It's hardly in a body's power To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shared ; But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, Auld age ne'er mind a feg; To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin, Is doubtless great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; E'en then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has aye some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. Epistle to Davie. What though, like commoners of air, But either house or hall? Yet nature's charms-the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods- In days when daisies deck the ground, With honest joy our hearts will bound On braes, when we please, then, It's no in titles nor in rank, It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest: It's no in making muckle mair ; To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang: Think ye that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they As hardly worth their while? Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell! Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale! Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Though losses and crosses Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where. Epistle to Davie. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flattery I detest.) This life has joys for you and I, And joys that riches ne'er could buy, And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover and the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, It heats me, it beets me, Oh, all ye powers who rule above! Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, all-seeing, Oh, hear my fervent prayer! Thy most peculiar care! All hail! ye tender feelings dear! The sympathetic glow! Long since, this world's thorny ways Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with Oh, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin', rank and file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowerin' owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, . Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, And rin an unco fit: But lest then, the beast then, Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now |