epistle to willia sin
schoolaster, ochiltree—ay, 1785
i gat your letter, willie;
wi&039; gratefu&039; heart i thank you brawlie;
tho&039; i aun say&039;t, i wad be silly,
and un va,
should i believe, y ax billie
your ftter stra
but i&039;se believe ye kdly ant it:
i sud be ith to thk ye hted
ironic satire, sidels sklented
on y poor ie;
tho&039; sic phrais ters ye&039;ve penn&039;d it,
i scarce exce ye
y senses wad be a creel,
should i but dare a hope to speel
wi&039; aln, or wi&039; gilbertfield,
the braes o&039; fa;
or fergn, the writer-chiel,
a deathless na
(o fergn! thy glorio parts
ill suited w&039;s dry, ty arts!
y curse upon your whunstane hearts,
ye e&039;nbrugh ntry!
the tithe o&039; what ye waste at cartes
wad stow&039;d his pantry!)
yet when a tale es i&039; y head,
or ssies gie y heart a screed—
as whiles they&039;re like to be y dead,
(o sad disease!)
i kittle up y rtic reed;
it gies ease
auld i now ay fid fu&039; fa,
she&039;s gotten poets o&039; her a;
chiels wha their chanters na ha,
but tune their ys,
till echoes a&039; reund aga
her weel-sung praise
nae poet thought her worth his while,
to set her na asur&039;d style;
she y like unkenn&039;d-of-isle
beside new holnd,
or whare wild-etg oceans boil
beuth aln
rasay an&039; fao fergn
gied forth an&039; tay a lift aboon;
yarrow an&039; eed, to onie a tune,
owre stnd rgs;
while ir, gar, ayr, an&039; doon
naebody sgs
th&039; illiss, tiber, thas, an&039; see,
glide sweet onie a tunefu&039; le:
but willie, set your fit to e,
an&039; ck your crest;
we&039;ll gar our streas an&039; burnies she
up wi&039; the best!
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