Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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Second Epistle To J. Lapraik

       Table of Contents

      April 21, 1785

       While 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 СКАЧАТЬ