epistle to j praik, an old sttish bard
april 1, 1785
while briers an&039; woodbes buddg green,
an&039; paitricks scraich loud at e&039;en,
an&039; orng posie whidd seen,
spire y e,
this freedo, an unknown frien&039;,
i pray exce
on fasten—e&039;en we had a rock,
to ca&039; the crack and weave our stock;
and there was uckle fun and jok,
ye need na doubt;
at length we had a hearty yok
at sang about
there was ae sang, aang the rest,
aboon the a&039; it pleas&039;d best,
that kd hband had addrest
to sweet wife;
it thirl&039;d the heart-strgs thro&039; the breast,
a&039; to the life
i&039;ve scarce heard ought describ&039;d sae weel,
what n&039;ro, anly bos feel;
thought i “can this be pope, or steele,
or beattie&039;s wark?”
they tauld &039;as an odd kd chiel
about uirkirk
it pat fidg-fa to hear&039;t,
an&039; sae about hi there i speir&039;t;
then a&039; that kent hi round decr&039;d
he had ge;
that nane excell&039;d it, few ca near&039;t,
it was sae fe:
that, set hi to a pt of ale,
an&039; either douce or rry tale,
or rhys an&039; sangs he&039;d ade hisel,
or witty catches—
&039;een verness an&039; teviotdale,
he had few atches
then up i gat, an&039; swoor an aith,
tho&039; i should pawn y pleugh an&039; graith,
or die a cadr pownie&039;s death,
at dyke-back,
a pt an&039; gill i&039;d gie the baith,
to hear your crack
but, first an&039; foreost, i should tell,
aaist as on as i uld spell,
i to the crabo-jgle fell;
tho&039; rude an&039; rough—
yet croong to a body&039;s sel&039;
does weel eneugh
i a nae poet, a sense;
but jt a rhyr like by chance,
an&039; hae to learng nae pretence;
yet, what t
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