Epistle To James Smith(1/4)
epistle to james smith
friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
i owe thee much—blair.
dear smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief,
that e'er attempted stealth or rief!
ye surely hae some warlock-brief
owre human hearts;
for ne'er a bosom yet was prief
against your arts.
for me, i swear by sun an' moon,
an' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
just gaun to see you;
an' ev'ry ither pair that's done,
mair taen i'm wi' you.
that auld, capricious carlin, nature,
to mak amends for scrimpit stature,
she's turn'd you off, a human creature
on her first plan,
and in her freaks, on ev'ry feature
she's wrote the man.
just now i've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
my barmie noddle's working prime.
my fancy yerkit up sublime,
wi' hasty summon;
hae ye a leisure-moment's time
to hear what's comin?
some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;
some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
some rhyme to court the countra clash,
an' raise a din;
for me, an aim i never fash;
i rhyme for fun.
the star that rules my luckless lot,
has fated me the russet coat,
an' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
but, in requit,
has blest me with a random-shot
o'countra wit.
this while my notion's taen a sklent,
to try my fate in guid, black prent;
but still the mair i'm that way bent,
something cries “hooklie!”
i red you, honest man, tak tent?
ye'll shaw your folly;
“there's ither poets, much your betters,
far seen in greek, deep men o' letters,
hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
a' future ages;
now moths deform,
friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
i owe thee much—blair.
dear smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief,
that e'er attempted stealth or rief!
ye surely hae some warlock-brief
owre human hearts;
for ne'er a bosom yet was prief
against your arts.
for me, i swear by sun an' moon,
an' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
just gaun to see you;
an' ev'ry ither pair that's done,
mair taen i'm wi' you.
that auld, capricious carlin, nature,
to mak amends for scrimpit stature,
she's turn'd you off, a human creature
on her first plan,
and in her freaks, on ev'ry feature
she's wrote the man.
just now i've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
my barmie noddle's working prime.
my fancy yerkit up sublime,
wi' hasty summon;
hae ye a leisure-moment's time
to hear what's comin?
some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;
some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
some rhyme to court the countra clash,
an' raise a din;
for me, an aim i never fash;
i rhyme for fun.
the star that rules my luckless lot,
has fated me the russet coat,
an' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
but, in requit,
has blest me with a random-shot
o'countra wit.
this while my notion's taen a sklent,
to try my fate in guid, black prent;
but still the mair i'm that way bent,
something cries “hooklie!”
i red you, honest man, tak tent?
ye'll shaw your folly;
“there's ither poets, much your betters,
far seen in greek, deep men o' letters,
hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
a' future ages;
now moths deform,
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