EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down, to pass the time, While frosty winds blaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, I tent less, and want less But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r, How best o' chiels are whyles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't: But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: 6 Mair spier na, nor fear na,' To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 30 Yet then content could mak us blest; The honest heart that's free frae a' What tho', like commoners of air, Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, With honest joy our hearts will bound, On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune; It's no in titles nor in rank; If happiness hae not her seat We may be wise, or rich, or great, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang. 70 Think ye, that sic as you and I, Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless, and fearless, Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; And, even should misfortunes come, They mak us see the naked truth, Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne'er could buy; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 100 90 80 It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: And sets me a' on flame! O all ye pow'rs who rule above! When heart-corroding care and grief Her dear idea brings relief O hear my fervent pray'r; All hail, ye tender feelings dear! Long since this world's thorny_ways Fate still has blest me with a friend, And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with O, how that name inspires my style! The ready measure rins as fine, Were glowrin' owre my pen. My spavied Pegasus will limp, Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit: But lest then the beast then SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. AULD NEIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For my puir. silly, rhymin' clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink; Whyles dazed wi' love, whyles dazed wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. |