Fareweel, my cock! lang may you thrive,
Weel happit in a cosy hive;

And that your saul may never dive
To Acheron,

I'll wish, as lang's I can subscrive
ROB. FERGUSSON.

ANDREW GRAY TO ROBERT FERGUSSON.*

DEAR R., I e'en maun dip my pen,

But how to write I dinna ken;
For learning, I got fient a grain,
To tell me how

To write to ony gentleman

Sic like as you.

How blyth am I when I do see
A piece o' your fine poetrie,
It gars me laugh fu' merrilie,
Because there's nane

That gies sic great insight to me,
As yours itlane.

* This, with Fergusson's reply to it, and a second epistle from "Andrew Gray," which follows, appeared originally in the Perth Magazine of Knowledge and Pleasure, published by the famous Morrisons of Perth, in 1773. R. Morrison, Junr., for R. Morrison and Son, printed an edition of Fergusson's Poems, in 1788, which embraces the first portrait of the poet that appeared anywhere. "Andrew Gray," as well as "Whistleha'" and "Coolsa," mentioned in the fifth stanza here, are assumed names. It is understood that "Andrew was the wise and facetious William Toshack, Surgeon, Perth, with whom Fergusson was on terms of intimacy. The witty doctor's grave, it may be remarked, is still discernible in Greyfriars burying ground in Perth, by virtue of an inscription on the family stone which was caused to be engraved to his memory "by his only surviving grandson, William Briggs, in Alloa, the lawful son of Margaret Toshack, his eldest daughter," in 1826. Toshack died in 1772, a year, as will be seen, before the epistles appeared in print. Fergusson composed an epitaph for him, which may be seen towards the end, among the English pieces, in this volume.

Trouth, Fergusson, I'm very shier,
(Therefore I think I need na spier)
That ye dwalt ance abien the mier,
For ye do crack

The very same way we do here
At Almond back.

Ye've English plain enough, nae doubt,
And Latin, too, but ye do suit

Your lines to fock that's out about,
'Mang hills and braes:

This is the thing that gars me shout
Sae loud your praise.

Gin ever ye come here awa'
I hope ye'll be sae gude as ca'
For Andrew Gray, at Whistleha',
The riddle macker,

About a rig-length frae Coolsa,
Just o'er the water.

We's treat ye, lad, for doing sae weel,
Wi' bannocks o' gude barley meal,
And wi' as mony cabbage kail
As ye can tak:

And twa-three chappins o' gude ale,
To gar ye crack.

Whan this ye see, tak up your pen
And write word back to me again:
And fou you are, mind lat me ken
Without delay;

To hear ye're weel, I'll be right fain:
Yours, ANDREW GRAY.

WHISTLE-HA', June the 1st, 1773.

ANSWER TO ANDREW GRAY.

NAE langer bygane than the streen,
Your couthy letter met my een;
I lang to wag a cutty speen

On Almond water;

And claw the lips o' truncher tree'n
And tak a clatter.

"Frae Whistleha'

your muse doth cry;

Whare'er ye win I carena bye:
Ye're no the laird o' Whistledry,
As lang's ye can

Wi' routh o' reekin kail supply
The inward man.

You'll trow me, billy, kail's fu' geed
To synd an' peerify the bleid;
'Twill rin like ony scarlet reid,
While patt ye put on

Wi' wethers that round Almond feed,
The primest mutton.

Ane wad maist think ye'd been at Scoon, Whan kings wore there the Scottish Crown; A soupler or mair fletching loun

Ne'er hap'd on hurdies,

Whan courtiers' tongues war there in tune For oily wordies.

Can you nae ither theme divine
To blaw upon, but my engyne?
At Nature keek, she's unco fine
Redd up, and braw:
And can gie scouth to muses nine
At Whistleha'.

Her road awhile is rough an' round,
An' few poetic gowans found;
The stey braes o' the Muses' ground
We scarce can crawl up;

But on the tap we're light as wind
To scour an' gallop.

Whan first ye sey'd to mak a riddle,
You'd hae an unco fike an' piddle,
An' aiblins brak aff i' the middle,
Like Sanny Butler;*

'Tis e'en sae wi' Apollo's fiddle,
Before we wit lear.

Then flegna at this weary practice,
That's tane to get this wyly nack nice;
The eident Muse begins to crack wise,
An' ne'er cry dule:

It's idle-seat, that banefu' black vice,
That gars her cool.

Andrew, at Whistleha', your een
May lippen for me very sien,
For barley scones my grinders grien,
They're special eating;

Wi' bizzen cogs that ream abien
Our thrapple weeting.

Till than may you haud hale and fier,
That we to Maltman's browst may steer,
And ilka care and ilka fear

To dog-drive ding;

While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer

And crack and sing.

EDINBURGH, June 23rd, 1773.

R. FERGUSSON.

*An allusion, doubtless, to the uncompleted but brilliant poem of "Hudibras."

ANDREW GRAY TO ROBERT FERGUSSON.

SECOND EPISTLE.

AT twall a' clock, ae Saturday,
Your letter came to Andrew Gray;
But, weel a wat, I canna say,
Nor can I tell ye,

How blyth I was a' that hale day,
Tho' you sud fell me.

The riddles they got leave to stand,
To them I wadna pit a hand,

Nor wad I split a single wand,
For twonty pund;

Nor to the cow, worth, make a band,
I was sae fond.

Ye say ye lang to wag a speen
Wi' Andrew Gray, your couthy frien';
Whilk gar'd me dance upo' the green,
Without a fiddle:

Your canty letter was the tien
That gar'd me diddle.

But fatfor did ye yon way blaw,
An' me sae fine and souple ca'?
I'm very shier, there's nane ava
O' yon that's true;

There's nae ane stays in Whistleha'
Can equal you.

Ye bade me, too, at Nature keek;
I wonder that ye yon way speak,
Gied fieth, it's nae into the breek
O' Andrew Gray:

A fouishenless and silly leek,
Nae worth a strae.