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, 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!