For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, "The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he!"
O mandate, glorious and divine! The followers o' the ragged 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 nievfu' 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!
[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]
Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin' wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack.
I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like ony clark.
It's now twa month that I'm your debtor For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our noble sel's; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills, They are the muses.
Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break.