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Gay pleasure ran riot' as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phæbqs ne'er witnessd so joyous à core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia binted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, }') And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.
Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks dėss divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quant bumpers contend? Though fate said hero should perish in light ; So uprose bright Ph@bus_and down fell the knight.
Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : « Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! “ But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 66 Comeone bottle more and have at the sublime!
“ Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with .
Bruce, 6 Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; “ So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"
SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,
A BROTHER POET."
Ye speak sae fair;
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
you thro' the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,
Your auld grey hairs.
But, DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
Until ye fyke ;
Be hain't wha like.
For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published at
Whiles daez't wi'.loye, whiles 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-hact, 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 ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye 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 dainty Davie; The warl may play you monie a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae poor, Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
Frae door tae door.
GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE,
February, 1787. My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, I hafflins doubt, it is na true man, That
between the stilts were bred, Wi' ploughmen school’d, wi' ploughmen fed. I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge Either frae grammar-school, or college. Guid troth, your saul and body baith War' better fed, I'd gie my aith, Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch, An' bummil thro' the single caritch. Whaever heard the ploughman speak, Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ? He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, As get a single line of Virgil. An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes O' Willie P-t and Charlie F-X. Our great men a' sae weel descrive, An' how to gar the nation thrive, Ane maist wad swear ye
them. An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,
fill, Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, An' ferlie at their wit and wine. O, gif I kend but whare ye baide, I'd send to you a marled plaid; 'Twad haud
shoulders warm and braw,