And when you read the simple, artless rhymes, ΤΟ A YOUNG LADY, Miss Jessy L, Dumfries; with Books which the Bard presented her. THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, TO J. S**** ̧ Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief, Owre human hearts; Blair. For me, I swear, by sun and moon, And ev'ry ither pair that's done, you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 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; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, And damn'd my fortune to the groat; Has bless'd me wi' a random shot This while my notion's taen a sklent, To try my fate in guide black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries, "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, Now moths deform in shapeless tatters Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs An' teach the lanely heights and howes I'll wander on wi' tentless heed, flow never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, But why o' Death begin a tale? And large, before Enjoyment's gale, This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted, fairy land, Where Pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, The magic wand then let us wield; Wr wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' creepin pace. When ance Life'e day draws near the gloamin, An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman, O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And though the puny wound appear, 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; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen Hope does every sinew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race; And seize the prey; Then canie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin; To right or left, eternal swervin, They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' strainingBut, truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Lana waning E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. |