Epistle to William Creech (Poem by Robert Burns)

Epistle to William Creech

By Robert Burns

Auld chukie Reekie’s [1] sair distrest,

Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,

Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest

                Can yield ava,

Her darling bird that she lo’es best,

                Willie’s awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,

And had o’ things an unco slight;

Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,

                An’ trig an’ braw:

But now they’ll busk her like a fright,

                Willie’s awa!

The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d;

The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d;

They durst nae mair than he allow’d,

                That was a law;

We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd,

                Willie’s awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,

Frae colleges and boarding-schools,

May sprout like simmer puddock stools

                In glen or shaw;

He wha could brush them down to mools,

                Willie’s awa!

The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chaumer [2]

May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ clamour;

He was a dictionar and grammar

                Amang them a’;

I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer,

                Willie’s awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door

Philosophers and poets pour, [3]

And toothy critics by the score

                In bloody raw!

The adjutant o’ a’ the core,

                Willie’s awa!

Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face,

Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace;

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace

                As Rome n’er saw;

They a’ maun meet some ither place,

                Willie’s awa!

Poor Burns—e’en Scotch drink canna quicken,

He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken,

Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckin

                By hoodie-craw;

Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’,

                Willie’s awa!

Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum,

And Calvin’s fock are fit to fell him;

And self-conceited critic skellum

                His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,

                Willie’s awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped,

And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks now roaring red,

                While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure’s fled,

                Willie’s awa!

May I be slander’s common speech;

A text for infamy to preach;

And lastly, streekit out to bleach

                In winter snaw;

When I forget thee! Willie Creech,

                Tho’ far awa!

May never wicked fortune touzle him!

May never wicked man bamboozle him!

Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem

                He canty claw!

Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,

                Fleet wing awa!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Edinburgh.

[2] The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.

[3] Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech’s house at breakfast.