Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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Epistle To William Simson

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      Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.—May, 1785

       I 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,

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