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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