WRITTEN AND SENT TO THAT CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BARD A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH.

Sin' sense and reason baith unite
In ye, to gi'e mankind delight,
Forgi' me gin I bauldly write
In lowly strain:
O man, could I like ye indite,
'Twould mak' me fain!

Thought I, I'se try my pen at rhyme,
Gif I can hit o' words to chyme;
Sin poetizin is nae crime,
I'll do my best:
In cam' the Muse--'twas just in time--
To do the rest.

In naming Burns, I saw her smile;
Says she, 'I've known him a lang while,
'And ane sae free frae artfu' guile,
'Sae guid and true,
'And sic a bard in a' this isle
'I ne'er yet knew.

'But Rab has thrown his pen awa',
'Sae I ha'e nought to do ava';
'For here the callons great and sma'
'Ne'er leuk at me:
'Daft fallows truly, ane and a',
'Compar'd wi' he.

'Gin 'twere no' for my Rabbie's sake,
'Far frae the north my course I'd take;
'But frae dame Nature's child, alake!
'I downa gang,
'Whase canny verse o' burn and brake
'Has pleas'd me lang.

'For a' the live--lang simmer day
'Wi' him, and nane but him, I'd gae:
'We wander'd aft o'er birk and brae
'In ithers' spite,
'Where meadows green and mountains grey
'Gied him delight.

'Of a' my wooers Rab's the mense;
'Sae tak' your pen and try for ance
'To praise his manly worth and sense:
'Ye may wi' truth,
'For flattery aft--times gi'es offence
'To age or youth.'

She turn'd her roun', but said nae mair;
Awa' she flew I ken no' where,
Unless she sought the banks of Ayr
To wail for ye;
For, O! she ca's but unco rare
O' folk like me.

Wow man, auld Scotia mourns for ye,
And Scotia unco sad may be,
Sin Burns, wha sang wi' merry glee,
Now quats his quill:
Rise, rise, let frien's and faes a' see
Ye're Rabbie still.

As on some shaggy mountain's brow,
The stately oak wi' outstretch'd bough
Aye meets the passing wand'rer's view
Afore the rest;
E'en sae 'mang Coila's sons, I trow,
Thou stan'st confess'd.

Prince o' the mirthfu' rhymin thrang,
Wha roam her hills and dales amang;
Whether keen satire, tale, or sang,
Flows frae thy pen,
Thou gi'est some lordly chiels a bang,
Wha are but men.

Nae mair auld Allan gi'es delight,
Nae mair beguiles the lang mirk night,
Nor Fergusson, wha tried wi' might
Dull Care to kill,
Sin' thou hast gain'd the tapmost height
O' that fam'd hill.

How many climb, but climb in vain,
By critics aye pou'd down again;
But where is he dare blame the strain
O' Nature's bard,
Wha, matchless, o'er the lave doth reign,
Without reward?

Your name baith young and auld may bless,
Sure nane but asses can do less;
For frae the Thames to Tweed, I guess,
There's nane ava'
Wha read your rhymes, but maun confess
Ye beat them a'.

This warld's a lottery, Rab, we find,
And Fortune's aft to Virtue blind,
To Merit fause, to dunces kind--
Ye ken it's true;
For, gin the dame true worth wou'd mind,
She'd smile on you.

Yet tho' the hizzie's whyles severe,
E'en let her frown, we need no' fear:
Whilst I've a frien', whase smiles can cheer
Me when I'm ill,
I'll laugh at fools wi' a' their geer,
Wha're wretched still.

Base jade, she's gi'en me mony a hitch,
I hate her as ane sud a witch,
And care no' tho'f I be no' rich
A single strae,
For she's a saucy, fickle ---,
Like mony mae.

E'en let her fly this cot o' mine,
And wait upo' the lordling fine;
Tho' off rich dainties he may dine,
And dishes rare,
The star that on his breast doth shine
Hides mickle care.

Now tint me, Rab, I'm thinkin soon
To gi'e a ca' in Dumfries town:
Aiblins some bonie afternoon
We twa may meet;
If sae, we'se spen' a white half--crown--
Wow, 'twill be sweet!

Wi' ye I lang to ha'e a rout;
We'se pass ae night in mirth nae doubt;
Haith man, we'se clink the stoup about,
And sing and play,
And keep auld Time, the blinker, out
Till peep o' day.

Sin' life's a journey unco short,
And poor folks are but Fortune's sport,
Wi' cheerfu' sauls let's aye resort,
As lang's we dow;
For they wha're sad maun suffer for't,
Right sair I trow.

The greatest bliss thro' life we know,
Is when the tears o' pity flow
Frae some kind frien' wha shares our woe
To mak' it less;
Syne shiel's us frae an angry foe,
And black distrees.

Yon peasant in his strae--roof'd cot,
Whase honest heart seems free frae spot,
Blest wi' his frien', he envies not
The rich and great;
Nor wou'd he change his humble lot
For pride and state.

What signifies the gaudy crew,
Wha Ruin's gilded paths pursue;
Gi'e me the wale o' men a few,
Wi' sense guid share,
Right honest hearts, baith leal and true,
I ask nae mair.

May ye, dear Rab, ne'er want a friend,
Nor to chill Poverty e'er bend,
But ha'e enough to gi'e and lend
For a' your life,
And aye be happy to your end,
And free frae strife.

May Care, that canker, far off keep,
And Peace watch o'er ye while ye sleep;
Syne, when in years ye 'gin to creep,
I hope ye'll say,
Misfortune ne'er ance made ye weep,
Nor yet leuk wae.

But had I sud ha' done lang syne,
Excuse this hodge--podge rhyme o' mine;
And, Rab, gin ye but sen' a line,
I vow most fervent,
I'll thank ye for't, and tak' it kine,
Your humble servant.