And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, For which they never toil d nor fwat ; They drink the fweet and eat the fat, No care or pain;. And, haply, eye the barren hut With high difdain, With fteady aim, fome Fortune chafe ; Keen Hope does every finew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And feize the prey: Then canie, in fome cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble fervan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads obfervin; To right or left, eternal fwervin, They zig-zag on; Till curft with age, obfcure an' ftarvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' ftrainingBut truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waining? E'en let her gang! Beneath what light fhe has remaining, Let's fing our fang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore, Tho' fhould wander Terra o'er, • Grant me but this, I afk no more, In all her climes, Ay rowth o' rhymes. Gie dreeping roafts to contra Lairds, •And Maids of honour, And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, Until the fconner. In cent. per cent; But give me real, Sterling Wit, And I'm content. While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,. Wi' chearfu face, As lang's the mufes dinna fail To fay the grace.' An' anxious e'e I never throws As weel's I may; Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Profe, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tidelefs-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike!' Your hearts are just a ftaading pool, In Your lives a dyke! Nae hair brain'd, fentimental traces your unlettered, nameless faces! In ariofo thrills and graces Ye never ftray, Ye hum away. But graviffime, folemn bases Ye are fae grave, nae doubt ye're wife; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-fcairum, ram ftam boys, The rattling fquad : I fee ye upward caft your eyes- Ye ken the road Whilft I-but I fhall haud me there Wi you I'll fcarce gang ony where— Then Jamie, I shall fay nae mair, But quat my fang, Content with You to mak a pair, Where'er I gang. A DRE A M, Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reafon; But furely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treafon. [On reading, in the public papers, the laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the Author was no fooner dropt afleep, than he imagined. himself transported to the Birth day Levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] GJID-M 1. JID-MORNIN to your Majefly! May Heaven augment your bliffes. On every new Birth-day ye see, An humble Bardie wishes! My Bardhip here at your Levee, Sae fiue this day. |