EPISTLE TO

MR ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Is Allan risen frae the dead,

Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,
And by the Muses was decreed

To grace the thistle?

Na:-Fergusson's come in his stead.
To blaw the whistle.

In troth, my callant! I'm sae fain
To read your sonsy, canty strain;
You write sic easy style, and plain,

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!
May ye ne'er want a gude warm bield,
And sic gude cakes as Scotland yield,

And ilka dainty

That

grows or

feeds upon her field,

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

EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle,
And your auld words sae meetly mingle,
'Twill gar baith married fock and single
To roose your lays:

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;
And there sic bravery may be seen,^.

As will confound ye,

And gar you glowr out baith your een
Ata' around ye.

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,
But, for your sake, wad fain be in't ;

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.

EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Sonse fa' me! gif I hadna lure,

I cou'd command ilk Muse as sure,

Than hae a chariot at the door,

To wait upo' me;