Andrew, at Whistleha', your ein
May lippen for me very sien,
For barley-scones my grinders grien,
They're special eating;
Wi' bizzin cogs that ream abien
Our thrapple weeting.
Till than may you had hale and fier,
That we to Maltman's browst may steer,
And ilka care and ilka fear
While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer
And crack and sing.
EDINBURGH, June 23d, 1773.
TO ROBERT] FERGUSSON.
AT twall a clock, ae Saturday,
Your letter came to Andrew Gray;
But weel a wat I canna' say
Nor can I tell ye,
How blyth I was a' that hale day,
Tho' you sud fell me.
The riddles they got leave to stand,
To them I wad na pit a hand,
Nor wad I split a single wand,
For twonty pund;
Nor to the cow, worth, make a band,
I was sae fond.
Ye say ye lang to wag a speen,
Wi' Andrew Gray your couthy frien';
Whilk gard me dance upo' the green,
Without a fiddle:
Your canty letter was the tien
That gard me diddle.
But fatfor did ye yon way blaw,
An' me sae fine and souple ca'?
I'm very shier, there's nane ava'
O' yon that's true;
There's nae ane stays i' Whistleha'
Can equal you.
Ye bade me too, at nature keek;
I wonder that ye yon way speak,
Gied fieth it's nae into the breek
O' Andrew Gray:
A fouishenless and silly leek,
Nae worth a strae.
Whan first I sey'd the riddle makin',
The splits they aften took a brakin',
And mony time pat me frae crackin';
Yet soon I grew,
That I, as clever's eel or maukin,
About them flew.
But Nature, lad, is nae for me,
For her my ein right canna' see,
I canna' touch her after thee,
Nor s'all I meddle;
Just jog on at the sauchen tree,
And mak' a riddle.
O' Whistledry I'm nae the laird,
For I o' a' thing am weel saird;
And tho' I say't, the fint a shaird,
A' here awa',
Has ought withint to be compar'd
Wi' Whistleha.
Whan ye come up to Whistleha',
A good fat wather hame I'll ca',
And a' the beastly bleed I'll draw,
'Afore he dee,
And gar Meg mak' him ready a'
For you and me.
Syne to the browster house we'll drive,
And drink till we be like to rive,
An' gin ye like, lad, we s'all strive
Wha's best at singin';
And keep our spirits a' alive
Wi' music ringin'.
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
And glowr at mony twa-legg'd creature,
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature?
Like country laird in city cleeding,
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion,
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit belles and beaus,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim ;
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither worm.
Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to make ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sel' beguile,
And ding awa' the vexing thought
Of hourly dwining into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brithers,
Black corbies dress'd in peacocks feathers; 1
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan ev'nin' spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she girns an' glowrs sae dowr
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
Like thee they scoug frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
1 The fable of the Crow and the borrowed feathers.
For they war' never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie,
Nor ever pried life's pining woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.
Poor butterfly! thy case I mourn,
To green kail-yeard and fruits return:
How cou'd you troke the mavis' note
For "penny pies all-piping hot?"
Can lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City-guard ?2
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell
The gowan or the spink excel.
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring,
What cabbage fald wad screen your wing?
Say, fluttering fairy! wer't thy hap
To light beneath braw Nany's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity lat you skaithless stay;
The furies glancing frae her ein
Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen,
That, wae for thee! far, far outvy
Her Paris artist's finest dye;
Then a' your bonny spraings wad fall,
An' you a worm be left to crawl.
To sic mishanter rins the laird
Wha quats his ha'-house an' kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport
Of Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
And heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care,
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