I wat she was a sheep o' sense, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Or, if he wanders up the howe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips, Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape Wi' chokin dread; O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon! O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. TO J. S**** ̧ Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! BLAIR. DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun and moon, Just gaun to see you; An ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, Hae ye a Wi' hasty summon : leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme, a neebor'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; Has bless'd me wi' a random shot This while my notion's taen a sklent, Something cries, Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll show your folly. 'There's ither poets, much your betters, Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Then fareweel 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' wi' tentless heed I'll lay me wi' th' inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? Heave care owre side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, The magic-wand then let us wield; 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 chearfu' tankards foamin, An' social noise; An' fareweel dear deluding woman, The joy of joys! O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, Among the leaves; And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, For which they never toil❜d nor swat; But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut Wi' high disdain. Wi' steady aim, some fortune chase; And seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', They zig-zag on; Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin, They aften groan. |