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, 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.