And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me

To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

An sets me a’ on flame!

O, all ye Pow’rs who rule above!

O Thou whose very self art love!

Thou know’st my word sincere!

The life-blood streaming thro my heart

Or my more dear immortal part.

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief,

And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-seeing,

O, hear my fervent pray’r!

Still take her, and make her

Thy most peculiar care!

All hail! ye tender feelings dear!

The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world’s thorny ways

Had number’d out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend

In every care and ill

And oft a more endearing band,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with,

My Davie, or my Jean!

O, how that Name inspires my style!

The words come skelpin rank an file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phœbus an the famous Nine,

Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he’s fairly het;

And then he’ll hilch, an stilt, and jimp,

And rin an unco fit;

But least then the beast then,

Should rue this hasty ride,

I’ll light now, and dight now

His sweaty, wizen’d hide.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK

While briers an woodbines budding green,

An paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,

An morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom, in an unknown frien’

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin,

To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;

And there was muckle fun and jokin,

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin,

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,

That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thirl’d the heart-strings thro the breast,

A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,

What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;

Thought I, ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie’s wark?’

They tald me twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,

An sae about him there I spier’t;

Then a’ that kent him round declar’d

He had ingine;

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 and 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,