's but a bitch.
She 's gien me mony a jirt an'fleg,Sin'I could striddle owre a rig;But,by the Lord,tho'I should beg Wi'lyart pow,I'll laugh an'sing,an'shake my leg,As lang's I dow!
Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer I've seen the bud upon 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 pursue-proud,big wi'cent.per cent.
An'muckle wame,In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name?
Or is't the paughty,feudal thane,Wi'ruffl'd sark an'glancing cane,Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,But lordly stalks;While caps and bonnets aff are taen,As by he walks?
"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 heaven,that's no the gate We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate ran,When first the human race began;"The social,friendly,honest man,Whate'er he be-'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,And none but he."O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o'the Nine,Poor,thoughtless devils!yet may shine 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;Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and Burns 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!
Epistle To William Simson Schoolmaster,Ochiltree.-May,1785I gat your letter,winsome Willie;
Wi'gratefu'heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho'I maun say't,I wad be silly,And unco vain,Should I believe,my coaxin billie Your flatterin strain.
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire,sidelins sklented On my poor Musie;Tho'in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,I scarce excuse ye.
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 Fergusson,the writer-chiel,A deathless name.
(O Fergusson!thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry,musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,Ye E'nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o'what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!)Yet when a tale comes i'my head,Or lassies gie my heart a screed-As whiles they're like to be my dead,(O sad disease!)I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu'fain,She's gotten poets 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 unkenn'd-of-isle Beside New Holland,Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an'famous Fergusson Gied Forth an'Tay a lift aboon;Yarrow an'Tweed,to monie a tune,Owre Scotland rings;While Irwin,Lugar,Ayr,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 and dells,Whare 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 died!
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 With wailfu'cry!
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!
