TO J. S****. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! I owe thee much. BLAIR. DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, Just gaun to see you; And every ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, nature, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has blest me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while my notion's taen a sklent, Something cries, Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, A' future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages.' Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes I'll wander on, with tentless heed Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound and hale, Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic-wand then let us wield: Wi' wrinkl'd face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' creepin pace. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' social noise; An' fareweel dear, deluding woman, The joy of joys! O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some fortune chase; And seize the prey: Then canie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin; They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin Alas! what bitter toil an' straining— E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, 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 of honour; And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. 'A title, Dempster merits it: A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent. per cent. But give me real, sterling wit, And I'm content. |