EPISTLE, TO J. SC*DL**K. On receiving from him
a small MS. volume of original Scottish Poems. APRIL. 1803. __ WHILE college’d Bard bestride Pegassus, An’ try to gallop up Parnassus, By dint o’ meikle lear, The lowe
o’ friendship fires my saul, To write you this poetic
scrawl,-- Prosäic
dull I fear! But, weel I ken,
your gen’rous heart Will overlook its failings, An’ whare the Poet has come short, Let friendship cure his ailings, ’Tis kin’, man,
divine, man, To hide
the fau’t we see, Or try to men’t, as
far’s we kent, Wi’ true
sincerity. This last observe, brings’t i’
my head, To tell you here my social creed, Let’s use a’ mankind weel, An’ ony sumph wha’d use us ill, Wi’ dry contempt let’s treat
him still, He’ll feel it warst himsel’: I never flatter--praise but rare, I scorn a double part; An’ when I speak, I speak sincere, The dictates o’ my heart; I truly hate the
dirty gait, That mony
a body tak’s, Wha fraise ane syne
blaze ane As soon’s
they turn their backs. In judging, let us be right
hooly, I’ve heard some fouks descant
sae freely, On ither people’s matters, As if themsel’s war’ real
perfection, When had they stood a fair
inspection, Th’ abus’d war’ far their betters: But gossips ay man hae their crack, Though moralists should rail, Let’s end the matter wi’
this fact, That, goodness pays itsel’. The joys, man, that
rise, man, To ane
frae doing weel, Are siccan joys that
harden’d vice Can seldom ever feel. O Jamie, man! I’m proud to see’t, Our ain auld muse yet keeps her
feet, ’Maist healthy as before; For sad predicting fears
fortauld, When ROBIN’S glowing heart turn’d
cauld, Then a’ our joys war’ o'er, (Ilk future Bard revere
his name, Through thousand years to come, And though we cannot reach his fame, Busk laurels round his tomb:) Yet though he’s dead,
the Scottish reed, This mony
a day may ring, In L*v*st*n, in
A*d**s*n, In Sc*dl*ck, and in K**g. “The Tap-room”--what
a glorious treat! “Complaint and wish”--how
plaintive sweet! “The
Weaver’s” just “Lament.” “The Gloamin’ fragment”--how divine! There nature speaks in every
line, The Bard’s immortal in’t! yon “Epigram on Jeanie L--g.” Is pointed as
the steel. An’ “Hoot!
ye ken’ yoursel’s” a sang Would pleas’d e’en Burns himsel’! Let snarling, mean
quar’ling, Be doubly
d--d henceforth, And let us raise the
voice of praise, To hearten modest worth. And you, my dear respected
frien’, Your “Spring’s” a precious ever-green, Fresh beauties budding still. Your “Levern Banks,” an’ “Killoch
Burn,” Ye sing them wi’ sae sweet a
turn, Ye gar the heart-strings thrill. “October
winds”--e’en
let them rave, With nature-blasting howl, If in return kind heaven give The sunshine of the soul: The feeling heart
that bears a part, In
others’ joys and woes, May still depend to
find a friend, Howe’er
the tempest blows. Yet, lang
I’ve thought, and think it yet, True friends are rarely to be met, Wha share in ithers’ troubles, Wha jointly joy, or drap the
tear Reciprocal--and kindly bear Wi’ ane anither’s foibles, Ev’n such a friend I once could boast, Ah! now
in death he’s low-- But fond anticipation hopes For such a
friend in you. Dear Jamie forgi’e me, That last
presumptive line See--here’s my hand at your command, Ye hae my heart langsyne. |