E T W S（1 / 3）

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!