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Where Pleasure is the magic wand
That, wielded right,
Dance by fu’ light.
The magic wand then let us wield,
Wi' wrinkled face,
Wi' creepin pace.
When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
An' social noise ;
The joy of joys!
O life! how pleasant in thy morning!
We frisk away,
To joy and play.
We wander there, we wander here,
Among the leaves ;
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
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;
And seize the prey ;
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan',
They zig-zag on;
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil an' straining
E’en let her gang!
Let's sing our sang.
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 Till icicles hing frae their beards •
Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-Guards,
And Maids o' Honor; And yill an' whiskey gie to Cairds,
Until they sconner.
“A title, Dempster merits it;
In cent. per cent. ;
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 ;
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
How much unlike !
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray ; But, gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
The rattlin squad:
Ye ken the road.
Whilst I - but I shall haud me there
But quat my sang,
Whare'er I gang.
EPISTLE TO DAVIE,
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
In hamely westlin jingle.
* David Sillar, one of the Club at Tarbolton, and author of a voluma of Poems in the Scottish dialect.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Their roomy fire-side;
To see their cursed pride.
It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To see how things are shar'd;
And ken na how to wairt:
Tho' we hae little gear,
Mair spier na, no fear na,”
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
Is only for to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Of truest happiness.