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Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an'
growl, Their worthlefs neivefu' of a foul May in some future carcase howl,
The foreft's fright; Or in some day.detefting owl
May Thun the light.
Then may L*****k and B**** arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And fing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,
In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship’s ties
Each passing year!
W. S *
I GAT your letter, winfome Willie;
An' unco vain,
Your flatterin strain.
But l’se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
On my poor Mufie; Thoʻin sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,
I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name:
(O Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye Enbrugh Gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad ftow'd his pantry!
Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
(O fad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
But tune their lays,
Her weel-sung praise,
Nae Poet thought her worth his while,
Beside New Holland,
Ramsay an' famous Ferguson
Owre Scotland rings,
Th’ Illisus, Tiber, I bames, an' Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line!
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an'burnies shine
Up wi' the best.
We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,
Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Southron billies.