EPISTLE, TO W. W*L*E. JAN. 1806. __ DEAR
KINDRED SAUL, thanks to the cause First made us ken each ither, Ca’t fate, or chance, I carena’
whilk, To me it brought a brither. Thy furthy, kindly, takin’
gait;-- Sure every gude chiel’ likes thee, An’ bad-luck wring
his thrawart heart, Wha’ snarling e’er wou’d vex thee. Tho’ mole-e’e’t fortune’s partial band, O’ clink may keep thee bare o’t; Of what thou hast, pale misery Receives, unask’d,
a share o’t. Thou gi’es’t without ae
hank’rin’ thought, Or cauld, self-stinted wish; E’en winter finger’d avarice, Approves thee with a blush. If grief e’er make thee her pack-horse, Her leeden-load to carry’t, Shove ha’f the burthen on my
back, I’ll do my best to bear it. Gude kens we a’ hae fau’ts
enew, ’Tis friendship’s task to cure ’em, But still she spurns the critic-view, An’ bids us to look o'er ’em. When death performs his
beadle-part, An’ summons thee to heaven, By virtue of thy warm kind
heart, Thy fau’ts will
be forgiven. And should’st thou live to see
thy friend, Borne lifeless on the bier, I ask of
thee, for Epitaph, One kind elegiac tear. |