O mandate glorious and divine! The ragged followers o’ the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line Are dark as night! Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl, Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul May in some future carcase howl, The forest’s fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes an’ joys, In some mild sphere; Still closer knit in friendship’s ties, Each passing year! Epistle To William Simson Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.—May, 1785 I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, And unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie Your flatterin strain. But I’se believe ye kindly meant it: I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho’ in 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 Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E’nbrugh gentry! The tithe o’ what ye waste at cartes Wad stow’d his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lassies gie my heart a screed— As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain, She’s gotten poets o’ her ain; Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur’d style; She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings; While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon Naebody sings. Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, 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 sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells, Whare glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies.