But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,

But browster wives and whiskie stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat" it,
An' if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take,

An' when wr usquabae we've wat it
It winna break.

But if the beast and branksP be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theckits right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Åe winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye 're auld an' gatty,t
An' be as canty,"

As ye were nine years less than thretty,
Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpetx wi' the blast,
An' now the sun keeks! in the west,
Then I maun rin2 amang the rest
An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A Brother Poet.

Jan.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,c
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin'd jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,e

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

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

It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shared ;

How best o' chielsh are whiles in want

While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair 't k

But Davie, lad, ne'er fash1 your head
Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread

As lang's we 're hale and fier :m
'Mair spier" na, nor fear na',
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,P
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

a David Sillar. author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish

c Fire-place.

e The fire-side.

fin plenty.

Best of men. i Blockheads.

k To spend it.

Ramsay.

p Fig.

d West country. Heed. Trouble.

Yet then content could make us blest:

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

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick'd 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'.

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

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no 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:

q Without. Then.

To it.

Hum, or whistle.
u Much more

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay 's the part ay,

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' 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 good,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

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 o' age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,

The real good and ill.

Tho' losses and crosses

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

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flattery 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!
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!

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.

10 Adds fuel to fire.

I

x Dark, gloomy.