LITMIR.BIZ

      I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,

      For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter;

      Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt ye flatter,

      Ye speak sae fair.

      For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

      Some less maun sair.

      Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;

      Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

      To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle

      O’ war’ly cares,

      Till bairn’s bairns kindly cuddle

      Your auld, gray hairs.

      But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;

      I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

      An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be licket

      Until yo fyke;

      Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faiket,

      Be hain’t who 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,

      Wi’ jads or masons;

      An’ whyles, but ay owre late, I think

      Braw sober lessons.

      Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,

      Commen’ me to the Bardie clan;

      Except it be some idle plan

      O’ rhymin’ clink,

      The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

      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 scrievin’,

      An’ fash nae mair.

      Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,

      My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

      At hame, a-fiel’, at work, or leisure,

      The Muse, poor hizzie!

      Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,

      She’s seldom lazy.

      Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:

      The warl’ may play you monie a shavie;

      But for the Muse she’ll never leave ye,

      Tho’ e’er so puir,

      Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie

      Frae door to door.

      O thou! whatever title suit thee,

      Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,

      Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,

      Closed under hatches,

      Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

      To scaud poor wretches!

      Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

      An’ let poor damned bodies be;

      I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,

      E’en to a deil,

      To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,

      An’ hear us squeel!

      Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;

      Far kend an’ noted is thy name;

      An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,

      Thou travels far;

      An’, faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,

      Nor blate nor scaur.

      Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,

      For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;

      Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,

      Tirlin the kirks;

      Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

      Unseen thou lurks.

      I’ve heard my reverend Graunie say,

      In lanely glens ye like to stray;

      Or where auld-ruin’d castles, gray,

      Nod to the moon,

      Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way

      Wi’ eldricht croon.

      When twilight did my Graunie summon,

      To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!

      Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,

      Wi’ eerie drone;

      Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortries comin,

      Wi’ heavy groan.

      Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

      The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,

      Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright

      Ayont the lough;

      Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

      Wi’ waving sough.

      The cudgel in my nieve did shake.

      Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,

      When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick—quaick—

      Amang the springs,

      Awa ye squatter’d, like a drake,

      On whistling wings.

      Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,

      Tell how wi’ you, on rag weed nags,

      They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags

      Wi’ wicked speed;

      And in kirk-yards renew their leagues

      Owre howkit dead.

      Thence countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,

      May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain:

      For, oh! the yellow treasure’s taen

      By witching skill;

      An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gaen

      As yell’s the bill.

      Thence mystic knots mak great abuse

      On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;

      When the best wark-lume i’ the house

      By cantrip wit,

      Is

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