by Robert Burns
Ev’n love an’ friendship should give place
To catch-the-plack! hunt for coin/money
I dinna like to see your face, do not
120 Nor hear your crack. conversation
But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
‘Each aid the others,’
125 Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle, old, stump of a quill
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, two, from, would make me tingle
130 Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing, or whissle, whistle
Your friend and servant.
The recipient of this epistle was John Lapraik (1727–1807) who was postmaster at Muirkirk when he received it after a life of fiscal mischance which had involved him in the Ayrshire Bank failure of 1773, so losing his farm at Dalfarn, and concluded with his imprisonment for debt in Ayr in 1785. Diverting himself with poetry in prison and observing Burns’s success, he published Poems on Several Occasions (1788). Inevitably sympathetic to a man whose fiscal record only slightly exceeded the misfortunes of his own family, Burns may have over-responded to the alleged Lapraik song, When I Upon Thy Bosom Lean, he heard sung at a rural gathering. It has been strongly suggested by J.L. Hempstead (BC, February, 1994, pp. 94–101) that this song, initially published in The Weekly Magazine, was plagiarised. Burns revised the song for inclusion in the S.M.M. and in his interleaved copy remarked that Lapraik was ‘a worthy, facetious old fellow’ who ‘often told me that he composed (the song) one day when his wife had been fretting o’er their misfortunes’.
Certainly the associations in this epistle of the ‘facetious’ Lapraik as creatively comparable to Pope, Steele, Beattie, Ramsay and Fergusson are hyperbolic in the extreme. Perhaps unconsciously Burns is projecting his own influences onto the older man. It also adds irony, of course, the proto-Wordsworthian pastoral poet Burns here celebrates in the stanza beginning ‘Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire’ does so in a line which McGuirk (p. 205) notes, contains deliberate associations with these two earlier well-known rural non-sophisticates, Sterne and Pope. Certainly it allows Burns to make merry with rule-constipated academic poets and, another old-enemy, those rigidly and successfully, quite unlike himself and Lapraik, making money. The celebration of social pleasures also involves, as so often the case, in ll. 97–101 witty sexual innuendo.
Second Epistle to J. Lapraik
April 21, 1785
First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake new driven cattle, low
An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik, ponies, snort, plough, harrow
This hour on e’enin’s edge I take,
To own I’m debtor
5 To honest-hearted, auld LAPRAIK, old
For his kind letter.
Forjesket sair, with weary legs, jaded, sore
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, out-over, ridges
Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs dealing out food among ponies
10 Their ten-hours’ bite,
My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs, awkward, sore
I would na write. not
The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, feckless, worn-out girl
She’s saft at best an’ something lazy: soft
15 Quo’ she: ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy know, so
This month an’ mair, more
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An’ something sair.’ sore/aching
Her dowf excuses pat me mad; dull, put
20 ‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad! lazy
I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud, screed
This vera night; very
So dinna ye affront your trade, do not
But rhyme it right.
25 ‘Shall bauld LAPRAIK, the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes, cards
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, praise, so well
In terms sae friendly; so
Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts show
30 An’ thank him kindly?’
Sae I gat paper in a blink, so, got
An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink: went
Quoth I, ‘Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I’ll close it:
35 An’ if ye winna mak it clink, will not make
By Jove I’ll prose it!’
Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether so
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, both together
Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,
40 Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether chit-chat
Just clean aff-loof. off the cuff
My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ Fortune use you hard an’ sharp;
45 Come, kittle up your moorland harp tickle
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how Fortune waft an’ warp;
She’s but a bitch.
She’s gien me monie a jirt an’ fleg, given, many, jerk, scare
50 Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; straddle over
But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg
Wi’ lyart pow, grey head
I’ll laugh an’ sing, an’ shake my leg, dance
As lang’s I dow! long as I can
55 Now comes the sax an twentieth simmer six, summer
I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer, woods/trees
Still persecuted by the limmer jade
Frae year to year; from
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, fickle gossip
60 I, Rob, am here.
Do ye envy the city-gent,
Behint a kist to lie an’ sklent, counter, cheat
Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent, counting money
An’ muckle wame, large belly
65 In some bit Brugh to represent borough
A Bailie’s name? town magistrate
Or is’t the paughty feudal Thane, haughty
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane, shirt, shining
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, who, himself no, bone
70 But lordly stalks;
While caps an’ bonnets aff are taen, off, taken
As by he walks?
‘O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! who gives, good
Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift, give
75 Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift
Thro’ Scotland wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift, citizens, would not
In a’ their pride!’
Were this the charter of our state,
80 ‘On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,’
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
85 For thus the royal Mandate ran,
When first the human race began:
‘The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate’er he be,
’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
90 And none but he.’
O Mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o’ the ragged Nine — the Muses
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light;
95 While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line
Are dark as night!
Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless neivefu’ of a soul fistful
May in some future carcase howl,
100 The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.
Then may LAPRAIK and BURNS a
rise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
105 And sing their pleasures, hopes an’ joys,
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties,
Each passing year!
As further proof of Wordsworth’s passionate enthusiasm for Burns’s poetry, Alan Cunningham recollects hearing him recite this epistle ‘with commendations … pointing out as he went the all but inimitable ease and happiness of thought and language. He remarked, however, that Burns was either fond of out-of-the-way sort of words, or that he made them occasionally in his fits of feeling and fancy’. Other than Cowper, Burns’s English peers rarely complained about vernacular difficulty though ‘forjesket’ and ‘tapetless’, not to mention ‘ram-feezl’d’ may have been a linguistic bridge too far. It is interesting that well into the nineteenth century the, by then, deeply reactionary Wordsworth should have so responded to so politically radical a poem. Not only (ll. 7–12) does Burns record the brutal cost of farm work to his creativity, but the bulk of the poem is a cry of defiant, satirical rage against the old land-owning classes and the newly emerging bourgeoisie. Those ‘Cits’ who are equally castigated by Oliver Goldsmith and Charles Churchill. Burns brilliantly inverts the prosperous’s use of ‘economic Calvinism’ to control the poor by showing what the real political would be in an inversion worthy of Blake:
Were this the charter of our state
‘On pain o’ hell to be rich an’ great’,
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
Again, like Blake (ll. 85–90) he invoked the spirit of divinely natural democracy so that this poem becomes a splendid prelude to the later, more overtly political A Man’s a Man and the American section of Ode for General Washington’s Birthday. Thus Burns would enrol fully armed in Edinburgh’s dissident Crochallan Fencibles.
The poem concludes with an extraordinary image of the poor but poetically creative inheriting Heaven, with Mammon’s sordid sons suitably rewarded for their bestial conduct to their fellow human beings.
To William Simson, Ochiltree,
May 1785
First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; got
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; handsomely
Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly shall, would
And unco vain, mighty
5 Should I believe, my coaxin billie, fellow
Your flatterin strain.
But I’se believe ye kindly meant it, I’ll
I sud be laith to think ye hinted should be loath
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented, squinted sideways
10 On my poor Musie;
Tho’ in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it, such wheedling
I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in a creel, would
Should I but dare a hope to speel, climb
15 Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o’ fame; slopes
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, fellow
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
20 Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, whinstone
Ye Enbrugh Gentry!
The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes tenth, cards
Wad stow’d his pantry!) would have stored
25 Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed — give
As whyles they’re like to be my dead, whiles, death
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic reed; tickle, pipe
30 It gies me ease. gives
Auld COILA, now, may fidge fu’ fain, tingle with delight
She’s gotten Bardies o’ her ain, own
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, fellows who, will not spare
But tune their lays,
35 Till echoes a’ resound again
Her weel-sung praise. well-sung
Nae Poet thought her worth his while, no
To set her name in measur’d style;
She lay like some unkend-of isle unknown
40 Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil where
Besouth Magellan. to the south of
Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; gave, above
45 Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune, many
Owre Scotland rings; over
While Irwin, Lugar, Aire, an’ Doon old spelling of Ayr
Naebody sings. nobody
Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
50 Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line: many
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, foot (in music timing)
An’ cock your crest!
We’ll gar our streams and burnies shine make, burns
Up wi’ the best.
55 We’ll sing auld COILA’S plains an’ fells, Coila/Kyle, Ayrshire
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells, slopes, hill sides, glens
Whare glorious WALLACE where
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, often took victory
60 Frae Suthron billies. from English people
At WALLACE’ name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood?
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By WALLACE’ side,
65 Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, shoes soaked in blood
Or glorious dy’d!
O sweet are COILA’s haughs an’ woods, hollows
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, linnets, among
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, sporting, silent running
70 Their loves enjoy,
While thro’ the braes the cushat croods slopes, pidgeon coos
With wailfu’ cry!
Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;
75 Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
Dark’ning the day!
O NATURE! a’ thy shews an’ forms
80 To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! have
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi’ life an’ light;
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night! long
85 The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, no, found
Till by himsel he learn’d to wander,
Adown some trottin burn’s meander, running
An’ no think lang: long
O, sweet to stray, an’ pensive ponder
90 A heart-felt sang! song
The warly race may drudge an’ drive, worldly
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive; shoulder push, jostle
Let me fair NATURE’s face descrive, describe
And I, wi’ pleasure,
95 Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure. hum over
Fareweel, ‘my rhyme-composing’ brither! farewell, brother
We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: too long unknown, other
Now let us lay our heads thegither, together
100 In love fraternal:
May Envy wallop in a tether, swing on a rope
Black fiend, infernal!
While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;
While moorlan’ herds like guid, fat braxies; good, sheep carcases
105 While Terra Firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
In ROBERT BURNS.
POSTSCRIPT
My memory’s no worth a preen: pin
I had amaist forgotten clea
n, almost
Ye bade me write you what they mean bid
By this new-light,1
5 ’Bout which our herds sae aft hae been flocks so often
Maist like to fight. most
In days when mankind were but callans; striplings
At Grammar, Logic, an’ sic talents, such
They took nae pains their speech to balance, no
10 Or rules to gie; give
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, spoke, broad vernacular
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the Moon, those old
Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon, shirt, shoes
15 Wore by degrees, till her last roon round
Gaed past their viewin; went
An’ shortly after she was done,
They gat a new ane. got, one
This past for certain, undisputed;
20 It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it, chaps got, would
An’ ca’d it wrang; called, wrong
An’ muckle din there was about it, much
Baith loud an’ lang. both, long
25 Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk, well, Book (Bible)
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; would, maintain old, mistook
For ‘twas the auld moon turn’d a newk old, corner
An’ out o’ sight.
An’ backlins-comin to the leuk, backwards, look
30 She grew mair bright. more
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels were alarm’d; shepherds, flocks
The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies young men
35 Should think they better were inform’d
Than their auld daddies. old fathers
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks; from, more, went
