EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,"
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,6

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 an❜ 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,

Butd care or pain;

With high disdain.

And haply eye the barren hut

With steady aim, some fortune chase;

Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;

⚫ climbed.

b

age.

• coughing, limping.

d without

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH

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

a

An' 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 pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,
"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowthb o' rhymes.

"Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids of honour;

An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,d

Until they sconner.®

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent.;

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,

Be't water-brose or muslin-kail,"

Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail

C

To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douced folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,

Your lives, a dyke !

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray;

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;

e

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:

I see ye upward cast your eyes—

Ye ken the road!

a thin broth.

ear.

• dodge.

d sober.

• wonder.

THE VISION

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there,
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair.

• quit.
live-long.

Whare'er I gang.

The Vision.1

Duan First.2

b

THE sun had clos'd the winter day,
The curlers quat their roarin play,
And hunger'd maukin taen her way,
To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been,

d

The thresher's weary flingin-tree,
The lee-lang day had tirèd me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence,' right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek, g

I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,

That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,

The auld clay biggin1;

An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin.j

1 In the eleventh stanza, bonie Jean was superseded by Bess at the time of the quarrel with Miss Armour. Modest, as always, Burns disclaims rivalry with Shenstone !

THE VISION

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae thing,

But stringing blethers up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit

My cash-account;

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,
Is a' th' amount.

I started, mutt'ring "blockhead! coof!"
And heav'd on high my waukit loof,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath

When click the string the snickd did draw;

An' jee! the door gaed to the wa';

e

An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezin bright,

A tight, outlandish hizzie,' braw,

Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht";
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;
I glowr'd as eerie''s I'd been dusht'

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusbt,
An' stepped ben.