Classic Poem

I tell ye what! twixt frien' an' frien',
I dinna like the siller pen.
An', sin' my reason ye wad ken,
Tho' odd enough, I 'll gie it.
It is too perfect — ilka part
It does, is wi' sic care an' art,
There's nae a particle o' heart
Or feelin' gangin wi' it!

'T is nae the siller I despise;
For poortith loud an' daily cries;
An', if I had but mair supplies,
I 'd then feel a' the better.
But, tho' 't wad truly glad my een
To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen,
My purse's hollow sides between,
Ise shun it in the letter!

I wad na see the new-born thought,
Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an' straught,
As if 't were dead, an' cauld; an' braught
Before me for interment.
I like the gracefu', yieldin nib,
To gang sae careless an' sae glib,
An' shoot my fancies, like a squib,
Just while they're in the ferment!

An', whiles (ye 've, aiblins, felt the pain,)
I wait upon the tardy brain
For something I can ne'er obtain,
An' founder'd a'thegether;
I like, if I can do nae mair,
To hae the quill to scrape an' pare,
An' find the faut o' dullness there,
In honest goosie's feather.

For nature's laws maun be obey'd,
An' this is ane she strictly laid
On ilka saul she ever made,
Down frae our earliest mither:
" Be sel your first an' greatest care —
Frae a' reproach the darlin spare,
An', ony blame, that she should bear,
Pit off upon anither!"

Had nature ta'en a second thought,
A better precept she had taught;
An' guid instead o' evil wrought
By those the power possessin!
For, sel had been pit out o' sight,
The love o' ithers brought to light:
In short, the wrang had a' been right,
An' man to man a blessin!

I tell ye what! twixt frien' an' frien',
I dinna like the siller pen.
An', sin' my reason ye wad ken,
Tho' odd enough, I 'll gie it.
It is too perfect — ilka part
It does, is wi' sic care an' art,
There's nae a particle o' heart
Or feelin' gangin wi' it!

'T is nae the siller I despise;
For poortith loud an' daily cries;
An', if I had but mair supplies,
I 'd then feel a' the better.
But, tho' 't wad truly glad my een
To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen,
My purse's hollow sides between,
Ise shun it in the letter!

I wad na see the new-born thought,
Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an' straught,
As if 't were dead, an' cauld; an' braught
Before me for interment.
I like the gracefu', yieldin nib,
To gang sae careless an' sae glib,
An' shoot my fancies, like a squib,
Just while they're in the ferment!

An', whiles (ye 've, aiblins, felt the pain,)
I wait upon the tardy brain
For something I can ne'er obtain,
An' founder'd a'thegether;
I like, if I can do nae mair,
To hae the quill to scrape an' pare,
An' find the faut o' dullness there,
In honest goosie's feather.

For nature's laws maun be obey'd,
An' this is ane she strictly laid
On ilka saul she ever made,
Down frae our earliest mither:
" Be sel your first an' greatest care —
Frae a' reproach the darlin spare,
An', ony blame, that she should bear,
Pit off upon anither!"

Had nature ta'en a second thought,
A better precept she had taught;
An' guid instead o' evil wrought
By those the power possessin!
For, sel had been pit out o' sight,
The love o' ithers brought to light:
In short, the wrang had a' been right,
An' man to man a blessin!