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Poem by Richard Gall

Epistle Addressed to Robert Burns

	Hail, Robin, blest wi ilka gift 
 	To spread your fame aneath the lift! 
 	Lang may your Lassie keep in tift 
 		To rant an sing, 
 	An mak thy bonny ballads swift 
 		Oer Scotia ring.

 	Whan Fergusson (whase blythsome horn 
 	Beguiled the waes he lang had borne) 
 	Frae Caledonias arms was torn, 
		In youthfu pride, 
 	Unsparing Death deep fixed his thorn 
		In Scotias side.

 	For, wi the youth, oh, sad to tell! 
	Her wonted glee an spirit fell; 
	In ilka howm an flowery dell 
		Mirth fled awa; 
 	Her pipe hung silent as the shell 
 		In Fingals ha.

	Yet though baith cauld an laigh hes laid, 
	Blest ever be his gentle shade! 
 	Since Taste a lightsome charm has spread 
		Oer ilka measure, 
 	By auld an young hell aye be read 
		Wi waefu pleasure.

	But whan dowf Scotia sighed in pain 
 	For Robins fate  for Robin gane  
	Apollo fired a hamely swain 
		Wi mirth an glee, 
        An Burns revived the joyfu strain, 
		In tunefu key.

 	The Scotian Muse, nae langer seen 
 	Wi bluthered cheeks an watery een, 
	Wad lead you through the woodlands green, 
 		Frae out the thrang, 
	Wi her upo the knowe to lean, 
		An souf a sang.

 	Fast spreading like a bleezing flame, 
 	The haughs an vallies rang your fame; 
	Oer glens an braes its echoes came, 
 		Baith far an near: 
	You justly gained a deathless name, 
		Beyond compeer.

	Your sangs are sought by grit an sma, 
	Frae cotters hut to lordly ha; 
 	The Doric pipe sae saft you blaw, 
		Wi breath an skill, 
 	As gars auld Scotia crousely craw 
		On ilka hill.

 	Fu aft on bonny simmer days, 
 	Whan Flora wears her gaudy claise, 
 	I dander to the gowany braes, 
 		Or lanely glens, 
 	To con thy saftly-melting lays, 
 		Or pawky strains.

 	O how delightfu then to lie, 
 	Nor tent the hour thats stealing by, 
 	Till aft you gar me heave a sigh 
 		Twixt joy an grief, 
 	Till ance anither tune you try, 
 		That brings relief!

 	Baith fools an knaves you crousely bang, 
 	An wightly wag the skelping whang, 
 	In words sae pithy, sharp, an strang, 
 		An nicely jointed;  
 	Lord pity him wha tholes the stang, 
 		Sae glegly pointed!

 	Though little worth your pains I gie, 
 	Its nae for want o will in me; 
	Yet could I think my sangs to thee 
 		Wad pleasure bring, 
 	Gosh, man! Id gladly sit the lee  
		Lang day, an sing.

	Now, wale o hearty cocks, I feel 
	I een, though laith, maun say, Fareweel; 
	For Time, in spite o ane, will steal 
 		An slip awa: 
 	Meanwhile, that Im your servant leal, 
		Im blythe to shaw.

Richard Gall

Poem Theme: Robert Burns

Richard Gall's other poems:
  1. My Only Joy and Dearie, O'
  2. The Braes o' Drumlee
  3. The Bonnie Blink o' Mary's E'E
  4. Captain o' Kain
  5. Louisa in Lochaber

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