Bid fair good-day to pleasure syne, ⚫ Of bonny lasses and red wine. Then deem ilk little care a crime, Dares waste an hour of precious time; And since our life's sae unco short, Enjoy it a', ye've nae mair for't, EPISTLE to the Honourable DUNCAN FORBES of Culloden, Lord Advocate. Written in 1725. In the late edition, in 1800, of Ramsay's Works, this poem is ignorantly dated 1722; although Duncan Forbes was not Lord Advocate till 1725. In 1725, the Pastoral was brought to a conclusion, and first published. SHUT in a closet six foot square, No fash'd with meikle wealth or care, Yet some ambitious thoughts I have, Which will attend me to my grave, These keep my fancy on the wing, Something that's blyth and snack to sing, Thus care I happily beguile, Hoping a plaudit and a smile Frae best of men, like you. You, wha in kittle casts of state, Can right what is dung wrang; How mony, your reverse, unblest, Whase minds gae wandering thro' a mist, 1 Proud as the thief in hell, Pretend, forsooth, they're gentle fouk, 'Cause chance gies them of gear the yowk, And better chiels the shell! I've seen a wean aft vex itsell, And greet, because it was not tall: Heez'd on a board, O than! Rejoicing in the artfu' height, Sic bairns are some, blawn up awee They o'er the pows of poor fouk stride, Now shou'd ane speer, at sic a puff, What gars thee look sae big and bluff? Is't an attending menzie ? Or fifty dishes on your table? Or fifty horses in your stable? Or heaps of glancing cunzie? Are these the things thou ca's thysell? Accept our praise, ye nobly born, Whom Heaven takes pleasure to adorn With ilka manly gift; In courts or camps to serve your nation, Warmed with that generous emulation Which your forbears did lift. In duty, with delight to you While you're the maist deny'd ; This to set aff as I am able, I'll frae a Frenchman thigg a fable, And though it be a bairn of Motte's *, I am its second dad. "Twa books, near neighbours in a shop, And disregard my proper merit ?" Quoth grey-beard, Whisht, Sir, with your din; I doubt if ye be worth within: Mons. la Motte, who has written lately a curious Collection For as auld-fashioned as I look, "O heavens! I canna thole the clash I winna stay ae moment langer,' My Lord, please to command your anger; "What wad this insolent be at? Rot out your tongue-pray, Master Symmer, Remove me frae this dinsome rhymer: If you regard your reputation, And us of a distinguished station, Hence frae this beast let me be hurried, For with his stour and stink I'm worried." "Scarce had he shook his paughty crap, When in a customer did pap; He up douse Stanza lifts, and eyes him, Turns o'er his leaves, admires, and buys him: "This book," said he, " is good and scarce, The saul of sense in sweetest verse.' But reading title of gilt cleathing, Cries, "Gods! wha buys this bonny naithing? Nought duller e'er was put in print: Wow! what a deal of Turkey's tint!" Now, Sir, to apply what we've invented, And, may your servant hope |