Nae treasures, nor pleasures, That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcly tent us in their way, Baith careless and fearless Of either heav'n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It's a' an idle tale! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses and crosses Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find na other where. VIII. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry 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, 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' IX. O, all ye Pow'rs who rule above! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief O hear my fervent pray'r: X. All hail, ye tender feelings dear! Long since, this world's thorny ways Fate still has blest me with a friend, And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens, To meet with, and greet with, XI. O, how that name inspires my style! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus and the famous Nine And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit: But lest then, the beast then, Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin the words tae gar them clink; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, O' rhymin' clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure, Tho' rough an raploch be her measure, Haud tae the Muse, my daintie Davie! The warl' may play you monie a shavie, But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir; Na, ev'n tho' limpin wi' the spavie Frae door to door. 15 |