Epistle To James Smith
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epistle to james smith friendship, mysterious t of the soul! sweet'ner of life, and solder of society! i owe thee much—blair. dear smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief, that e'er attempted stealth or rief! ye surely hae some warlock-brief owre humas; for ne'er a bosom yet rief against your arts. for me, i swear by sun an' moon, an' ev'ry star that blinks aboon, ye've e twenty pair o' shoon, just gaun to see you; an' ev'ry ither pair that's done, mair taen i'm wi' you. that auld, capricious carlin, nature, to mak amends for scrimpit stature, she's turn'd you off, a humaure on her first plan, and in her freaks, on ev'ry feature she's wrote the man. just now i've ta'e o' rhyme, my barmie noddle's w prime. my fancy yerkit up sublime, wi' hasty summon; hae ye a leisure-moment's time to hear what's in? some rhyme a neibor's o lash; some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; some rhyme to court the tra clash, an' raise a din; for me, an aim i never fash; i rhyme for fun. the star that rules my luckless lot, has fated me the russet coat, an' damn'd my fortuo the groat; but, i, has blest me with a random-shot o'tra wit. this while my notion's taen a sklent, to try my fate in guid, black prent; but still the mair i'm that way bent, something cries “hooklie!” i red you, ho man, tak tent? ye'll shaw your folly; “there's ither poets, much your betters, far seen in greek, deep men o' letters, hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, a' future ages; now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, their unknown pages.” then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs, to garland my poetic brows! heh i'll rove where busy ploughs are whistlin' thrang, an' teach the lanely heights an' howes my rustig. i'll wander on, wi' tentless heed how never-halting moments speed, till fate shall snap the brittle thread; then, all unknown, i'll lay me with th' inglorious dead fot and gone! but why o' death being a tale? just now we're living sound and hale; then top and maintop crowd the sail, heave care o'er-side! and large, before enjoyment's gale, let's tak the tide. this life, sae far's i uand, is a' ented fairy-land, where pleasure is the magid, that, wielded right, maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, dance by fu' light. the magid the us wield; for ahat five-an'-forty's speel'd, see, crazy, weary, joyless eild, wi' wrinkl'd face, es hostin, hirplin owre the field, we' creepin pace. when ance life's day draws he gloamin, then fareweel vat, careless roamin; an' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, an' social noise: an' fareweel dear, deluding woman, the joy of joys! o life! how pleasant, in thy m, young fancy's rays the hills ad! cold-pausing caution's lesson sing, we frisk away, like school-boys, at th' expected warning, to joy an' play. we wahere, we wander here, we eye the rose upon the brier, unmindful that the thorn is near, among the leaves; and tho' the puny wound appear, short while it grieves. some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, for which they oil'd nor swat; they drink the sweet ahe fat, but care or pain; and haply eye the barren hut with high disdain. with steady aim, some fortune chase; keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, an' seize the prey: then ie, in some cozie place, they close the day. and others, like your humble servan', phts! nae rules nor roads observin, tht or left eternal swervin, they zig-zag on; till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin, they aften groan. alas! what bitter toil an' straining— but truce with peevish, poor plaining! is fortune's fickle luna waning? e' her gang! beh what light she has remaining, let's sing our sang. my pen i here fling to the door, and kneel, ye pow'rs! and warm implore, “tho' i should waerra o'er, in all her climes, gra this, i ask no more, aye rowth o' rhymes. “gie dreepin roasts to tra lairds, till icicles hing frae their beards; gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, and maids of honour; an' yill an' whisky gie to cairds, until they ser. “a title, dempster merits it; a garter gie to willie pitt; gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, i. per t.; but give me real, sterling wit, and i'm tent. “while ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, i'll sit down o'er my sty meal, be't water-brose or muslin-kail, wi' cheerfu' face, as lang's the muses dinna fail to say the grace.” an anxious e'e i hrows behint my lug, or by my nose; i jouk beh misfortune's blows as weel's i may; sworo sorrow, care, and prose, i rhyme away. o ye douce folk that live by rule, grave, tideless-blooded, calm an'cool, par'd wi' you—o fool! fool! fool! how mulike! your hearts are just a standing pool, your lives, a dyke! nae hair-brain'd, seal traces in your uer'd, nameless faces! in arioso trills and graces ye ray; but gravissimo, solemn basses ye hum away. ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; nae ferly tho' ye do despise the hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, the rattling squad: i see ye upward cast your eyes— ye ken the road! whilst i—but i shall haud me there, wi' you i'll scarce gang ony where— then, jamie, i shall say nae mair, but quat my sang, tent wi' you to mak a pair. whare'er i gang.