sed epistle to davie
a brother poet
auld neibour,
i'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
for your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;
tho' i maun say't i doubt ye ftter,
ye speak sae fair;
for my puir, silly, rhymin ctter
some less maun sair.
hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
ng may your elbuck jink diddle,
to cheer you thro' the weary widdle
o' war'ly cares;
till barins' barins kindly cuddle
your auld grey hairs.
but davie, d, i'm red ye&#ikit;
i'm tauld the muse ye hae ;
an, gif it's sae, ye sud by lickit
until ye fyke;
sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit,
be hain't wha like.
for me, i'm on parnassus' brink,
rivin the words to gar them k;
whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink,
wi' jads or masons;
an' whiles, but aye owre te, i think
braw sober lessons.
of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
en' to me the bardie ;
except it be some idle pn
o' rhymin k,
the devil haet,—that i sud ban—
they ever think.
hought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
nae cares to gie us jrievin,
but just the pouchie put the neive 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 zy.
haud to the muse, my daintie davie:
the warl' may py you mony a shavie;
but for the muse, she'll never leave ye,
tho' e'er sae puir,
na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
frae door tae door.