Is Allan risen frae the deid, Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed, And by the muses was decreed To grace the thistle? Na; Fergusson's cum in his steid To blaw the whistle. In troth, my callant, I'm sae fain To see your sonsy, canty strain, You write sic easy stile and plain, And words sae bonny, Nae suth'ron loun dare you disdain, Or cry @3fy on ye@1. Whae'er has at @3Auld Reikie@1 been, And king's birth-days exploits has seen, Maun own that ye hae gien a keen And true description; Nor say ye've at Parnassus been To form a fiction. Hale be your heart, ye canty chield! May ye ne'er want a gude warm bield, And sic gude cakes as Scotland yields, And ilka dainty That grows or feeds upon her fields, And whisky plenty. But ye, perhaps, thirst mair for fame Than a' the gude things I can name, And then ye will be sair to blame My gude intention: For that ye needna gae frae hame, Ye've sic pretension. Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle, And your auld words sae meetly mingle, 'Twill gar baith married fouk and single To roose your lays; When we forgether round the ingle, We'll chant your praise. When I again Auld Reikie see, And can forgether, lad, with thee, Then we wi muckle mirth and glee Shall tak a gill, And of your @3caller oysters@1 we Shall eat our fill. If sic a thing should you betide, To Berwick town to tak a ride, I'se tak ye up Tweed's bonnie side Before ye settle, And shew you there the fisher's pride, A sa'mon-kettle. There lads an' lasses do convene To feast an' dance upo' the green, An' there sic brav'ry may be seen As will confound ye, An' gar ye glowr out baith your een At a' around ye. To see sae mony bosoms bare, An' sic huge puddins i' their hair, An' some of them wi' naething mair Upo' their tete; Yea, some wi mutches that might scare Craws frae their meat. I ne'er appear'd before in print, But for your sake would fain be in't, E'en that I might my wishes hint That you'd write mair; For sure your head-piece is a mint Whar wit's nae rare. Sonse fa me, gif I hadna lure I could command ilk muse as sure, Than hae a charot at the door To wait upon me; Tho', poet-like, I'm but a poor Mid-Louthian Johnnie. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUILDING BLOCKS by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN THE CASTLE RUINS by WILLIAM BARNES A FISH STORY by HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS PRESENTIMENT by AMBROSE BIERCE HER CREED by SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO by ROBERT BURNS LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE by ROBERT BURNS |