DEAR SMITH, the sleest, pawkie thief,
That eer attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For neer a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an moon,
An evry star that blinks aboon,
Yeve cost me twenty pair o shoon,
Just gaun to see you;
An evry ither pair thats done,
Mair taen Im wi you.
That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
Shes turnd you off, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on evry feature
Shes wrote the Man.
Just now Ive taen the fit o rhyme,
My barmie noddles working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
Wi hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moments time
To hear whats comin?
Some rhyme a neibors name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra 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 damnd my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot
Ocountra wit.
This while my notions taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair Im that way bent,
Something cries Hooklie!
I red you, honest man, tak tent?
Yell shaw your folly;
Theres ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o letters,
Hae thought they had ensurd 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!
Henceforth Ill rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin thrang,
An teach the lanely heights an howes
My rustic sang.
Ill wander on, wi tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
Ill lay me with th inglorious dead
Forgot and gone!
But why o death being a tale?
Just now were living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care oer-side!
And large, before Enjoyments gale,
Lets tak the tide.
This life, sae fars I understand,
Is a enchanted fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu light.
The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an-fortys speeld,
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi wrinkld face,
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
We creepin pace.
When ance lifes day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, 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 morning,
Young Fancys rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Cautions lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at th expected warning,
To joy an play.
We wander there, 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 flowry spot,
For which they never toild nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.
With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does evry sinew brace;
Thro fair, thro foul, they urge the race,
An seize the prey:
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan,
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
To right 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 complaining!
Is fortunes fickle Luna waning?
En let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Lets sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, ye Powrs! and warm implore,
Tho I should wander Terra oer,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o rhymes.
Gie dreepin roasts to countra 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 sconner.
A title, Dempster 1 merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledgerd cit,
In cent. per cent.;
But give me real, sterling wit,
And Im content.
While ye are pleasd to keep me hale,
Ill sit down oer my scanty meal,
Bet water-brose or muslin-kail,
Wi cheerfu face,
As langs the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace.
An anxious ee I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortunes blows
As weels I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm ancool,
Compard wi youO fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-braind, sentimental traces
In your unletterd, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray;
But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt yere 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 Ibut I shall haud me there,
Wi you Ill scarce gang ony where
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi you to mak a pair.
Whareer I gang.
Note 1. George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P. [back]