Poems on several subjects

I see you haslins do incline,
That I should dig into the mine
Of my poetic brain:
But ah! 'tis a' sae overgrown,
And heaps of rubbish tumbled down,
By time's extensive reign;
That perfect mettle to find out
Would be an unca tawing,
'Twould surely cost me many rout,
Great threaping and hard thrawing,
While heching, and peching,
Because I hae nae pith,
To get, Sir, a bit, Sir,
To send to Robert Smith.

You see by this I'm out o' breath:
But, may be, you'll say, That's nae skaith,
By spending breath I live.
Sae is the fate of folk that's auld;
For young folk's clever, stout and bauld,
And will nae mainings give;
Therefore hae wi' ye o'er the hill,
Altho' it be wi' toil,
I'll do my best to shaw good will,
If't were but for a mile.

125

Ken auld dogs are bauld dogs;
They bite sair when they bite:
I'll try, then, if I then
Something to you can write.

I set my fancy on a tow'r,
And bade it round about it glowr,
Some subject to spie out,
That might be fit to send to you:
At last and lang ane came in view;
I caught it by the snout,
And drest it in my liv'ry syne,
And bade it come to you:
E'en take it, tho' it be not fine,
Tho' better be your due.
Uneasie to please ye,
I would do ony thing;
But musty and rusty
I am, and cannot sing.

But I'd say, I'm surpris'd to see
Sae many fools of ilk degree
Among the human race:
For, when I look the warld around,
I cannot see a man that's sound,
And wise in ev'ry case.
For viewing man when he's a child,
He can but girn and greet;
Or when a youth, he's very wild,
And often indiscreet;
Or when, Sir, a man, Sir,
He seldom is content
With what, Sir, good fate, Sir,
Has freely to him lent.

If he shall have a little more
Than what his father had before,
It puffs him up with pride:
For set a beggar on horseback,
The very first course he will tak,
He'll to the devil ride;

126

For beggars they can bear no wealth,
Nor rich to want submit;
And sickness frets the man of health;
For few or none have wit,
To spie out, and try out,
The vanity of things,
Whilk double the trouble
On silly mortals brings.

The worldling he torments himself
With anxious cares to gather pelf,
Perhaps for fremit heirs.
Th'ambitious cuts his way thro' all
Difficulties that may befal,
Thro' seen and unseen snares,
Aspiring to more high degrees
Of honour and renown:
Nor bloody wars, nor raging seas
Can cast his courage down;
Disdaining remaining
In any certain place;
Till he ay shall see ay
The upshot of the case.

The man of pleasure takes his ease;
And, all his appetites to please,
He spares no charge nor cost:
Ne'er minding he account must make;
Such is his folly and mistake,
He gratifies each lust.
Thus ev'ry mortal shews his folly
In less or more degree:
Some overjoy'd, some melancholly;
Some o'ers in all we see;
Exposing, supposing
Their folly to be wise;
While others, e'en brothers,
Such wisdom will despise.

For my part I can easy spy
A mote into my neighbour's eye,
While in my own's a beam;

127

Yet strength of logic never can
Convince me, that I am the man
For folly that's to blame.
As fools are wise in their conceit,
E'en so is all mankind;
As when we reason make submit
To passions of the mind;
'Tis common, that few men
Can their follies spy;
Too late they regrete, ay,
When 'tis past remedy.

I have no time here to enlarge
Upon the follies that I charge
Against the human race:
But as I said, I cannot spy,
In no where that I cast mine eye
One wise in ev'ry case:
For youths they want experience,
Their wisdom is to learn:
And men use little diligence
True wisdom to discern:
The aged's engaged
With great infirmity:
No leisure for pleasure,
Nor wisdom, they can see.

The rich and poor, the high and low,
Respectively their follies show,
So that no man is wise.
The rich and great are proud and vain,
They look on poor men with disdain,
And them in heart despise.
The poor, again's not innocent,
For they're fill'd with envy;
They with their state are discontent,
And fret continually:
Ay grudging, and drudging,
To gain their daily bread;
All wholly in folly
Are plung'd quite o'er the head.

128

Yea, the religious and divines
True solid wisdom undermines,
Their follies glaring be;
For when opinions they espouse,
They tie themselves thereto by vows,
And strong, strong bigotry:
But some, for love of worldly gain,
Would make shipwreck of all;
As they for ever should remain
Upon this earthly ball;
Ne'er dreading, nor heeding.
How life-days slide away,
And death shall their breathes all
Cut, and in dust them lay.

Farewell, my friend: and if your Muse
Had but free scope, which ye refuse,
I would get something more.
But by this stanza I'm confin'd;
My Muse is also out of wind,
And trachl'd very sore;
Therefore upon another pitch,
Where freedom we may find
To write what we incline to touch,
And freely tell our mind.
Adieu, then, to you then;
My Muse is tir'd and bruckle:
Yet duty to you, too,
Obliges Sany Nicol.

University of Virginia Library

Another EPISTLE to Mr Robert Smith.