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161
TO R. W.
Dear Ritchie,—
Frae the box I've ta'en
A clean new pen, and doun again
I've sat to write—I kenna what—
Perhaps a string o' plain chit-chat;
Frae which a streak o' sense may gleam
At times, like starlight in the stream;
Or which may bear nae proof o' thinkin',
Nor proof o' ought but toilsome clinkin';
But which I ken (whatever shall come),
Wi' you will meet a hearty welcome.
Frae the box I've ta'en
A clean new pen, and doun again
I've sat to write—I kenna what—
Perhaps a string o' plain chit-chat;
Frae which a streak o' sense may gleam
At times, like starlight in the stream;
Or which may bear nae proof o' thinkin',
Nor proof o' ought but toilsome clinkin';
But which I ken (whatever shall come),
Wi' you will meet a hearty welcome.
O happy aye should be that bard
Whase rhyme is ever blithely heard
At ae hearth-side. Wha fills ae heart
Wi' reverence for the glorious art,
Wha aiblins wi' his random rhymes
A glow o' feeling stirs at times,
Or waukens memories sweet and dear,
That dearer grow frae year to year,—
He shouldna grudge the blast o' fame
That wafts afar anither's name,
Nor envy those whose luckier quills
The purse wi' routh o' guineas fills.
While he—alas!
Whase rhyme is ever blithely heard
At ae hearth-side. Wha fills ae heart
Wi' reverence for the glorious art,
162
A glow o' feeling stirs at times,
Or waukens memories sweet and dear,
That dearer grow frae year to year,—
He shouldna grudge the blast o' fame
That wafts afar anither's name,
Nor envy those whose luckier quills
The purse wi' routh o' guineas fills.
While he—alas!
(Here comes the thought
O' every coof that writes for nought.)
Cursed thought! wha wi' a spunk o' soul
O' every coof that writes for nought.)
That thought could for a moment thole?
It dams the flood o' inspiration,
And dooms the Bard to mis-creation.
Sweet Fancy's wings by it are clippit,
Benevolence in the bud is nippit.
Damned thought! Oh! why should bards imbibe it?
Or why should I, a bard, describe it?
163
And in the human pack o' cards
Wha can their proper place assign them?
Shall we wi' Kings and Queens combine them?
Or, wi' sour look and gesture grave,
Gie them a station near the Knave?
Some for themselves can justly claim,
Than kings or queens, a higher name:
To their transcendent genius thrones
Were things too mean for stepping-stones;
While all the rulers of mankind
They measured only by the mind.
Supreme amid creation's plan
They deemed the dignity o' man—
Of man, not in his robe of ermine
(That aften twice has happit vermin),
But man in ought that toil could gain—
In ought that he could ca' his ain.
But there are ithers, meaner things,
Wha see in princes, queens, and kings,
164
Than the great Author o' Creation.
But born to reverence, worship, glory—
Still to this thought they tune their story,
And busily as bee or ant
Still play the supple sycophant;
And bend the knee to all who rule,
No matter whether sage or fool;
And, claiming Bardic recognition,
Provoke the snicker o' derision.
Wi' which o' these, I wonder, Ritchie,
Will the impartial future mix me?
You'll wisely say, “It doesna matter.”
I say, “God keep me frae the latter.”
And noo guid-bye.—May nought distress ye,
May men and angels strive to bless ye—
For compliments I haena room,
But you'll believe me, Yours till doom.
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