EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER

Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green,

Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean,

An’ here we're back in Embro, freen’,

To pass the winter.

Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in,

An’ snaws ahint her.

I've seen‘ s hae days to fricht us a’,

The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw,

The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw,

An’ half-congealin’,

The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw

Frae blae Brunteelan’.

I've seen‘ s been unco sweir to sally,

And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally,

Seen‘ s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally

For near a minute —

Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley,

The deil was in it!—

Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate,

In blast an’ blaudin’, rain, deil hae‘ t!

The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate,

Wi’ cauld an’ weet,

An’ to the Court, gin we‘ se be late,

Bicker oor feet.

And at the Court, tae, aft I saw

Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa

Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’

In weeg an’ goon,

To crack o’ what ye wull but Law

The hale forenoon.

That muckle ha’, maist like a kirk,

I've kent at braid mid-day sae mirk

Ye'd seen white weegs an’ faces lurk

Like ghaists frae Hell,

But whether Christian ghaists or Turk,

Deil ane could tell.

The three fires lunted in the gloom,

The wind blew like the blast o’ doom,

The rain upo’ the roof abune

Played Peter Dick —

Ye wad nae'd licht enough i’ the room

Your teeth to pick!

But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you,

The ling-lang lanely winter through,

Keep'd a guid speerit up, an’ true

To lore Horatian,

We aye the ither bottle drew

To inclination.

Sae let us in the comin’ days

Stand sicker on our auncient ways —

The strauchtest road in a’ the maze

Since Eve ate apples;

An’ let the winter weet our cla'es —

We'll weet oor thrapples.