VERSES

WRITTEN ON THE
ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF HIS

POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, TUEN
MARRIED.

ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! — 'tis all cold duty now allows:
And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath the Atlantic roar.

TO J. S****

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!

I owe thee much.

BLAIR.

DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun and moon

And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,

Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry 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 turn'd you aff' 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 fancie yerkite up sublime,

Wi' hasty summon;

Hae ye a leisure moment's time

To hear what's comin?

Some rhyme, a neebor'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,
And damn'd my fortune to the groat
But in requit,

Has bless'd me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,
To try my fate in guid black prent:

But still the mair I'm that way bent,

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,
Hae thought they had insur'd 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 I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights and howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on wi' tentless 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 o'er-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,

Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.

The magic wand then let us wield,
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
See crazy, weary, joyless Eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creepin pace.

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

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

O life! how pleasant in thy morning!
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold, pausing Caution's lessons scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, 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 flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;

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They drink the sweet, and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race
And seize the prey;

Then canie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

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

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with age, obscure an' 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,

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

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds

Till icicles hing frae their beards