Epistle To William Simson（2 / 2）

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.

at wallace' name, what scottish blood

but boils up in a spring-tide flood!

oft have our fearless fathers strode

by wallace' side,

still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

or glorious died!

o, sweet are coila's haughs an' woods,

when lintwhites chant amang the buds,

and jinkin hares, in amorous whids,

their loves enjoy;

while thro' the braes the cushat croods

with wailfu' cry!

ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,

when winds rave thro' the naked tree;

or frosts on hills of ochiltree

are hoary gray;

or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

dark'ning the day!

o nature! a' thy shews an' forms

to feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

whether the summer kindly warms,

wi' life an light;

or winter howls, in gusty storms,

the lang, dark night!

the muse, nae poet ever fand her,

till by himsel he learn'd to wander,

adown some trottin burn's meander,

an' no think lang:

o sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder

a heart-felt sang!

the war'ly race may drudge an' drive,

hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive;

let me fair nature's face descrive,

and i, wi' pleasure,

shall let the busy, grumbling hive

bum owre their treasure.

fareweel, “my rhyme-composing” brither!

we've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:

now let us lay our heads thegither,

in love fraternal:

may envy wallop in a tether,

black fiend, infernal!

while highlandmen hate tools an' taxes;

while moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies;

while terra firma, on her axis,

diurnal turns;

count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

in robert burns.