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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,

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Yet some ambitious thoughts I have,

Which will attend me to my grave,
Sic busked baits they lay.

These keep my fancy on the wing,

Something that's blyth and snack to sing,
And smooth the wrinkled brow:

Thus care I happily beguile,

Hoping a plaudit and a smile

Frae best of men, like you.

You, wha in kittle casts of state,
When property demands debate,

Can right what is dung wrang;
Yet blythly can, when ye think fit,
Enjoy your friend, and judge the wit
And slidness of a sang.

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,
How smirky looked the little wight!
And thought itsell a man.

Sic bairns are some, blawn up awee
With splendour, wealth, and quality,
Upon these stilts grown vain ;

They o'er the pows of poor fouk stride,
And neither are to haud nor bide,

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?
Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell;
If thou say'st yes-I'll shaw
Thy picture-means thy silly mind,
Thy wit's a croil, thy judgment blind,
And love worth nought ava.

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
The inferior world do justly bow,

While you're the maist deny'd ;
Yet shall your worth be ever prized,
When strutting naethings are despised
With a' their stinking pride.

This to set aff as I am able,

I'll frae a Frenchman thigg a fable,
And busk it in a plaid;

And though it be a bairn of Motte's *,
When I hae learnt it to speak Scots,

I am its second dad.

"Twa books, near neighbours in a shop,
The tane a gilded Turkey fop,
The tither's face was weather-beaten,
And cauf-skin jacket, sair worm-eaten.
The corky, proud of his bra' suit,
Curled up his nose, and thus cried out:
"Ah! place me on some fresher binks;
Figh! how this mouldy creature stinks!
How can a gentle book like me
Endure sic scoundrel company?
What may fouk say, to see me cling
Sae close to this auld ugly thing;
But that I'm of a simple spirit,

And disregard my proper merit ?"

Quoth grey-beard, Whisht, Sir, with your din;
For a' your meritorious skin,

I doubt if ye be worth within:

Mons. la Motte, who has written lately a curious Collection

For as auld-fashioned as I look,
May be I am the better book.

"O heavens! I canna thole the clash
Of this impertinent auld hash;

I winna stay ae moment langer,'

My Lord, please to command your anger;
Pray let me only tell you that-

"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,
You are the buyer represented;

And, may your servant hope

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