Poem by John Skinner

The Epistle to Robert Burns from the Author of «Tullochgorum»

“O happy hour for evermair,
That led my chill* up Cha’mers’ stair,
And gae him, what he values sair,
	Sae braw a skance
Of Ayrshire’s dainty Poet there,
	By lucky chance.

“Wae’s my auld heart I was na wi’ you,
Tho’ worth your while I could na gie you;
But sin’ I had na hap to see you,
	Whan ye was north,
I’m bauld to send my service to you,
	Hyne o’er the Forth.

“Sae proud ’s I am, that ye hae heard
O’ my attempts to be a Bard,
And think my muse nae that ill-fawrd,
	Seil o’ your face!
I wadna wish for mair reward
	Than your guid grace.

“Your bonny beukie, line by line,
I’ve read, and think it freely fine;
Indeed, I winna ca’ ’t divine,
	As others might:
For that, ye ken, frae pen like mine,
	Wad no be right.

“But, by my sang, I dinna wonner,
That ye’ve admirers mony hun’er;
Let gowkit fleeps pretend to skunner,
	And tak offence,
Ye’ve naething said that leuks like blun’er,
	To fowk o’ sense.

“Your pauky “Dream” has humour in ’t;
I never saw the like in print.
The Birth-day Laurit durst na’ mint,
	As ye hae dane;
And yet there ’s nae a single hint
	Can be ill ta’en.

“Your “Mailie,” and your guid “Auld Mare,”
And “Hallow-even’s” funny cheer –
There’s nane that reads them far nor near
	But reezes Robie;
And thinks them as diverting gear
	As Yorrick’s Tobie.

“But O the weil-tauld “Cottar’s Night”
Is what gies me the maist delight –
A piece sae finish’d and sae tight,
	There’s nane o’s a’
Cou’d preachment timmer cleaner dight
	In kirk or ha’.

“But what needs this or that to name?
It’s own’d by a’, there’s nae a theme
Ye tak in hand, but’s a’ the same:
	And nae ane o’ them,
But weel may challenge a’ the fame
	That we can gie them.

“For me, I heartily allow you
The warld of praise sae justly due you;
And but a PLOWMAN! – sall I trow you?
	Gin it be sae,
A miracle I will avow you,
	Deny’t wha may!

“Sae, what avails a leash o’ lair
Thro’ sev’n lang years, and some guid mair,
Whan Plowman lad, wi’ nature bare,
	Sae far surpasses
A’ we can do wi’ study sair
	To climb Parnassus?
	
“But thanks to praise, ye’re i’ your prime,
And may chant on this lang, lang, time;
For lat me tell you, ’tware a crime
	To had your tongue,
Wi’ sic a knack’s ye hae at rhyme,
	And ye sae young.

“Ye ken, it’s nae for ane like me
To be sae droll as ye can be,
But ony help that I can gie,
	Tho’t be but sma’,
Your least command, I’se lat you see
	Sall gar me draw.

“An hour or sae, by hook or crook,
And may be twa, some orrow ouk,
That I can spare frae haly beuk,
	For that’s my hobby,
I’ll slip awa’ to some bye neuk,
	And crack wi’ Robie.

“Wad ye but only crack again,
Just what ye like, in ony strain,
I’ll tak it kind; for, to be plain,
	I do expect it; –
And mair than that, I’ll no be fain
	Gin ye neglect it.

“To Linshart, gin my hame ye speir,
Where I hae heft near fifty year,
’Twill come in course, ye need na fear,
	The part’s weel kent;
And postage, be it cheap or dear,
	I’ll pay content.

“Now, after a’, hae me exquees’d
For wissing nae to be refees’d;
I dinna covet to be reez’d
	For this feel lilt.
But feel, or wise, gin ye be pleas’d,
	Ye’re welcome till ’t.

“Sae, canty Plowman, fare ye weel,
Lord bless you lang wi’ hae and heil,
And keep you ay the honest chiel
	That ye hae been;
Syne lift you till a better beil
	Whan this is dane!

P. S.

“This auld Scot’s muse I’ve courted lang,
	And spar’d nae pains to win her;
Dowf tho’ I be in rustic sang,
	I’m no a raw beginner.
But now auld age taks dowie turns,
	Yet, troth, as I’m a sinner,
I’ll ay be fond of Robie Burns
	While I can sign – JOHN SKINNER.

* Child

1. John o’ Badenyon
2. On Burns’ Address to a Louse
3. Tullochgorum
4. The Auld Minister’s Song

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