William M’Vitie

An Epistle to David Crawford

When ither people jaw away
About politics o’ the day,
Or how the French an’ Austrian play
	Do oft rehearse,
Accept frae me this faint essay,
	In rustic verse.

I hail thee, poet frae the Tweed,
Who now tunes up thy aiten reed
At Caledonia’s fountain-head
	In sonnets fine,
Wi’ a’ my heart I wish thee speed,
	In thy design.

Now, low amang surrounding urns,
Caul i’ the dust lies Robie Burns; 
While for his loss auld Scotia mourns,
	And rives her duds, 
His name’s high risen to the starns,
	Aboon the cluds.

Then, Crawford, follow his example, 
An’ o’er inferior poets trample, 
Ne’er stan’ at mountain, hill, or humple,
	’Tween you an’ fame, 
But shaw the list’ning world a sample,
	Will raise your name.

I hae nae time a deal to say, 
But for you I’ll sincerely pray, 
As lang as Phœbus shines by day,
	And night is dark, 
Fam’d be the bard that rhim’d away
	At Heriot’s Wark.

Lang as the ocean swells in waves, 
Lang as the harvest mows the sheaves, 
Lang as the oak produces leaves,
	And tanners bark,
May Crawford’s name the bard survive,
	Of Heriot’s Wark. 

As lang as I can blaw my nose,
Or scart a cog o’ oat-meal brose,
As lang as e’er anither’s woes
	Excite my pity,
Till Death at last my een shall close,
	Yours, WILL. M’VITIE.

Leith, Oct. 31.
1796.