Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, On braes when we please, then, It's no in titles nor in rank; Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Think ye, that sic as you an' I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry, Think ye, are we less blest than they Baith careless and fearless Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale! Then let us chearfu' acquiesce; ! Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts, There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, It heats me, it beets me, O all ye pow'rs, who rule above! Oh hear my fervent pray'r; Still take her, and make her All hail, ye tender feelings dear The sympathetic glow; Long since this world's sharp thorny ways Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In ev'ry care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, It lightens, it brightens To meet with, and greet with O, how that name inspires my style! The ready measure rins as fine My spaviet Pegasus will limp, And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, But lest then, the beast then, Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE.* I'M three times, doubly o'er, your debtor, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair. Prefixed to the Poems of David Sillar, published at Kil marnock, 1789. * YOU 'ban Javie, la ced the Mi it sae, 2265 as you I'm on e words vis daez't w yles, but the thought Samen me to t Cept it be som devil-haet, Te thought, nae Fat cares to gie Just the pouch en biltie, skilt Leeze me on rhym My chief, amaist Athame, a fiel, a Though rough and Hand to the Mu The warl' may But for the M = Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To chear you thro' the weary widdle O' war❜ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But, Davie, lad, I'm red ve're glaikit; Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles 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, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, O' rhymin' clink, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it's ay a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: Tho' e'er sae pair, Frae door to door. Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie LORD GREGORY. MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, A waefu' wand'rer seeks thy tow'r, An exile frae her father's ha', Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, I lang, lang had denied? How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for ay be mine! And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine.. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, Ye must'ring thunders from above, But spare, and pardon my fause love WINTER. A DIRGE. THE wintry west extends his blast. And hail and rain does blaw; |