Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, An' if impertinent I've been, Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye.
Auld Neibour, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrant, 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.
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, Lang may your elbuck jink diddle, To cheer you thro' the weary widdle O' war'ly cares; Till barins' barins kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit; An, gif it's sae, ye sud by lickit Until ye fyke; Sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like.
For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin the words to gar them clink; Whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whiles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons.
Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' to me the bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin clink, The devil haet,--that I sud ban-- They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin, Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin, But just the pouchie put the neive in, An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure; At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie: The warl' may play you mony a shavie; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie Frae door tae door.
Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning. Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them; Her smile is as the evening mild, When feather'd pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting.