Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
71 . Second Epistle to Davie
A
I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, 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.
Lang may your elbuck jink diddle, To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle O’ war’ly cares; Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs. I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit; An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit Until ye fyke; Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit, Be hain’t wha like. Rivin the words to gar them clink; Wi’ jads or masons; An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Commen’ to me the bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin clink, The devil haet,—that I sud ban— They ever think. Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin, But just the pouchie put the neive in, An’ while ought’s there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’, An’ fash nae mair. 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. The warl’ may play you mony 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 tae door.