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Poem by David Sillar

Epistle to R. Burns


While Reekies Bards your Muse commen,
An praise the numbers o your pen,
Accept this kinly frae a frien,
		Your Dainty Davie,
Wha ace o hearts does still remain,
		Ye may believe me.


I neer was muckle gien to praisin,
Or else ye might be sure o fraisin:
For trouth I think, in solid reason,
		Your kintra reed
Plays sweet as ROBIN FERGUSSON,
		Or his on Tweed. 


Your Luath, Cæsar bites right fair;
An when ye paint the Holy Fair,
Ye draw it to a very hair;
		Or when ye turn,
An sing the follies o the Fair,
		How sweet ye mourn!


Let Coilas plains wi me rejoice,
An praise the worthy Bard, whose lays
Their worth an beauty high doth raise
		To lasting fame;
His works, his worth will ever praise,
		An crown his name.


Wha hae sae lang time filld the Throne
O Poetry, may now ly down
		Quiet i their urns,
Since fame, in justice, gies the crown
		To Coilas BURNS.


Hail! happy Bard! yere now confest
The king o singers i the West:
EDINA hath the same exprest;
		Wi joy they fin
That yere, when tryd by Natures test,
		Gude sterlin coin.


Sing on my frien; your fames securd,
An still maintain the name o Bard;
But yet tak tent an keep a guard:
		For envys tryin
To blast your name; mair just reward
		For the envyin.


But tho the tout o fame may please you,
Letna the flattrin ghaist oerheeze you:
Nier flyte nor fraise tae gar fock roose you:
		For men o skill,
When ye write weel, will always praise you
		Out o gude will.


Great numbers on this earthly ba,
As soon as death gies them the ca,
Permitted are to slide awa
		An straught forgot 
Forbid that ever this should fa
		To be your lot.


I ever had an anxious wish;
Forgive me, Heavn! if twas amiss,
That fame in life my name would bless,
		An kinly save
It from the cruel tyrants crush,
		Beyond the grave.


Tho th fastest liver soonest dies,
An length o days sud mak ane wife;
Yet haste wi speed, to glory rise
		An spur your horse;
Theyre shortest ay wha gain the prize
		Upo the course.


Sae to conclude, auld Frien an Neebor,
Your Muse forgetna weel to feed her,
Then steer thro life wi birr an vigour,
		To win a horn,
Whase soun shall reach ayont the Tiber,
		Mang ears unborn.

David Sillar

Poem Theme: Robert Burns

David Sillar's other poems:
  1. Verses, Occasioned by a Reply to Burns Calf by an Unco Calf
  2. Epistle to J**N G****E, a Famous Theologist and Astronomer
  3. Epistle to the Critics
  4. Song IV
  5. Money Makes the Mare to Go

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