VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce: And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, 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! This life has joys for you and I; There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, IX. O all ye Pow'rs who rule above! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear: Wen heart-corroding care and grief X. 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, It lightens, it brightens, To meet with, and greet with, XI. O, how that name inspires my style! The ready measure rins as fine, My spaviet Pegasus will limp, And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, But lest then, the beast then, AULD NEEBOR, TO THE SAME. I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 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, Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, O' rhymin' clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', An' while ought's there, Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Haud tae the Muse, my daintie Davie : 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, Inspire my Muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' On fasteen-een we had a rockin, Ye need na doubt; There was ae sang, amang the rest, 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. |