epistle to dr. bcklock
ellisnd, 21st oct., 1789.
wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
and are ye hale, and weel and tie?
i ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie
wad brio:
lord send you aye as weel's i want ye!
and then ye'll do.
the ill-thief bw the heron south!
and never drink be near his drouth!
he tauld myself by word o' mouth,
he'd tak my letter;
i lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
and bade ter.
but aiblins, ho master heron
had, at the time, some dainty fair one
to ware this theologic care on,
and holy study;
and tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
e'en tried the body.
but what d'ye think, my trusty fere,
i'm turned a gauger—peace be here!
parnassian queans, i fear, i fear,
ye'll now disdain me!
and then my fifty pounds a year
will little gain me.
ye gikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
wha, by castalia's wimplin streamies,
lowp, sing, and ve your pretty limbies,
ye ken, ye ken,
that strang y supreme is
'mang sons o' men.
i hae a wife and twa wee ddies;
they maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—
i need na vaunt
but i'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
before they want.
lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
i'm weary sick o't te and air!
not but i hae a richer share
than mony ithers;
but why should ae maer fare,
and a' men brithers?
e, firm resolve, take thou the van,
thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
a us mind, fai ne'er wan
a dy fair:
wha does the utmost that he ,
will whiles do mair.
but to clude my silly rhyme
(i'm st o' verse and st o' time),
to make a happy fireside clime
to weans and wife,
that's the true pathos and sublime
of human life.
my pliments to sister beckie,
ahe same to ho lucky;
i wat she is a daintie chuckie,
as e'er tread cy;
and gratefully, my gude auld cockie,
i'm yours for aye.
robert burns.