VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce:
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some
An' 's thankfu' for them yet,
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find na' other where,

VIII.

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,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear:

Wen heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow;

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still."

It lightens, it brightens,
The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with,
My Davie or my Jean.

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het;
VOL. E-O

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now,
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

AULD NEEBOR,

TO THE SAME.

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter,
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter,
Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld, gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

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 tae gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,
Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin';
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',
An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my daintie Davie :
The war!' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1, 1785.

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On fasteen-een we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun an' jokin,

Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thrill'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describe sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel: Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.