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Şix bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn’d o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Grenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink :-Craigdarroch, thoult soar when creation shall

sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more—and have at the sublime !

w 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 day!"

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET*.

Auld Nibor,

I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared in our author's printed poemas.

Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun ser.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war'ly cares, 'Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit ;
An' gif its ske, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, Rivin the words to gar them clink; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi’ jads or masons ; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to 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 nieve in,

An' while ought's there, Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure, My chief, amajst 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 dainty Davie : The warl may play you monie a shavie; But for the muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

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