Epistle from Mr. William Starrat
Ae windy day last owk, I 'll ne'er forget,
I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet;
On Crochan-buss my hirdsell took the lee,
As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my ee:
I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree side,
Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my plaid.
Right cozylie was set to ease my stumps,
Well hap'd with bountith hose and twa-sol'd pumps;
Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew'd my cood,
Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood;
My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew,
And lilted owre thir twa three lines to you.
Blaw up my heart-strings, ye Pierian quines,
That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes,
And learn'd the Latin lowns sic springs to play,
As gars the world gang dancing to this day.
In vain I seek your help; — 'tis bootless toil
With sic dead ase to muck a moorland soil;
Give me the muse that calls past ages back,
And shaws proud southern sangsters their mistak,
That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north,
And big Parnassus on the firth of Forth.
Thy breast alane this gladsome guest does fill
With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill,
And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher's tongue,
The blythest lilts that e'er my lugs heard sung.
Ramsay! for ever live; for wha like you,
In deathless sang, sic life-like pictures drew?
Not he wha whilome with his harp cou'd ca'
The dancing stanes to big the Theban wa';
Nor he (shame fa's fool head!) as stories tell,
Cou'd whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell;
Nor e'en the loyal brooker of bell trees,
Wha sang with hungry wame his want of fees;
Nor Habby's drone, cou'd with thy wind-pipe please:
When, in his well-ken'd clink, thou manes the death
Of Lucky Wood and Spence, (a matchless skaith
To Canigate,) sae gash thy gab-trees gang,
The carlines live for ever in thy sang.
Or when thy country bridal thou pursues,
To red the regal tulzie sets thy muse,
Thy soothing sangs bring canker'd carles to ease,
Some loups to Lutter's pipe, some birls babies.
But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath,
And sings poor Sandy's grief for Adie's death,
Or Matthew's loss, the lambs in concert mae,
And lanesome Ringwood yowls upon the brae.
Good God! what tuneless heart-strings wadna twang,
When love and beauty animate the sang?
Skies echo back, when thou blaws up thy reed
In Burchet's praise for clapping of thy head:
And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,
The wandought seems beneath thee on his throne.
Now, be my saul, and I have nought behin,
And well I wat fause swearing is a sin,
I 'd rather have thy pipe and twa three sheep,
Than a' the gowd the monarch's coffers keep.
Coly, look out, the few we have 's gane wrang,
This se'enteen owks I have not play'd sae lang;
Ha! Crummy, ha! trowth I man quat my sang;
But, lad, neist mirk we 'll to the haining drive,
When in fresh lizar they get spleet and rive:
The royts will rest, and gin ye like my play,
I 'll whistle to thee all the live-lang day.
I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet;
On Crochan-buss my hirdsell took the lee,
As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my ee:
I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree side,
Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my plaid.
Right cozylie was set to ease my stumps,
Well hap'd with bountith hose and twa-sol'd pumps;
Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew'd my cood,
Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood;
My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew,
And lilted owre thir twa three lines to you.
Blaw up my heart-strings, ye Pierian quines,
That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes,
And learn'd the Latin lowns sic springs to play,
As gars the world gang dancing to this day.
In vain I seek your help; — 'tis bootless toil
With sic dead ase to muck a moorland soil;
Give me the muse that calls past ages back,
And shaws proud southern sangsters their mistak,
That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north,
And big Parnassus on the firth of Forth.
Thy breast alane this gladsome guest does fill
With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill,
And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher's tongue,
The blythest lilts that e'er my lugs heard sung.
Ramsay! for ever live; for wha like you,
In deathless sang, sic life-like pictures drew?
Not he wha whilome with his harp cou'd ca'
The dancing stanes to big the Theban wa';
Nor he (shame fa's fool head!) as stories tell,
Cou'd whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell;
Nor e'en the loyal brooker of bell trees,
Wha sang with hungry wame his want of fees;
Nor Habby's drone, cou'd with thy wind-pipe please:
When, in his well-ken'd clink, thou manes the death
Of Lucky Wood and Spence, (a matchless skaith
To Canigate,) sae gash thy gab-trees gang,
The carlines live for ever in thy sang.
Or when thy country bridal thou pursues,
To red the regal tulzie sets thy muse,
Thy soothing sangs bring canker'd carles to ease,
Some loups to Lutter's pipe, some birls babies.
But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath,
And sings poor Sandy's grief for Adie's death,
Or Matthew's loss, the lambs in concert mae,
And lanesome Ringwood yowls upon the brae.
Good God! what tuneless heart-strings wadna twang,
When love and beauty animate the sang?
Skies echo back, when thou blaws up thy reed
In Burchet's praise for clapping of thy head:
And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,
The wandought seems beneath thee on his throne.
Now, be my saul, and I have nought behin,
And well I wat fause swearing is a sin,
I 'd rather have thy pipe and twa three sheep,
Than a' the gowd the monarch's coffers keep.
Coly, look out, the few we have 's gane wrang,
This se'enteen owks I have not play'd sae lang;
Ha! Crummy, ha! trowth I man quat my sang;
But, lad, neist mirk we 'll to the haining drive,
When in fresh lizar they get spleet and rive:
The royts will rest, and gin ye like my play,
I 'll whistle to thee all the live-lang day.
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