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Poem by William MVitie

An Epistle to David Crawford

When ither people jaw away
About politics o the day,
Or how the French an Austrian play
	Do oft rehearse,
Accept frae me this faint essay,
	In rustic verse.

I hail thee, poet frae the Tweed,
Who now tunes up thy aiten reed
At Caledonias fountain-head
	In sonnets fine,
Wi a my heart I wish thee speed,
	In thy design.

Now, low amang surrounding urns,
Caul i the dust lies Robie Burns; 
While for his loss auld Scotia mourns,
	And rives her duds, 
His names high risen to the starns,
	Aboon the cluds.

Then, Crawford, follow his example, 
An oer inferior poets trample, 
Neer stan at mountain, hill, or humple,
	Tween you an fame, 
But shaw the listning world a sample,
	Will raise your name.

I hae nae time a deal to say, 
But for you Ill sincerely pray, 
As lang as Phœbus shines by day,
	And night is dark, 
Famd be the bard that rhimd away
	At Heriots Wark.

Lang as the ocean swells in waves, 
Lang as the harvest mows the sheaves, 
Lang as the oak produces leaves,
	And tanners bark,
May Crawfords name the bard survive,
	Of Heriots Wark. 

As lang as I can blaw my nose,
Or scart a cog o oat-meal brose,
As lang as eer anithers woes
	Excite my pity,
Till Death at last my een shall close,

Leith, Oct. 31.

William MVitie

William MVitie's other poems:
  1. Whisky

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