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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 nae other where.

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!

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou knows't my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming through my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When 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!

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 terebrific scene,

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

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;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

And 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.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE'

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, 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 and diddle,
To chear 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 its sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words to 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.

1 Prefixed to the Poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789.

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

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

O' rhymin' clink,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin':

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin',

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 to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

niinu

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