LITMIR.BIZ

      Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,

      That e’er attempted stealth or rief,

      Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

      Owre human hearts;

      For ne’er a bosom yet was prief

      Against your arts.

      For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,

      And ev’ry star that blinks aboon,

      Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon

      Just gaun to see you;

      And ev’ry ither pair that’s done,

      Mair ta’en I’m wi’ you.

      That auld capricious carlin, Nature,

      To mak amends for scrimpit stature,

      She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature

      On her first plan;

      And in her freaks, on every feature

      She’s wrote, the Man.

      Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,

      My barmie noddle’s working prime,

      My fancy yerkit it up sublime

      Wi’ hasty summon:

      Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time

      To hear what’s comin’?

      Some rhyme a neighbour’s name to lash;

      Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash:

      Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

      An’ raise a din;

      For me, an aim I never fash;

      I rhyme for fun.

      The star that rules my luckless lot,

      Has fated me the russet coat,

      An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;

      But in requit,

      Has blest me with a random shot

      O’ countra wit.

      This while my notion’s ta’en a sklent,

      To try my fate in guid black prent;

      But still the mair I’m that way bent,

      Something cries “Hoolie!

      I red you, honest man, tak tent!

      Ye’ll shaw your folly.

      “There’s ither poets much your betters,

      Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,

      Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors,

      A’ future ages:

      Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,

      Their unknown pages.”

      Then farewell hopes o’ laurel-boughs,

      To garland my poetic brows!

      Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs

      Are whistling thrang,

      An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes

      My rustic sang.

      I’ll wander on, with tentless heed

      How never-halting moments speed,

      Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

      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,

      Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

      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;

      For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d,

      See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

      Wi’ wrinkl’d face,

      Comes hostin’, hirplin’, owre the field,

      Wi’ creepin’ pace.

      When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’,

      Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;

      An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,

      An’ social noise;

      An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman!

      The joy of joys!

      O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,

      Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!

      Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,

      We frisk away,

      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,

      For which they never toil’d nor swat;

      They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

      But care or pain;

      And, haply, eye the barren hut

      With high disdain.

      With steady aim some Fortune chase;

      Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace;

      Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,

      And seize the prey;

      Then cannie, in some cozie place,

      They close the day.

      And others, like your humble servan’,

      Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’;

      To right or left, eternal swervin’,

      They zig-zag on;

      ’Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’,

      They aften groan.

      Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining—

      But truce with peevish, poor complaining!

      Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning?

      E’en let her gang!

      Beneath what light she has remaining,

      Let’s sing our sang.

      My

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