To Coila's Bard
Sillar, David
Published 1785
While Reekie's bards your muse commen',
An' praise the numbers o' your pen,
Accept this kindly frae a friend,
Your Dainty Davie.
Wha ace o' hearts does still remain,
Ye may believe me.
I ne'er was muckle gi'en to praisin',
Or else ye might be sure o' fraisin',
For trouth, I think, in solid reason,
Your kintra reed,
Plays sweet as Robin Fergusson,
Or his on Tweed.
Your Luath, Csesar bites right sair ;
An' when ye paint the " Holy Fair "
Ye draw it to a very hair,
Or when ye turn
An' sing the follies o' the fair
How sweet ye mourn !
Let Coila's plains wi' me rejoice,
And praise the worthy bard whose lays
Their worth and beauty high doth raise
To lasting fame ;
His works, his worth, will ever praise
And crown his name.
Brave Ramsay now and Fergusson,
Wha ha'e sae lang time filled the throne
O' Poetry, may lay them down
Quiet i' their urns,
Since fame in justice gi'es the crown
To Coila's Burns.
Hail, happy bard ! ye're now confest
The king o' singers i' the west ;
Edina hath the same exprest,
Wi' joy they fin'
That ye're, when tried by Nature's test,
Gude sterling coin.
Sing on, my frien', your fame's secured,
And still maintain the name o' bard ;
But yet tak' tent and keep a guard,
For Fnvy's tryin'
To blast your name, mair just reward
For the envying.
But tho' the tout o' fame may please you,
Letna the flatterin' ghaist o'erheeze you,
Ne'er flyte nor fraise tae gar folk roose you,
For men o' skill,
When ye write weel, will always praise you
Out o' gude will.
Great numbers on this earthly ba',
As soon as death gi'es them the ca',
Permitted are to slide awa',
An' straight forgot —
Forbid that ever this should fa'
To be your lot.
I ever had an anxious wish,
Forgive me, Heaven ! if 'twas amiss,
That Fame in life my name would bless,
An' kindly save
It from the cruel tyrant's crush
Beyond the grave.
Tho' the fastest liver soonest dies,
And length p' days should mak' us wise,
Yet haste wi' speed, to glory rise,
An' spur your horse :
They're shortest aye wha gain the prize
Upon the course.
Sae to conclude, auld frien' an' neebor,
Your muse forgetna weel to feed her,
Then steer through life wi' birr and vigour,
To win a horn,
Whase soun' shall reach ayont the Tiber
'Mang ears unborn
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