Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet

While winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the Great-folk’s gift,
That live sae bien an’ snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

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 whyles in want,
While Coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair ’t:
But Davie lad, ne’er fash your head,
Tho’ we hae little gear,
We’re fit to win our daily bread,
As lang ’s we’re hale and fier:
‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’
Auld age ne’er mind a feg;
The last o’t, the warst o’t,
Is only but to beg.

To lye in kilns and barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s free frae a’
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba’,
Has ay some cause to smile:
And mind still, you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
Nae mair then, we’ll care then,
Nae farther we can fa’.

What tho’, like Commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal’?
Yet Nature’s charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when Daisies deck the ground,
And Blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy, our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please then,
We’ll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till ’t, we’ll time till ’t,
And sing ’t when we hae done.

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:
If Happiness hae not her seat
And center in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay ’s the part ay,
That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet and dry,
Wi’ never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood,
God’s creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either Heaven or Hell;
Esteeming, and deeming,
It a’ an idle tale!

Then lest us chearfu’ acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty Pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, ev’n should Misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,
An ’s thankfu’ for them yet.
They gie the wit of Age to Youth;
They let us ken oursel;
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.
Tho’ losses, and crosses,
Be lessons right severe,
There’s Wit there, ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, Ace o’ Hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne’er could buy;
And joys the very best.
There ’s a’ the Pleasures o’ the Heart,
The Lover and the Frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a’ on flame!

O, all ye Pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know’st my words sincere!
The life blood streaming thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear Immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, Allseeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r!
Still take her, and make her,
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world’s thorny ways
Had number’d out my weary days,
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,
A tye more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens,
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with.
My Davie or my Jean!

O, how that Name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin’, rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowran owre my pen.
My spavet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he ’s fairly het;
And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
And rin an unco fit:
But least then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I’ll light now, and dight now,
His sweaty, wizen’d hide.