TO

J. LAPRAIK.

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with
a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the
ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred,
however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin
one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as
intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen,
strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]


_Sept._ 13th, 1785.

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny
The staff o' bread,
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
Like drivin' wrack;
But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.