Robert Burns

Second Epistle To Davie

  AULD NEIBOR

I’M three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly 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’ war’ly cares,
Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
    Your auld gray hairs.

But Davis, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit
    Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit,
    Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m 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 ought’s there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
    An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s 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,
    She’s seldom lazy.

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