Classic Poem

Mossgiel, October 25th.

This wot all ye whom it concerns,
I, rhymer Rab, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne'er to be forgotten day!
Sae far I sprachl'd up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken Writers' feasts;
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly Priests;
(Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!)
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships o' the Quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!—stand out my shin!
A Lord—a Peer—an Earl's Son—
Up higher yet, my bonnet!
An' such a Lord—lang Scotch ell twa;
Our Peerage he looks o'er them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But, O! for Hogarth's magic pow'r,
To shew Sir Bardie's willyart glowr,
An' how he star'd an' stammer'd!
When goavan 's he'd been led wi' branks,
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

To meet good Stuart little pain is
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes,
Thinks I, they are but men!
But Burns, my Lord—Guid G-d! I doited!
My knees on ane anither knoited,
As faultering I gaed ben!

I sidling shelter'd in a neuk,
An' at his Lordship staw a leuk,
Like some portentous omen;
Except Good Sense, an' Social Glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) Modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The Gentle Pride, the Lordly State,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest Ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern,
One rank as well's another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care,
To meet wi' Noble, youthfu' Daer,
For he but meets a Brother.