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WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I sit me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire side;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

II.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep at times frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd;'
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't:

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier;
"Mair spier na, no fear na,"t
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;

Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and auti:39 f a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect.

+ Ramsay.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile;
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,
But either house or hal'!

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braces when we please, then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's in makin muckle mair;
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest:

If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;

The heart's ay the part ay,

That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil,

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while ?

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 heav'n or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

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 and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find ná other where.

VIII.

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;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
And 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,
And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

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!
X.

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 every 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.

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and 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, and jimp,

An' rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now,
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

AULD NEEBOR,

TO THE SAME.

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter,
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

VOL. I.

L

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter,
Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,

Till bairns' 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 its sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,
Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin the words tae 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 tae gie us joy or grievin';
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
An' while aught's there,
Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',
An' fash nae mair..

Leeze me on rhyme! its ay a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my daintie Davie
The warl' may play you monie a shavi
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' !impin wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

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