MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, AULD NIBOR, A BROTHER POET.* I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; O' war❜ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin the words tae gar them clink; This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789. 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, O' rhymin' clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 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 scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie Frae door tae door. THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 'Twas even-the dewy fields were green, All nature listening seemed the while, Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, A maiden fair I chanced to spy; Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in Autumn mild; There all her charms she does compile ; O, had she been a country maid, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day have joys divine, With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! |