 | Poems on several subjects |  |
122
Mr Smith's ANSWER.
Sir,
Your letter I receiv'd of late:
But wow! it was lang after date,
Nae less than se'enteen days:
But when it came, I it perus'd,
And with attention thereon mus'd,
And ponder'd ev'ry phrase;
But yet I still am at a loss
An answer how to send,
Since to my muse 'tis sick a cross
To pen six lines on end;
She haults ay, with faults ay,
And canna' get 'em mended;
Ay skipping and hipping
The words I most intended.
But wow! it was lang after date,
Nae less than se'enteen days:
But when it came, I it perus'd,
And with attention thereon mus'd,
And ponder'd ev'ry phrase;
But yet I still am at a loss
An answer how to send,
Since to my muse 'tis sick a cross
To pen six lines on end;
She haults ay, with faults ay,
And canna' get 'em mended;
Ay skipping and hipping
The words I most intended.
So that I cannot be so kind,
As freely tell you all my mind,
In this my rustic strain.
But only for good manners' sake,
I've sent you here for to inspect
The product of my brain:
The which, no doubt, when you peruse,
You will not much admire;
But if you would lend me your muse,
My genius to inspire,
I then, Sir, would pen, Sir,
An answer that were better:
But fulness of dulness
My senses all do fetter.
As freely tell you all my mind,
In this my rustic strain.
But only for good manners' sake,
I've sent you here for to inspect
The product of my brain:
The which, no doubt, when you peruse,
You will not much admire;
But if you would lend me your muse,
My genius to inspire,
I then, Sir, would pen, Sir,
An answer that were better:
But fulness of dulness
My senses all do fetter.
Whereas, in yours, you counsel me,
In flitting not too rash to be,
But even to stay still
In this sweet place, as ye describe it,
Where all things are for me provided
According to my will:
But will with me's of more extent
Than ever I'll attain;
For which cause I must rest content
And think here to remain,
Ay grudging, and drudging
At my poor slavish trade,
Designing declining't,
If better might be had.
In flitting not too rash to be,
But even to stay still
In this sweet place, as ye describe it,
Where all things are for me provided
According to my will:
123
Than ever I'll attain;
For which cause I must rest content
And think here to remain,
Ay grudging, and drudging
At my poor slavish trade,
Designing declining't,
If better might be had.
You say, a wife's the only thing
That I want here to make me sing,
And live most happily;
Which if it be, I'll look about,
And see if I can find ane out,
That will be fit with me
In sacred wedlock for to join,
And give to me her heart;
Then I'll be her's, and she'll be mine,
Ay until death us part.
If she then, shall be then
According to my mind,
I'll bless her, and kiss her,
And still to her be kind.
That I want here to make me sing,
And live most happily;
Which if it be, I'll look about,
And see if I can find ane out,
That will be fit with me
In sacred wedlock for to join,
And give to me her heart;
Then I'll be her's, and she'll be mine,
Ay until death us part.
If she then, shall be then
According to my mind,
I'll bless her, and kiss her,
And still to her be kind.
My resolutions now you've got;
But whether they be right or not,
I can't tell for my life:
But be's they will, if I be spar'd
But a short while into Kinnaird,
I'll look out for a wife;
Which if my fancy happen right,
And she do not despise me,
I will them bless, both day and night,
Who did at first advise me.
Excuse now, my muse now,
She has not meikle pith,
To write this, nor dite this,
Nor yet hath Robert Smith.
But whether they be right or not,
I can't tell for my life:
But be's they will, if I be spar'd
But a short while into Kinnaird,
I'll look out for a wife;
Which if my fancy happen right,
And she do not despise me,
I will them bless, both day and night,
Who did at first advise me.
Excuse now, my muse now,
She has not meikle pith,
To write this, nor dite this,
Nor yet hath Robert Smith.
124
POSTSCRIPT.
If you think fit to take your pen,And write me something back again,
I kindly will accept the same,
With a' my pith,
And so your servant I remain,
While Robert Smith.
| Poems on several subjects | |