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

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

Some less maun sair.

Hale

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

E.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' 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 sae, ye sud be lickit

Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns 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;
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

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 scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay 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 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’ limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

APPENDIX.

APP E N D I X.