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Poem by Robert Burns

Second Epistle To Davie


IM three times doubly oer your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frienly letter;
Tho I maun say t, I doubt ye flatter,
    Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir. silly, rhymin clatter
    Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
    O warly cares,
Till bairns bairns kindly cuddle
    Your auld gray hairs.

But Davis, lad, Im red yere glaikit;
Im tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An gif its sae, ye sud be lickit
    Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud neer be faikit,
    Be haint wha like.

For me, Im on Parnassus brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;
Whyles dazed wi love, whyles dazed wi drink,
    Wi jads or masons;
An whyles, but aye owre late, I think
    Braw sober lessons.

Of a the thoughtless sons o man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
    O rhymin clink,
Tho devil-haet, that I sud ban,
    They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
    An while oughts there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin,
    An fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! its aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel, at wark, or leisure,
    The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho rough an raploch be her measure,
    Shes seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, shell never leave ye,
    Tho eer sae puir,
Na, even tho limpin wi the spavie
    Frae door to door.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. The Sailors Song
  2. Evan Banks
  3. The Rantin Dog the Daddie Ot
  4. Had I The Wyte
  5. The Fete Champetre

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