Classic Poem

DEAR RAMSAY ,

When I receiv'd thy kind epistle,
It made me dance, and sing, and whistle;
O sic a fike and sic a fistle
I had about it!
That e'er was knight of the Scots thistle
Sae fain, I doubted.

The bonny lines therein thou sent me,
How to the nines they did content me;
Tho', Sir, sae high to compliment me
Ye might deferr'd,
For had ye but haff well a kent me,
Some less wad ser'd.

With joyfu' heart beyond expression,
They 're safely now in my possession:
O gin I were a winter session
Near by thy lodging,
I 'd close attend thy new profession,
Without e'er budging.

In even down earnest, there 's but few
To vie with Ramsay dare avow,
In verse, for to gi'e thee thy due,
And without fleetching,
Thou 's better at that trade, I trow,
Than some 's at preaching

For my part, till I 'm better lear't,
To troke with thee I 'd best forbear 't,
For an' the fouk of Ed'nburgh hear 't,
They 'll ca' me daft;
I 'm unco' iri, and dirt feart
I mak' wrang waft.

Thy verses nice as ever nicket,
Made me as canty as a cricket;
I ergh to reply, lest I stick it;
S yne like a coof
I look, or ane whose pouch is pickit
As bare 's my loof.

Heh winsom! how thy saft sweet style,
And bonny auld words gar me smile;
Thou 's travell'd sure mony a mile
Wi' charge and cost,
To learn them thus keep rank and file,
And ken their post.

For I man tell thee, honest Allie,
(I use the freedom so to call thee,)
I think them a' sae braw and walie,
And in sic order,
I wad nae care to be thy vallie,
Or thy recorder.

Has thou with Rosicrucians wandert,
Or thro' some doncie desart dandert?
That with thy magic, town and landart,
For ought I see,
Man a' come truckle to thy standart
Of poetrie.

Do not mistake me, dearest heart,
As if I charg'd thee with black art;
'Tis thy good genius, still alert,
That does inspire
Thee with ilk thing that 's quick and smart
To thy desire.

E'en mony a bonny nacky tale
Bra to fit o'er a pint of ale:
For fifty guineas I 'll find bail
Against a bodle,
That I wad quat ilk day a meal
For sic a nodle.

And on condition I were as gabby
As either thee or honest Habby,
That I lin'd a' thy claes wi' tabby,
Or velvet plush,
And then thou 'd be sae far frae shabby,
Thou 'd look right sprush.

What tho' young empty airy sparks
May have their critical remarks
On thir my blyth diverting warks;
'Tis sma presumption,
To say they 're but unlearned clarks,
And want the gumption.

Let coxcomb critics get a tether
To tye up a' their lang loose leather;
If they and I chance to forgether,
The tane may rue it;
For an they winna had their blether,
They's get a flewet.

To learn them for to peep and pry
In secret drolls 'twixt thee and I,
Pray dip thy pen in wrath, and cry,
And ca' them skellums;
I 'm sure thou needs set little by
To bide their bellums.

Wi' writing I 'm sae bleirt and doited,
That when I raise, in troth I stoited;
I thought I shou'd turn capernoited,
For wi' a gird,
Upon my bum I fairly cloited
On the cald eard;

Which did oblige a little dumple
Upon my doup, close by my rumple:
But had ye seen how I did trumple,
Ye 'd split your side,
Wi' mony a lang and weary wimple,
Like trough of Clyde.