(To Dr. Blacklock)

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kenn’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to; Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye, And then ye’ll do....

But what d’ye think, my trusty fier, I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye’ll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt, But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair; Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme (I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time)— To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.