Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish B（2 / 5）

  that nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
  it was sae fine:
  that, set him to a pint of ale,
  an' either douce or merry tale,
  or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
  or witty catches—
  'tween inverness an' teviotdale,
  he had few matches.
  then up i gat, an' swoor an aith,
  tho' i should pawn my pleugh an' graith,
  or die a cadger pownie's death,
  at some dyke-back,
  a pint an' gill i'd gie them baith,
  to hear your crack.
  but, first an' foremost, i should tell,
  amaist as soon as i could spell,
  i to the crambo-jingle fell;
  tho' rude an' rough—
  yet crooning to a body's sel'
  does weel eneugh.
  i am nae poet, in a sense;
  but just a rhymer like by chance,
  an' hae to learning nae pretence;
  yet, what the matter?
  whene'er my muse does on me glance,
  i jingle at her.
  your critic-folk may cock their nose,
  and say, “how can you e'er propose,
  you wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
  to mak a sang?” ↑返回顶部↑