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Poem by Charles Lockhart

Epistle to a Friend, with a Copy of Burnss Letters


Dear Sir,  I now return your beuk;  
Ive aften traced it every neuk, 
	Wi persevering care. 
Tho eer sae aft Ive read it ower, 
Yet when again on it I glower 
	I prize it still the mair. 

Aft hae I sat till twal at night 
	Ere I could think to budge, 
When forcd to quat for want o light, 
	Twas always wi a grudge. 

	Tho fasht whiles, and lasht whiles, 
		Wi hardships cruel waun, 
	Im ay right, Im ay tight,
		When Robins in my naun. 


Some frozen-hearted, callous trash 
Wad fain gie Burnss name the lash; 
	But oh, their views how mean! 
To worth and common-sense theyre blind 
Black superstition clouds their mind 
	Hypocrisys their screen. 

Wha wadna hit the rascal hard 
	Twad be sae far misled
As persecute the sweetest bard 
	That ever Scotia bred? 

	Beware then, tak care then, 
		O sic censorious core; 
	Refrain them, disdain them, 
		Their principles abhor. 


For humrous fun, for social glee, 
For hamely style, for writing free, 
	For lively, witty turns, 
For every sympathetic part 
That can possess a feeling heart 
	Theres nane can cope wi Burns. 
His works declare a judgment clear, 
	An independent mind; 
His eye aft shed the friendly tear, 
	His bosom still was kind. 

	While woods grow, while floods row, 
		While verdure deads the plain; 
	While winds blaw, while rains fa, 
		His memry shall remain.

Charles Lockhart

Poem Theme: Robert Burns

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