Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 'Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! 'Guilt, erring man, relenting view! 'But shall thy legal rage pursue 'The wretch, already crushed low 'By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? "Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 'A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impress'd my mind- The heart, benevolent and kind, The most resembles God. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.* January I. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set 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. E. While frosty winds blaw 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, But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: III. To lie 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, •Ramsay. However fortune kick the ba,' Nae farther can we fa'. IV. What tho', like commoners of air, Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, On braes when we please, then, Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till❜t, 4. It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, It's no in makin muckle mair : 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 and drive thro' wet and dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless, and fearless Of either heav'n or hell! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, VIII. 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; 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, And sets me a' on flame! IX. O' all ye pow'rs who rule above! Her dear idea brings relief O hear my fervent pray'r; VOL. XXXVIII. |