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The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con
tend? Though fate said,-a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the
Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink :“ Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall
sink ! « But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, « Comeone bottle more-and have at the su
« blime !
Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with
“ BRUCE, “Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: “ So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; “ The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of
A BROTHER POET*.
debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter
Some less maun sair.
* This is prefixed to the Porms of David Sillar, publish. ed at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared in our author's printed poems.
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
O’ warly cares,
Your auld, gray hairs.
But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
Be hain't wha like.
For me, I'm on Parnassus brink,
Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban,
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin',
An' fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure,
The muse, poor hizzie ! Tho'rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.
Haud tae the muse, my dainty Davie:
Tho' e'er sae puir,
Frae door tae door.