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EPISTLE TO WILLIAM WYLIE.

January, 1806.
Dear kindred saul, thanks to the cause
First made us ken each ither;
Ca 't fate, or chance, I carena whilk,
To me it brought a brither.
Thy furthy, kindly, takin' gait;—
Sure every gude chiel' likes thee,
And bad luck wring his thrawart heart
Wha snarling e'er would vex thee.
Though mole-ey'd Fortune's partial hand
O' clink may keep thee bare o't;
Of what thou hast, pale Misery
Receives, unask'd, a share o't.
Thou gi'est, without ae hank'rin' thought,
Or cauld, self-stinted wish;
E'en winter-finger'd Avarice
Approves thee with a blush.
115

If Grief e'er make thee her pack-horse,
Her leaden load to carry 't,
Shove half the burden on my back,
I 'll do my best to bear it.
Gude kens we a' ha'e faults enou',
'Tis Friendship's task tae cure 'em,
But still she spurns the critic view,
An' bids us to look o'er 'em.
When Death performs his beadle part,
An' summons thee to heaven,
By virtue of thy warm, kind heart,
Thy faults will be forgiven.
And shouldst thou live to see thy friend
Borne lifeless on the bier,
I ask of thee, for epitaph,
One kind, elegiac tear.
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