Classic Poem

ON RECEIVING THE FOREGOING .

Frae fertile fields where nae curs'd ethers creep,
To stang the herds that in rash busses sleep;
Frae where Saint Patrick's blessings freed the bogs
Frae taids, and asks, and ugly creeping frogs;
Welcome to me the sound of Starrat's pipe,
Welcome as westlen winds or berries ripe,
When speeling up the hill, the dog-days' heat
Gars a young thirsty shepherd pant and sweat:
Thus while I climb the muses' mount with care,
Sic friendly praises give refreshing air.
O! may the lasses loo thee for thy pains,
And may thou lang breathe healsome o'er the plains:
Lang mayst thou teach, with round and nooked lines,
Substantial skill, that 's worth rich siller mines;
To shaw how wheels can gang with greatest case,
And what kind barks sail smoothest o'er the seas;
How wind-mills should be made; and how they work
The thumper that tells hours upon the kirk;
How wedges rive the aik; how pullisees
Can lift on highest roofs the greatest trees,
Rug frae its roots the craig of Edinburgh castle,
As easily as I cou'd break my whistle;
What pleugh fits a wet soil, and whilk the dry;
And mony a thousand useful things forby.

I own 'tis cauld encouragement to sing,
When round ane's lugs the blatran hail-stanes ring;
But feckfu' folks can front the baldest wind,
And slunk thro' moors, and never fash their mind.
Aft have I wid thro' glens with chorking feet,
When neither plaid nor kelt cou'd fend the weet;
Yet blythly wald I bang out o'er the brae,
And stend o'er burns as light as ony rae,
Hoping the morn might prove a better day.
Then let 's to lairds and ladies leave the spleen,
While we can dance and whistle o'er the green.
Mankind's account of good and ill 's a jest,
Fancy 's the rudder, and content 's a feast.

Dear friend of mine! ye but o'er meikle reese
The lawly mints of my poor moorland muse,
Wha looks but blate, when even'd to ither twa,
That lull'd the deel, or bigg'd the Theban wa',
But trowth 'tis natural for us a' to wink
At our ain fauts, and praises frankly drink:
Fair fa' ye then, and may your flocks grow rife,
And may nae elf twin crummy of her life.

The sun shines sweetly, a' the lift looks blue,
O'er glens hing hov'ring clouds of rising dew
Maggy, the bonniest lass of a' our town,
Brent is her brow, her hair a curly brown,
I have a tryst with her, and man away,
Then ye 'll excuse me till anither day,
When I 've mair time; for shortly I 'm to sing
Some dainty sangs, that sall round Crochan ring.