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, And sets me a' on flame! 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! 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 WHY, ye tenants of the lake, For me your watery haunts forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Parent, filial, kindred ties ?— Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow's shock. Conscious, blushing for our race, Would be Lord of all below: Plumes himself in freedom's pride, The eagle, from the cliffy brow, But man, to whom alone is given Glories in his heart humane And creatures for his pleasure slain. Where the mossy rivulet strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his powers you scorn: Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, |