second epistle to j. lapraik
april 21, 1785
while new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
an' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
this hour on e'enin's edge i take,
to own i'm debtor
to honest-hearted, auld lapraik,
for his kind letter.
forjesket sair, with weary legs,
rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,
or dealing thro' amang the naigs
their ten-hours' bite,
my awkart muse sair pleads and begs
i would na write.
the tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,
she's saft at best an' something la
quo' she, “ye ken we've been sae busy
this month an' mair,
that trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
an' something sair.”
her dowff excuses pat me mad;
“conscience,” says i, “ye thowless jade!
i'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,
this vera night;
so dinna ye affront your trade,
but rhyme it right.
“shall bauld lapraik, the king o' hearts,
tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
roose you sae weel for your deserts,
in terms sae friendly;
yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts
an' thank him kindly?”
sae i gat paper in a blink,
an' down gaed stumpie in the ink:
"h i, “before i sleep a wink,
i vow i'll close it;
an' if ye winna mak it clink,
by jove, i'll prose it!”
sae i've begun to scrawl, but whether
in rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;
or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
let time mak proof;
but i shall scribble down some blether
just clean aff-loof.
my worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;
 e, kittle up your moorland harp
wi' gleesome touch!
ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp;
she's but a bitch.
she 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,
sin' i could striddle owre a rig;
but, by the lord, tho' i should beg
wi' lyart pow,
i'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,