Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet（1 / 2）

1785

epistle to davie, a brother poet

january

while winds frae aff ben-lomond blaw,

an' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

an' hing us owre the ingle,

i set me down to pass the time,

an' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

in hamely, westlin jingle.

while frosty winds blaw in the drift,

ben to the chimla lug,

i grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,

that live sae bien an' snug:

i tent less, and want less

their roomy fire-side;

but hanker, and canker,

to see their cursed pride.

it's hardly in a body's pow'r

to keep, at times, frae being sour,

to see how things are shar'd;

how best o' chiels are whiles in want,

while coofs on countless thousands rant,

and ken na how to wair't;

but, davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

tho' we hae little gear;

we're fit to win our daily bread,

as lang's we're hale and fier:

“mair spier na, nor fear na,”

auld age ne'er mind a feg;

the last o't, the warst o't

is only but to beg.

to lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

when banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,

is doubtless, great distress!

yet then content could make us blest;

ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste

of truest happiness.

the honest heart that's free frae a'

intended fraud or guile,

however fortune kick the ba',

has aye some cause to smile;

an' mind still, you'll find still,

a comfort this nae sma';

nae mair then we'll care then,

nae farther can we fa'.

what tho', like commoners of air,

we wander out, we know not where,

but either house or hal',

yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

the sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

are free alike to all.

in days when daisies deck the ground,

and blackbirds whistle clear,

with honest joy our hearts will bound,

to see the coming year:

on braes when we please, then,

we'll sit an' sowth a tune;

syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,

an' sing't when we hae done.

it's no in titles nor in rank;

it's no in wealth like lon'on bank,

to purchase peace and rest:

it's no in makin' muckle, mair;

it's no in books, it's no in lear,

to make us truly blest:

if happiness hae not her seat

an' centre in the breast,

we may be wise, or rich, or great,

but never can be blest;

nae treasures, nor pleasures

could make us happy lang;

the heart aye's the part aye

that makes us right or wrang.

think ye, that sic as you and i,

wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry,

wi' never-ceasing toil;

think ye, are we less blest than they,

wha scarcely tent us in their way,

as hardly worth their while?