EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON. Is Allan risen frae the dead, Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed, To grace the thistle? Na:-Fergusson's come in his stead. In troth, my callant! I'm sae fain And words sae bonny, Nae Southern loun dare you disdain, Or cry, "Fy on ye!" Whae'er has at auld Reikie been, And King's birth-days' exploits has seen, EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON. 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! And ilka dainty That grows or feeds upon her field, And whisky plenty. But ye, perhaps, thirst mair for fame And then, ye will be sair to blame EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON. Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle, Whan we forgather round the ingle, We'll chaunt your praise. Whan I again Auld Reikie see, And can forgather, lad! wi' thee, Then we, wi' muckle mirth and glee, Shall tak a gill, And o' your caller oysters we Shall eat our fill. If sic a thing shall you betide, To Berwick town to tak a ride, I'se tak ye up Tweed's bonny side, Before ye settle, And shaw you there the fisher's pride, A sa'mon kettle. ་་་་་་་་ ་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་ཨ་ EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON. There lads and lasses do conveen To feast and dance upo' the green; As will confound ye, And gar you glowr out baith your een To see sae mony bosoms bare, And sic huge puddings i' their hair, And some o' 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, Een that I might my wishes hint, That you'd writę mair: For sure your head-piece is a mint Whare wit's nae rare. |