epistle to james tennant of glenconner
auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
how's a' the folk about glenconner?
how do you this blae eastlin wind,
that's like to blaw a body blind?
for me, my faculties are frozen,
my dearest member nearly dozen'd.
i've sent you here, by johnie simson,
twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
an' reid, to common sense appealing.
philosophers have fought and wrangled,
an' meikle greek an' latin mangled,
till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
and in the depth of science mir'd,
to common sense they now appeal,
what wives and wabsters see and feel.
but, hark ye, friend! i charge you strictly,
peruse them, an' return them quickly:
for now i'm grown sae cursed douce
i pray and ponder butt the house;
my shins, my lane, i there sit roastin',
perusing bunyan, brown, an' boston,
till by an' by, if i haud on,
i'll grunt a real gospel-groan:
already i begin to try it,
to cast my e'en up like a pyet,
when by the gun she tumbles o'er
flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
sae shortly you shall see me bright,
a burning an' a shining light.
my heart-warm love to guid auld glen,
the ace an' wale of honest men:
when bending down wi' auld grey hairs
beneath the load of years and cares,
may he who made him still support him,
an' views beyond the grave comfort him;
his worthy fam'ly far and near,
god bless them a' wi' grace and gear!
my auld schoolfellow, preacher willie,
the manly tar, my mason-billie,
and auchenbay, i wish him joy,
if he's a parent, lass or boy,
may he be dad, and meg the mither,
just five-and-forty years thegither!
and no forgetting wabster charlie,
i'm tauld he offers very fairly.
an' lord, remember singing sannock,
wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!
and next, my auld acquaintance, nancy,
since she is fitted to her fancy,
an' her kind stars hae airted till her
ga guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.
my kindest, best respects, i sen' it,
to cousin kate, an' sister janet:
tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
for, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;
to grant a heart is fairly civil,
but to grant a maidenhead's the devil.
an' lastly, jamie, for yoursel,
may guardian angels tak a spell,
an' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
but first, before you see heaven's glory,
may ye get mony a merry story,
mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
and aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.
now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you:
for my sake, this i beg it o' you,
assist poor simson a' ye can,
ye'll fin; him just an honest man;
sae i conclude, and quat my chanter,
your's, saint or sinner,
rob the ranter.