Where Pleasure is the magic wand Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, The magic wand then let us wield, Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' fareweel dear, deluding Woman, O life! how pleasant in thy morning! Like school-boys, at th' expected warning We wander there, we wander here, And, though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, For which they never toil'd nor swat; They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. ; With steady aim, some Fortune chase Then canie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, Alas! what bitter toil an' straining — E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore, "Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, "Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds Till icicles hing frae their beards. Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-Guards, And yill an' whiskey gie to Cairds, "A title, Dempster merits it; But gie me real, sterling wit, And I'm content. "While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, As lang's the Muses dinna fail An anxious e'e I never throws Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Your hearts are just a standing pool; Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; I see you upward cast your eyes- Whilst I but I shall haud me there Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where; Content wi' you to mak a pair, WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I sit me down to pass the time, In hamely westlin jingle. David Sillar, one of the Club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, I tent less, and want less, But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't: But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, Auld age ne'er mind a feg, Is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' * Ramsay |