Epistle To James Smith（2 / 2）

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,

but care or pain;

and haply eye the barren hut

with high disdain.

with steady aim, some fortune chase;

keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;

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

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'n 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 rowth 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,

until they sconner.

“a title, dempster merits it;

a garter gie to willie pitt;

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

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 douce 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;

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!

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.

whare'er i gang.