David Crawford

An Answer to Will. M’Vitie

Warm-hearted Willy, I declare
A friend like you is unca rare,
I’m sure I henna miss’d my share
	O’ gude advices,
Forby a weel-far’d pithy pray’r,
	That truly nice is.

Lad, I can eithly understand,
Wad some bra Lady grip my hand,
She coud help me out o’er a strand,
	Or hill or dike;
For woman multitudes command,
	Whane’er they like.

You ken as weel as I can tell,
What caus’d Rob Burns sae far excel,
A Lady first hang up his bell,
	An’ pour’d in oil;
Syne whae coud chime sae sweet an’ snell
	As th’ Bard o’ Kyle.
 
An’ Fergusson was quite forgot
By Ladies o’ superior note,
Sae he coud gae wi thread-bare coat,
	An’ elbows clutet,
An’ to appearance sic a sot
	As fools do flout at.
 
Bra fellow! he might justly claim
The foremaist page in beuk of fame,
Tho’ few a-field, or yet at hame,
	Did bid him speed,
Whilk shaw’d their hearts (O fy for shame!)
	As cauld as lead.
 
But I’m as blyth as blyth can be,
That plowmen catch a Lady’s ee;
I plow’d a farm years nine times three,
	An’ whae can say,
But ane may cast a bane at me,
	Some lucky day.
 
An’, for your kindness, Will. M’Vitie,
Wad you but come unto our city,
An’ I the fortune hae to meet you,
	We sanna part,
Without a wee soup Aquavitae,
	To chear our heart.
 
Lang may you toddle but an’ ben,
Wi health an’ skill to load the pen,
An’ ay hae flesh, or a fat hen,
	Whereon to feed,
An’ be kept frae the goblin’s den,
	When thou art dead.