Poems in the English and Scottish Dialects
Ingram, William
Published 1812
EPISTLE TO A. C.
ALTHOUGH no Poet, it is plain,
Frae rhyming I cannot refrain ;
This is a failing in the brain,
Without a doubt ;
To hide it, my attempts are vain ;
It will be out.
The grave, the wise, the man o' glee,
A' ranks o' men I plainly see,
Their hobbies ha'e, as well as me,
And wha can blame :
Let them jogg on, as lang's I'm free
To do the same.
Sae far, by way ofan excuse
For my attachment to the muse.
Mere trifles often will amuse
A mind content.
She bids me sing - can I refuse
To gi'e consent ?
My happy lot when I consider,
I wadna change wi' ony ither ;
The Muse obeys me, when I bid her :
Remote frae noise,
How canty are we aft together !
In hamely joys.
How wretched would most mortals be,
Were they sequester'd far, like me,
Frae public scenes o' mirth and glee,
Imprison'd here,
Where heath- clad hills salute the e'e,
With aspect drear.
Frae fashionable follies free,
How wisely, cheaply, blest are we.
The ploughman liltin' o'er the lea
Pursues his toil ;
Full happy, if at night he see
His consort smile.
Weel pleas'd at hame, we dinna try,
In air balloons to mount on high ;
Content to view the azure sky,
Frae the firm ground,
Through burning clouds let others fly
Their giddy round.
Philosophers, in days ofyore,
The warks o' Nature puzzled o'er,
And wonder'd how their sauls wad soar,
To endless day,
But modern sages now explore
Anearer way,
Lash'd to the tail o' silk sae bright,
Frae gaping clouds they tak the flight,
And o' this warld tine the sight
Amang the starns ;
Uncertain where their heads may light
Without the harns.
Granting they shou'd escape the sea,
The stump o' some half broken tree,
May brak a leg, or mak' them dree
A harsher wound ;
And wha wad care - why should they flee
Their native ground.
Had man been form'd for this intent,
Into the warld he had been sent
With spreading wings, and tail as bent
As ony fan :
But restless men are discontent
Wi' nature's plan.
In sic machines I shanna venture ;
And, while I live, be earth my centre :
The Muse will find what can content her,
Whilst clad in clay ;
And hopes one day the heavens to enter,
A safer way.
Our cheap-bought pleasures seldom fail :
The cheering sun, the balmy gale,
The love- sick shepherd's artless tale,
Our bosom warms ;
Ilk burnie wimpling through the dale
For us has charms.
How happy is the lowly hind,
To foreign freaks and fashions blind,
Who lives, as nature first design'd,
A rural life,
Calm and contented is his mind,
And free from strife.
Pleas'd with his humble tranquil lot ;
His wee bit land, and thackit cot ;
Vain fancied wants torment him not ;
Blest is his state :
Frae countless evils far remote,
That plague the great.
ODE TO CHEERFULNESS.
Howthick the shades of ev'ning close,
How dim the sky with weight of snows,
How keen the biting north wind blows
Along the plains ;
The cowrin' birdies breathe their woes,
In mournfu' strains !
Thick blows the drift, the hailstanes rattle,
The herds in the owrie cattle ; pen
A' roun' the fire we're blythe to sattle,
And tell our tale ;
Aft pitying those who bide the brattle
Ofwind and hail.
When surly Winter, fell and doure,
Cleaths wi' his snaws the leafless bower,
Maun I sit lonely and demure
Within my room ?
Has nature then nae kindly power,
To chase the gloom ?
To gi'e the sinking heart a heeze ;
To blunt the pangs of fell disease ;
To teach thae wintry shades to please,
And never cloy ?
Yes, Cheerfulness my heart can ease,
And crown with joy.
Thee I invoke, sweet soothing fair ;
Blink through the low'ring cloud of care ;
Frae the fell clutches ofdespair
Mayst thou defend me;
O keep me canty, late and ear',
And ay befriend me.
Dispel the fears that haunt my breast,
Compose my jarring thoughts to rest,
And, that thy humble bard be blest,
Be thou my stay ;
And ay thy praise shall be express'd
In rustic lay.
Come to my home, O soothing maid,
A humble bard invokes thine aid,
Whose hope is not on riches staid,
Nor fortune's smiles ;
Thou, only thou canst make him glad,
And ease his toils.
O much lov'd fair, by heaven design'd,
To sway the movements ofthe mind,
With health and virtue sweetly join'd
True joy to bring ;
Fly drumly cares, fly with the wind,
On supple wing !
Consoling pow'r ! thy temp'ring hand
The heart's wild passions does command,
And rouse the thoughts, a gleesome band,
Frae envy free :
How douf and dowie would we stand
Deprived of thee?
Sweet guardian o' domestic life,
Kind banisher o' hame- bred strife,
When thou art by, though ills be rife,
I dinna fear :
My prattling weans, and loving wife,
Are ever dear.
Friend to my muse, and a' her train,
Dispel the humours frae my brain ;
With thee I woo the maid again,
Wi' gratefu' heart ;
Tothee we'll raise our proudest strain,
Its weel our part.
Thou mak'st the countenance to shine ;
Each pleasing, lovely thought is thine :
Companion of the tuneful nine,
Do thou inspire
My feeble powers, then thoughts divine
My fancy fire.
When the dull shades of night prevail,
Enliven thou the social tale ;
Preside o'er ev'ry temp'rate meal,
Wi' modest grace :
To pay my thanks I shanna fail,
With smiling face.
By thee, the bards of deathless name
Are crowned with poetic fame :
Look on poor Willie ; grant his claim,
As yet, unkent ;
His dwelling visit, lovely dame,
And shed content.
On friendship's consecrated hour
Thy soul-reviving spirit pour ;
Let melancholy, sad and sour,
Nae mair annoy,
Avaunt thou Cynic, fell, demure,
Nor blast my joy.
Beloved fair ! accept my sang ;
Attend my steps where'er I gang.
Though distant frae the sportive thrang,
And poor my lot,
Blest wi' thy love I'll no think lang,
In my thatch't cot.
When gentle Flora decks the ground,
When Summer sends her smiles around,
When yellow Autumn's fruits abound,
To crown the year ;
When surly Winter's tempests sound ;
My bosom cheer.
THE ONE THING NEEDFUL
TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
DEAR Friend, you crave me for a sang,
And wherefore shou'd ye want it ;
Although the sillar be na thrang,
The favour can be grantit ;
And, as ye're young, ye maun excuse,
Though I shou'd turn adviser,
And some didactic subject chuse,
In hopes to mak' you wiser.
Ye've spent the best part of your youth
Attending school and college ;
But we've learned in the Book of Truth,
That years shou'd add to knowledge.
Let this excuse me, shou'd I try
To warn you of some dangers
That's to be fear'd ; for you and I
Shou'd live on earth as strangers.
Shou'd ye be anxious nowfor fame,
And strive to climb Parnassus,
Ye'll find it but a kittle game
To woo yon liltin' lasses.
Shou'd wealth and honour be your aim,
The aim is to be prized ;
Yet moderation in the same
May safely be advised.
To friendship next shou'd ye resort,
Whatever be your station,
I grant it is a great support,
A darling consolation ;
Of friendless life, how drear the scene!
Of friendship still be heedful ;
But can it make thy mind serene,
Without the One Thing Needful.
Does ease, or literature entice,
Or sweetly smiling woman?
All these I also dearly prize,
But ken ye what is comin' ?
Thae darling comforts soon may fly,
Though to retain them heedful :
But pleasures that can never die
Attend the One Thing Needful.
'Tis not in friendship, nor book lear'
"Tis not in reaming nappy ;
"Tis not in fame, though great our share,
To make us truly happy.
We may be rich, we may be great,
And hae of wit a headfu',
But a' thae gifts are but a cheat,
Without the One Thing Needfu'.
It is the cordial balm o' life,
When evils are besiegin' ;
It shields us frae the warld's strife :
This One Thing is Religion.
Pursuing still some fav'rite plan,
Alas ! we seldom mind it,
Tho' the chief end it is of man
To seek it and to find it.
When jostlin' through life's busy scene,
(O! comrade dear, believe me)
It only can make you serene,
When things occur to grieve ye.
It softens and improves the heart,
It shuns vain ostentation ;
Its joys it freely will impart,
Whatever be your station.
Alane, or in the social thrang,
Let it ay hae dominion,
But let na zealots lead you wrang,
'Bout fanciful opinion :
Of bigots shun the scrimpit creed,
Illiberal, inconclusive ;
Who ca' their sect the truly gueed,
To ithers maist abusive.
Is your religion of the heart ?
It needs na be obtruded,
That charity's its noblest part,
Can never be excluded.
'Bout captious questions many strive,
And spurn at moral strictures ;
In mystic deeps they darkly dive,
And heed not Virtue's Lectures.
Observe yon poor man how he toils ;
Few condescend to mind him ;
No share has he in fortune's smiles,
Yet pleas'd you always find him.
Were his views bounded by this scene,
The prospect wad be dreadful ;
But upright, cheerfu', and serene,
He minds the One thing Needful.
Behold yon Chief, in pomp array'd,
By guards in arms attended ;
To him what deference is paid,
How much is he commended ;
Ambition still his bosom fires ;
Of schemes he has a headfu' ;
At boundless empire he aspires ;
And spurns the One Thing Needfu'.
Beyond this scene he winna see,
But builds without foundation ;
Nor peace nor happiness has he
66 In pomp and ostentation."
Contented wi' my humble cot,
(Though you may doubt my story, )
I wad na swap my peaceful lot,
Wi' a' his boasted glory.
Frae the first page that treats of man,
This lesson we may borrow,
How soon the date of sin began,
Began the date of sorrow.
What strange vicissitudes attend
Man in his present station ?
Deny him heaven in the end,
Illusive is creation.
With this I shall conclude my sang,
(Owre like, you'll say, a sermon, )
If you think I'm advising wrang,
Let riper years determine.
Henceforward, I'm resolv'd, indeed,
To walk, dear friend, more heedful ;
Then hand in hand let us proceed,
And mind the One Thing Needful.
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,
ON THE SCOTTISH DIALECT.
To suit our fashionable times,
A Bard maun now compose his rhymes,
In what is ca'd a pompous style,
Or else they're nae thought worth the while.
Wi' foreign phrases, now we're loaded,
The plain braid Scots is maist exploded,
And unco' little's said or sung,
In honour o❜ our mither tongue.
Tho' matchless Homer sang in Greek,
His mither taught him so to speak ;
Tho' Ovid dealt in Latin strains,
In them tho' Virgil cheer'd the swains,
Consider, Latin was indeed,
As Scots to us, their native leed ;
The leed they us'd, when they were boys,
T'express their sorrows and their joys ;
And when their breasts with rapture glow'd,
In Latin verse their numbers flow'd..
Renowned wits, of every clime,
Fam'd for their works in prose or rhyme,
Ha'e writ the pieces they excel in,
In the same tongue they learn'd to spell in.
Tho' some new-fangled primpit sparks,
May mak' their critical remarks ;
And lisp, and wink, and talk of style,
And at our auld Scots phrases smile ;
When rightly us'd, they'll find, I'll warran,
The leed " right pithy and auld- farran."
In it we brawly can impart,
The nicest feelings of the heart ;
Express our rising thoughts at pleasure
And sing our loves in flowing measure ;
Describe the beauties that adorn,
The verdant fields at rising morn,
The brook meand'ring down the vale,
The artless shepherd's am'rous tale,
The mountain violet's varied hue,
And hare-bells bending with the dew.
While list'ning to the airy throng,
By Nature taught to raise the song,
I'm bauld, forsooth, to tune my reed,
And ape the bards ayont the Tweed.
Tho' hindmost in the Muse's train,
Auld Scotia owns me as her ain ;
And never shall I prove ungratefu',
Acharacter to me most hatefu'.
In troth its like to gar me greet,
When I think of the Poets sweet,
That Caledonia ance cou'd boast,
'Afore her native leed was lost.
A royal Bard ga'e the example,
And penn'd his Christ's Kirk as a sample ;
And who in singing cou'd excel
Fam'd Douglas, Bishop of Dunkel' ?
He timmer'd up, tho' it be lang,
In guid braid Scots, a' Virgil's sang.
Nor can Montgomery be forgot,
Nor Hawthornden, nor pawky Scot ;
Nor he who made the Gowden Terge,
The size contracted-meaning large.
Nor Gilbartfield, a chiel sae clever ; -
Thy fame, O Ramsay, lives for ever!
Nor Ferguson, of sterling glee,
Nor Ross, the Dominie of Lochlee ;
Nor funny Forbes who compos'd
The weel-tauld " Dominie Depos'd ;"
And after made the Grecian Knabs,
To gash sae weel wi' auld Scots gabbs.
"Twad tire a better hand at verse,
The third part o' them to rehearse ;
But I must not forget to name
Our famous Burns of recent fame ;
Howsweet to all the ploughman's songs!
What honour to his name belongs ?
But waes me now, her Bards are scarce ;
And when they hammer out a verse,
"Tis so confounded stiff and primpit,
The deil hae't gin't be worth a limpet.
What tho' we brag of School and College,
And of our speculative knowledge ;
Waes me! for a' our polish'd art,
Our verses never reach the heart ;
In them so little smergh is found,
They're naething but a tinkling sound.
Tho' some may saucily refuse,
To countenance the auld Scots muse ;
Wou'd honest Nature but inspire,
Nae ither help wou'd I desire ;
But in my humble path proceed,
And blithely tune my rustic reed.
Yes, Nature charms in ony style,
And sense is sense, though critics smile.
And sae I am resolv'd, dear Sir,
As lang's I hae a tongue to stir,
To vindicate my honest mither.
Meantime I am your friend and brither.
A DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF FRENCH LIBERTY.
YE Democrats, baith far and near,
Ye true-blue whigs, let fa' a tear,
Ye wise reformers a' appear,
In mournfu' weed,
For liberty, that made sic steer
In France, is dead.
The idol of the people's will,
Her image stood on ilka hill,
Her voice convey'd the law to kill,
Without remead ;
Of constitutions great her skill :
But now she's dead.
Of Frenchmen still the cuckoo sang,
Their only God she was for lang ;
They swore they wadna let her gang,
Come ill, come gueed ;
I kenna how the dryness sprang ;
But now she's dead.
She bragg'd to make a happy nation ;
To bless them with regeneration ;
And free them frae the dire oppression
Of a crown'd head ;
She wrought with bluid and devastation,
But now she's dead.
To guard her rights she had a gullie,
Of which she never was ill-willie,
And sheathed it in each high-born billie,
That cross'd her creed ;
But grew diseas'd and melancholy,
And now she's dead.
When her new principles grew rife,
To put an end to party strife,
The guillotine, that gruesome knife,
Cam' unco speed ;
At last it twin'd hersel' o' life,
And now she's dead.
Though millions swore to her belief,
Yet to her counsels they were deaf,
And made a Corsican their chief,
Who chang'd her creed,
And made the rights of man more brief→
Obey your head."
But it were needless now to scan
The principles o' her daft plan;
The various rights she promis'd man
Sae turn'd his head,
In quest o' novelties he ran :
But now she's dead.
Ye staunch republicans draw near,
Το you her memory was dear,
Shed o'er her corpse, the briny tear,
With downcast head ;
She fell in midst ofher career,
And now she's dead.
TO MY AULD COAT
FAREWELL ! Farewell ! long hast thou worn,
Thoughthread- bare, clouted now, and torn,
A trusty servant, e'en and morn,
To me thou'st been ;
And gratefu' still I winna scorn
My guid auld frien'.
A bield thou wast in stormy weather ;
And mony a blast we've brav'd together ;
And mony a time did I consider,
With dowie mane,
What way I wad procure anither,
Whan thou wast gane.
I ne'er was fond of being braw ;
And poets maun na often fa'
To cast their duddy claise awa',
When they turn bare ;
Their thraldom aften is na sma',
Ere they get mair.
Ance on a day I was right vain
To countenance thee as my ain,
And to protect thee frae the rain,
Wi' jerkin blue,
That stormy weather might na stain
Thy glossy hue.
Corroding time ! thy tooth devours
The brazen walls of massy towers,
And levels potentates and powers
To low estate ;
Nor strength nor beauty here insures
A better fate.
Since the best things decay and rot,
Need I repine that my auld coat,
Is doom'd to share the common lot,
And yield to time :
Like it I soon shall be forgot―
For a' my rhyme.
QUERIES
TO A FRIEND.
WHILE biting Boreas blaws the drift
Ben through the auld stane cottage,
And crabbit mortals, bent on thrift,
'Cry out at labour's stoppage,
I sit down gravely i' the spence,
Aside a bleezing ingle,
And please mysel' at sma' expence,
Wi' auld Scots words that jingle.
Then musing on the days of yore,
When bards were weel respected,
That false refinement I deplore,
By which they are neglected.
How is the bard esteem'd so wrang,
To startle the religious ?
Is it because he likes a sang,
And hates to be litigious ?
Is it because his open face
Or plain speech tells his meaning ?
Is there no mark of inward grace
But hypocritic whining ?
Is it because he wears no cloak,
In hums and ha's confiding ?
Or gives the douse a random joke,
Which he is ill at hiding ?
Is it because his fancy keen
Sometimes usurps dominion ?
Or is't because he's seldom seen
A bigot in opinion ?
Is it because he feels for those
Whom poverty oppresses ?
And, for the rich, when virtue's foes,
A just contempt expresses ?
Is it because he scorns to bow
To Mammon, so enslaving;
And strives to pay what he is due,
Without repeated craving?
Is it because he's sometimes seen
Where few would choose to wander,
And heard conversing aft, atane,
Where limpid brooks meander ?
To sum up a'-What is the cause
He fails in his endeavours,
Either to catch the warl's applause,
Or fortune's fickle favours ?
When death removes him from the shed,
Where honour'd he was never ;
Why are his lilts with rapture read,
His fame prolong'd for ever?
To a' thae queries I expect,
An answer will come duly ;
I'll no be pleas'd gin ye neglect.
Meantime, your friend most truly.
THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
NOVEMBER, 1802.
THIS is the month, the gloomy month ,
Whan wither'd leaves thick fa'in,
Frae stately tree and little shrub,
In swirling heaps are bla'in' :
Whan nipping frosts at morn and eve,
Alternately succeeding,
Bid vegetation tak her leave,
And man seek warmer cleathing.
This is the month, the gloomy month,
Whan pausing care comes hosting ;
Whan nature casts her robes o' green,
Nae mair o❜ vigour boasting :
Whan " Phoebus lags in Thetis lap,"
Right driegh to shaw his face ;
Fu' lang he tak's his mornin' nap,
Too shortly rins his race.
So comes the autumn of this life ;
Thick as the leaves are fa'in',
So fa' the pleasures o' this scene,
Whan adverse winds are bla'in.
Then come the days, the gloomy days,
In which there is no pleasure ;
Days, O how wearisome to those,
Wha trust in earthly treasure ?
That which is changeable maun change :
This truth is past denying.
That which is mortal, wha can doubt
Its certainty of dying?
Yet, still the hoary trifler doats
On things beneath the sun,
Devoted to the present scene
His course is vainly run.
Tho' unenjoyed the present store,
For more he seems to hanker :
He counts wi' glee his sillar o'er,
And strives to fix his anchor.
At last, death comes, unwelcome death
And tears him frae his treasure ;
This ends the date, the short-liv'd date,
Of sublunary pleasure.
Whilst here I view the naked tree,
And mark its leaves thick fleeing,
This lesson it brings home to me,.
The end of mortal being.
That tree, now lifeless, seems to stand,
Its leaves all round consuming ;
But nature soon shall gie command.
To bear a foliage blooming.
I too maun lowly lie in dust,
At my appointed season ;
But shall I never, never rise,
And leave Death's gloomy prison ?
Yes, Resurrection solves the doubt,
And death no more is dreadful,
On endless joys he can compute,
" Who minds the One Thing Needful. ”
Even here, each circling season brings
New pleasures to the man,
Who, ' midst this changing course o' things,
Adopts the perfect plan :
He wi' the honest bard agrees,
That tho' clouds dim our sight,
Yet, wi' respect to Heav'ns decrees,
"Whatever is, is right."
ADDRESS TO POVERTY.
MAUN I ay, thus dool and dreary,
In a land o' plenty pine ?
See myneibors a' sae cheery,
Nae a gloomin' face but mine.
Poverty ! vile worthless fellow,
Thou alane hast bred my waes ?
Made these cheeks sae thin and hallow ;
Gar't me wear these raggit claise.
Lang ye've banish'd frae my dwallin'
Mirth, an' sport, an' social glee ;
Pleasure ne'er has cross'd my hallan,
Sin ye middl'd first wi' me.
Ance I thought Cairnbanno's stipen'
Wad hae ca'd ye frae my door;
But alas ! I find ye're keepin' ,
Closer by me than afore.
Numerous ills thou bring'st me daily,
Ills an' troubles nae that sma' ;
Back cries " give," an' " give, " cries belly,
Till my stipen' wears awa'.
Bairnies greetin' teize their mither,
Seekin' what she canna gie ;
Grieve her heart, till a' thegither,
Greetin', syne they come to me.
Tho' I'd like my wife, dear creature !
Ay sud snod an' bra' be seen ;
Yet what's owr the calls o' nature,
Scarce can had her hale an' clean.
Healthfu' youth, if virtue's pupil,
Soon may rise aboon thy power ;
But sad care lang plagues the couple,
When thou haunt'st the bridal bower.
At my cruzie's blinkin' lowie,
Mony a night when gaed home ;
Hae ye gar't me sit fu' dowie,
Broodin' o'er the ills to come.
When my neibors, a' sae happy,
To the browster wife's repair ;
Fain I'd wi' them taste a drappie,
But I hae nae cash to spare.
Aft I've try'd to climb Parnassus,
But whene'er I gan to tire,
Phoebus wadna len' Pegasus,
'Cause I coudna pay the hire.
When Poetic numbers tryin',
If I reach some raptur'd strain,
Haply hungry infants cryin'
Drive the subject frae my brain,
Poets still, ye lo'e to halt wi',
Britain's bards the truth can tell,
Ilk ane o' them a' ye've dwalt wi',
Frae John Milton to mysell.
He wha sang o' aged Priam,
Now some hun'er towmons dead,
Was as poor and pinch'd as I am,
Even beggit for his bread.
Priests preten' ye keep us humle,
Quenchin' passion's ragin' flame ;
But, I wat, fu' sair they grumle,
When ye cock your lugs at them.
Whate'er cantin' cuifs preten' to,
Yet this truth maun a' admit,
That, where'er ye gang, they've kent o'
Nane but wish'd ye ay to flit.
EPISTLE TO J. C.
THOUGH scrimp o' time it now appears,
And maist unkent to ither,
I mind how in our younger years,
We play'd oursel's thegither.
Then lightly sportin' o' the green,
Wi' tiny elves a' round us,
Our little sportfu' tricks were seen,
Ere care or sorrow found us.
But now engag'd in fortune's strife,
What jarring int'rests teize us ?
The mair we ken of active life,
The less we fin' to please us.
Here we see virtue in distress,
And vice in pomp insulting,
And forming new plans to oppress ;-
In her vain strength exulting.
True, but ayont this chequer'd scene
Our views maun be extended ;
Or how could good men feel serene,
Orjustice be defended ?
A day will come, yes, it will come,
Fan virtue, unassuming,
Shall rise triumphant frae the tomb,
In ceaseless vigour blooming.
Let virtue then our minds adorn :
The upright man walks surely,
Though forc'd to bear the proud man's scorn,
And aft times fare but poorly.
Yes, virtue brings its ain reward,
A secret inward pleasure,
O' which it canna' be debarr'd ;
Then virtue be your treasure.
He who makes poetry his choice,
Against the stream is striving ;
To gain a poor uncertain prize,
He slights the means ofthriving.
I freely own I've woo'd the muse,
Near woody glen and fountain ;
Wi' her I brush'd the early dews,
And clam' the craggy mountain.
But, ah ! like numbers o' her train,
I canna boast her favours :
To soar I hae aspir'd in vain,
But sunk to idle clavers.
Hear the complaints poor bardies make,
Because they are neglected :
Awilder way nae man cou'd take,
Wha hopes to be respected.
When I think o' the time I've lost,
It maks me melancholy,
And what was ance my greatest boast
Is now my greatest folly.
Chagrin'd, I say my muse fareweel !
You're but a twa- fac'd gipsy ;
Aft hast thou gar't me play the feel,
And act as ane that's tipsy.
Gae, luckless muse ! nor fash me mair,
Ye ken I'm past my prime ;
I've woo'd thee till my pow is bare,
And tir'd my friends wi' rhyme.
Gae, and seek out some other fool,
To woo thee night and day ;
And let me doucely mind my school,
And go no more astray.
Ance, twice, fareweel ! my reed I'll rive,
Convinced by my conscience,
That I've been doom'd owr lang to dive
Amangthe floods o' nonsense.
I aft discard her, but how lang ?
She kens the way to please me ;
And comes again wi' some bit sang,
And laughin' tries to reeze me.
What weather- cocks we rhymers are !
A pack o' glaikit mortals,
That wayward fancy hurries far
Awa' frae wisdom's portals.
But to be brief, what's your advice ?
And doubt na but I'll tent it ;
Wou'd rhyme like this gie ony price,
Think ye, gin I wou'd print it ?
Now tell me freely what ye think,
And weigh the matter fairly ;
And by my pen and by my ink,
I vow I'm thine sincerely.
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