EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

"Yet all beneath th' unrivalled rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows:

Though large the forest's monarch throws
His army shade,

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows

Adown the glade.

"Then never murmur or repine;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor kings' regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,
A rustic Bard.

"To give my counsels all in one-
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ;
Preserve the Dignity of Man,

With soul erect;

And trust the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

"And wear thou this "-she solemn said,

head:

And bound the holly round my
The polished leaves, and berries red,
Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

237

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.1

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul !
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society !
I owe thee much!-BLAIR.

DEAR Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,

'James Smith was a merchant at Mauchline, and an early friend

of Burns.

2 Cunning.

238

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

Ye surely ha'e some warlock-breef,

Owre human hearts;

1

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 1

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And every star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair of shoon

Just gaun to see you ;

And every ither pair that's done,

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turned you aff, a human creature
On her first plan;

And in her freaks, on every 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 :

Ha'e 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' damned my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,1
To try my fate in guid black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

239

Something cries "Hoolie!"

I rede 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,
Ha'e thought they had ensured their debtors,
A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters

Their unknown pages."

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth Ill rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless 3 heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale ?
Just now we're living sound and hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

Heave care owre side!

And large before enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak' the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand

That, wielded right,

Mak's hours like minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

'Slant.

2 Care.

3 Careless,

240

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

The magic wand, then, let us wield;
For, ance that-five-an'-forty's speeled,
See crazy, weary, joyless eld,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin, hirplin', ower the field,

Wi' creeping pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloaming'.
Then fareweel vacant, careless roaming';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant is thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning !
Cold-passing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And though the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot,

For which they never toiled nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

1 But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

With steady aim some Fortune chase;

Keen hope does every sinew brace ;

Through fair, through foul, they urge the race,

And seize the prey;

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

I Without,

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin';
To right or left eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on;

'Till curst with age, obscure and starvin',

They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining—
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining

Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

241

And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore, "Though I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more.

A rowth o' rhymes.

Gi'e dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards:
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards

And maids of honour:

And yill an' whiskey gi'e to cairds?

Until they sconner.3

"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gi'e to Willie Pitt;

Gi'e wealth to some be-ledgered cit,