Second Epistle To J. Lapraik(1/3)
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 lazy:
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;
come, 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'
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 lazy:
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;
come, 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'
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