EPISTLE, TO W. TH*M**N. JUNE, 1805. ___ DEAR WILL, my much respected frien’, I
send you this to let you ken, That,
tho’ at distance fate hath set you, Your
frien’s in P—sl-y don't forget you: But
often think on you, far lone, Amang the braes of Overton. Our social club continues yet, Perpetual
source of mirth an’ wit, Our
rigid rules admit but few, Yet,
still we’ll keep a chair for you. A country life I’ve oft envied, Where
love, an’ truth, and peace preside; Without
temptations to allure, Your days glide on
unstain’d an’ pure; Nae
midnight revels waste your health, Nor
greedy landlord drains your wealth, Ye’re
never fash’t wi’ whisky fever, Nor
dizzy pow, nor dulness ever, But
breathe the halsome calor air, Remote
from aught that genders care. I needna’ tell you how much I lang To
hear your rural Socttish sang; To
hear you sing your heath-clad braes, Your
jocund nights, an’ happy days; An’
lilt wi’ glee the blythsome morn, When
dew-draps pearl every thorn; When
larks pour forth the early sang, An’
lintwhites chant the whins amang, An
pyats hap frae tree to tree, Teachin’
their young anes how to flee, While
frae the mavis to the wren, A’
warble sweet in bush or glen-- In town we scarce can fin’ occasion, To
note the beauties o’ creation, But
study mankind’s diff’rent dealings, Their
virtues, vices, merits, failings, Unpleasing
task, compar’d wi’ yours’, Ye
range the hills ’mang mountain-flow’rs, An’
view, afar, the smoky town, More
blest than all it’s riches were your own. A lang Epistle I might scribble, But
aiblins ye will grudge the trouble, Of
readin’ sic low, hamert rhyme, An’
sae it’s best to quat in time, Sae,
I, with soul sincere an’ fervent, Am still, your trustful friend an’ servant. |