Epistle I. To Mr. Thomas Walker 1. GET up my muse, ye lazy jaker, An’ twa three lines together yaker; To ane whilk they ca’ Thamas Walker, A taylor prime. An’ into a’ a wally maker, O’ auld Scotch rhyme. 2. Then up she got as ye will see; She’ll ablins mak’ a fool o’ me, But Tam, gif sic a thing should be, To my weak muse, I really wish and hope that ye Wad grant excuse. 3. In foreign climes I ne’er did stray, The muses nine I ne’er heard play, Nor yet on mount Parnassus lay, Nor ne’er did goam These waters sweet, dear Tam, I say, O’ Helicon. 4. Therefore I’m no a poet bred, But this or now ye ablins dread; Yet Thamas, sometimes in my bed, When drousy een Sleep closely steiks, I try that trade A wi fu’ keen. 5. When I hae sped after some time, To duels like you, I think nae crime Ablins to tell a blaud o’ rhyme; But Thamas, ye At sic like wark I wat are prime – Ye far beat me! 6. Wow man! ye hae some unco turns; I heard some things ye sent to Burns, In whilk ye gae him gay ill purns To rid, I think; But what they were, my muse adjourns To tell distinct. 7. Ye’re no like some that I could name, To please the wicked mak’ their theme; But I am, what though they raise their fame Amang that race; They in the main are unco lame When leant o’ grace. 8. ’Tis strange to hear, how they can tell In verse, whilk they gar soun’ right snell, They’re poets meriting ay hell, By wicked rhymes, An’ to the de’il do sell themsel To please the times. 9. But Tam, sic warks let us forbear, Our time is not to be lang here, We to anither shore maun steer When this life’s doon: O may it be to yon blest sphere; Ayont the moon! 10. But if our muse we wad employ, Then let it be for this, my boy, – Virtue to praise, and vice destroy, As far’s we may. My muse to me is turning coy, Nae mair I say. 11. But wad ye sen’ to me a line Or twa, an’ I wad tak’ it kin’; Me telling gif ye hae got mine, Do, sen’ a letter, An’ for a gill I’ll no decline To be your debtor. JAMES FISHER. Ochiltree, Feb. 11. 1789 |
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