EPISTLE TO DAVIE . A BROTHER POET . January — I. WHILE winds frae off BEN-LOMOND blaw , And bar the doors wi' driving snaw , And hing us owre the ingle , I set me down , to pass the time , And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme , In hamely , westlin jingle . While frosty winds blaw in the drift , Ben to the chimla lug , I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift , That live fae bien an' snug : I tent less , and want less Their roomy fire-side ; But hanker , and canker , To see their cursed pride . II . It's hardly in a body's pow'r , To keep , at times , frae being sour , To see how things are shar'd ; How best o' chiels are whyles in want , While Cooss on countless thousands rant , And ken na how to wair't : But DAVIE lad , ne'er fash your head , Tho' we hae little gear , We're fit to win our daily bread , As lang's we're hale and fier : ' Mair spier na , nor fear na , ' Ramsay . Auld age ne'er mind a feg ; The last o't , the warst o't , Is only but to beg . III . To lye in kilns and barns at e'en , When banes are craz'd , and bluid is thin , Is , doubtless , great distress ! Yet then content could make us blest ; Ev'n then , sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness . The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile , However Fortune kick the ba' , Has ay some cause to smile : And mind still , you'll find still , A comfort this nae sma' ; Nae mair then , we'll care then , Nae farther we can fa' . IV . What tho' , like Commoners of air , We wander out , we know not where , But either house or hal' ? Yet Nature's charms , the hills and woods , The sweeping vales , and foaming floods , Are free alike to all . In days when Daisies deck the ground , And Blackbirds whistle clear , With honest joy , our hearts will bound , To see the coming year : On braes when we please then , We'll sit and sowth a tune ; Syne rhyme till't , well time till't , And sing't when we hae done . V. It's no in titles nor in rank ; It's no in wealth like Lon'on Bank , To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in makin muckle , mair : It's no in books ; it's no in Lear , To make us truly blest : If Happiness hae not her seat And center in the breast , We may be wise , or rich , or great , But never can be blest : Nae treasures , nor pleasures Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay's the part ay , That makes us right or wrang . VI . Think ye , that sic as you and I , Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry Wi' never-ceasing toil ; Think ye , are we less blest than they , Wha scarcely tent us in their way , As hardly worth their while ? Alas ! how aft , in haughty mood , GOD'S creatures they oppress ! Or else , neglecting a' that's guid , They riot in excess ! Baith careless , and fearless , Of either Heaven or Hell ; Esteeming , and deeming , It a' an idle tale ! VII . Then let us chearfu' acquiesce ; Nor make our scanty Pleasures less , By pining at our state : And , ev'n should Misfortunes come , I , here wha sit , hae met wi' some , An's thankfu' for them yet . They gie the wit of Age to Youth ; They let us ken oursel ; 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 nae 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 , The Lover and the Frien' ; Ye hae your MEG , your dearest part , And I my darling JEAN ! It warms me , it charms me , To mention but her name : It heats me , it beets me , And sets me a' on flame ! IX . O , all ye Pow'rs who rule above ! O THOU , whose very self art love ! THOU know'st my words sincere ! The life blood streaming thro' my heart , Or my more dear Immortal part , Is not more fondly dear ! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest , Her dear idea brings relief , And solace to my breast . Thou BEING , Allseeing , O hear my fervent pray'r ! Still take her , and make her , THY most peculiar care ! X. All hail ! ye tender feelings dear ! The smile of love , the friendly tear , The sympathetic glow ! Long since , this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days , Had it not been for you ! Fate still has blest me with a friend , In ev'ry care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band , A tye more tender still . It lightens , it brightens , The tenebrisic scene , To meet with , and greet with , My DAVIE or my JEAN ! XI . O , how that name inspires my style ! The words come skelpan , rank and file , Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine , As Phœbus and the famous Nine Were glowran owre my pen . My spavet Pegasus will limp , Till ance he's fairly het ; And then he'll hilch , and stilt , and jimp , And rin an unco fit : But least then , the beast then , Should rue this hasty ride , I'll light now , and dight now , His sweaty , wizen'd hide .