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

alas! how aft in haughty mood,

god's creatures they oppress!

or else, neglecting a' that's guid,

they riot in excess!

baith careless and fearless

of either heaven or hell;

esteeming and deeming

it's a' an idle tale!

then let us cheerfu' acquiesce,

nor make our scanty pleasures less,

by pining at our state:

and, even should misfortunes come,

i, here wha sit, hae met wi' some—

an's thankfu' for them yet.

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 an' 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;

an' joys that riches ne'er could buy,

an' 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,

an' sets me a' on flame!

o all ye pow'rs who rule above!

o thou whose very self art love!

thou know'st my words sincere!

the life-blood streaming thro' 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 ev'ry care and ill;

and oft a more endearing band—

a tie more tender still.

it lightens, it brightens

the tenebrific scene,

to meet with, and greet with

my davie, or my jean!

o, how that name inspires my style!

the words come skelpin, rank an' file,

amaist before i ken!

the ready measure rins as fine,

as phoebus an' 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, an' jimp,

and rin an unco fit:

but least then the beast then

should rue this hasty ride,

i'll light now, and dight now

his sweaty, wizen'd hide.