Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-Guards, And yill an' whiskey gie to Cairds, "A title, Dempster merits it; But gie me real, sterling wit, And I'm content. "While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, As lang's the Muses dinna fail An anxious e'e I never throws Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Your hearts are just a standing pool; Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; The hairum scairum, ram-stam boys, I see you upward cast your eyes Whilst I but I shall haud me there - Content wi' you to mak a pair, WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, I sit me down to pass the time, In hamely westlin jingle. * David Sillar, one of the Club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. While frosty winds olaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, I tent less, and want less, But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's were hale and fier; "Mair spier na, no fear na, Auld age ne'er mind a feg, Is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, Yet then content could make us blest; Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' * Ramsay Intended fraud or guile, IV. What tho', like commoners of air, But either house or hal'! Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, With honest joy our hearts will bound, On braes when we please, then, V. 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; And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcly tent us in their way, Baith careless and fearless Of either heav'n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It's a' an idle tale! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses and crosses Be lessons right severe, |