They gie the wit of age to youth; They make us see the naked truth, Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, 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 ; There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: O' all ye pow'rs who rule above! Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast, Thou Being, All-seeing, All hail, ye tender feelings dear! Long since this world's thorny ways It lightens, it brightens To meet with, and greet with 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, And rin an unco fit: But lest then, the beast then, Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE' AULD NIBOR, I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; O' war❜ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 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, An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. 1 Prefixed to the Poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 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, 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 : Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie Frae door to door. |