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And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath the Atlantic roar.
A YOUNG LADY,
Miss Jessy L-, Dumfries; with Books which the
Bard presented her.
THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
Owre human hearts;
Against your arts.
Just gaun to see you ;
Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff' a human creature
On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,
She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancie yerkite up sublime
Wi' hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure-moment's time
To hear what's comin?
Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An' raise a din;
I rhyme for fun.
But in requit,
This while my notion's taen a sklent,
Something cries, "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent!
Ye'll shaw your folly. “There's ither poets, much your
betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had insur'd their debtors,
Å' future ages ;
Their unknown pages."
Are whistling thrang,
My rustic sang.
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
Forgot and gone!
Heave Care o'er-side! | And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.
This life, sae far's I understand,
That, wielded right,
Dance by fu' light. The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an’-forty's speeld, See crazy, weary, joyless Eild,
Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creepin pace.
An' social noise;
The joy of joys!
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy and play.
Among the leaves;
Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, For which they never toil'd nor swat ; They drink the sweet, and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
With high disdain.
And seize the prey;
They close the day.
They zig-zag on;
They aften groan.
fickle Lana waning?
E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.