Epistle To James Smith（1 / 2）

epistle to james smith

friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!

sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!

i owe thee much—blair.

dear smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief,

that e'er attempted stealth or rief!

ye surely hae some warlock-brief

owre human hearts;

for ne'er a bosom yet was prief

against your arts.

for me, i swear by sun an' moon,

an' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,

ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,

just gaun to see you;

an' ev'ry ither pair that's done,

mair taen i'm wi' you.

that auld, capricious carlin, nature,

to mak amends for scrimpit stature,

she's turn'd you off, a human creature

on her first plan,

and in her freaks, on ev'ry 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 up sublime,

wi' hasty summon;

hae ye a leisure-moment's time

to hear what's comin?

some rhyme a neibor'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 taen a sklent,

to try my fate in guid, black prent;

but still the mair i'm that way bent,

something cries “hooklie!”

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 of laurel-boughs,

to garland my poetic brows!

henceforth i'll rove where busy ploughs

are whistlin' thrang,

an' teach the lanely heights an' howes

my rustic sang.

i'll wander on, wi' 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 being 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,

we' 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,