My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore "Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes. "Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, And yill an' whiskey gie to Cairds, "A Title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie Wealth to some be-leger'd cit, But gie me real, sterling Wit, And I'm content. "While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face, As lang's the Muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e I never throws As weel's I may; Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces Ye never stray But, gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum scairum, ram-stam boys, I see you upward cast your eyes- Whilst I -but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang ony whereThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare,er I gang EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. * January. I. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, While frosty winds blaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To see how things are shar'd; *David Sillar, one of the Club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottishdialect But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, Yet then content could make us blest; The honest heart that's free frae a' However fortune kick the ba', IV. What tho', like commoners of air, Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, *Ramsay. With honest joy our hearts will bound, ⚫ On braces when we please, then, V. It's no in titles nor in rank; Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha trudge and drive thro' wet and dry, Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless and fearless |