ON INVOCATION. __ LET ither bards
exhaust their stock Of heav’nly names, on heav’nly
fo’k, An’ gods an’ goddesses invoke, To guide the pen, While, just as well, a barber’s
block Wou’d ser’ their en’. Nae muse hae I like guid Scotch drink, It mak’s the dormant saul to think, Gars wit and rhyme the-gither
clink, In canty measure, An’ even tho’ ha'f-fou' we
wink, Inspires wi’ pleasure. Whyles dulness stands for modest merit, And impudence for manly spirit; To ken what worth each does inherit, Just try the bottle, Sen’ roun’ the Glass, an’
dinna’ spare it, Ye’ll see their mettle. O would the gods but grant my
wish! My constant pray’r wou’d be for this, That, love sincere, with health
an’ peace, My lot they’d clink in, With now-an’-then the social
joys O’ friendly drinkin’. And when youth’s rattlin’ days
are done, An’ age brings on life’s
afternoon; Then like a summer’s setting
sun, Brightly serene, Smiling look back, an’ slidder
down To
rise again. |