1785

  epistle to davie, a brother poet

  january

  while winds frae aff ben-lomond blaw,

  an' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

  an' hing us owre the ingle,

  i set me down to pass the time,

  an' 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 sae bien an' snug:

  i tent less, and want less

  their roomy fire-side;

  but hanker, and canker,

  to see their cursed pride.

  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 whiles in want,

  while coofs 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,”

  auld age ne'er mind a feg;

  the last o't, the warst o't

  is only but to beg.

  to lie 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