Classic Poem

MY TRUSTY TROJAN ,

Thy last oration orthodox,
Thy innocent auld farren jokes,
And sonsy saw of three, provokes
Me anes again,
Tod lowrie like, to loose my pocks,
And pump my brain.

By a' your letters I ha'e read,
I eithly scan the man well-bred,
And soger that, where honour led,
Has ventur'd bauld;
Wha now to youngsters leaves the yed,
To 'tend his fauld.

That bang'ster billy, Cæsar July,
Wha at Pharsalia wan the tooly,
Had better sped had he mair hooly
Scamper'd thro' life,
And 'midst his glories sheath'd his gooly,
And kiss'd his wife.

Had he, like you, as well he cou'd,
Upon burn banks the muses woo'd,
Retir'd betimes frae 'mang the crowd,
Wha 'd been aboon him,
The senate's durks, and faction loud,
Had ne'er undone him.

Yet sometimes leave the riggs and bog,
Your howms, and braes, and shady scrog,
And helm-a-lee the claret cog,
To clear your wit:
Be blyth, and let the warld e'en shog
As it thinks fit.

Ne'er fash about your neist year's state,
Nor with superior pow'rs debate,
Nor cantrapes cast to ken your fate;
There 's ills anew
To cram our days, which soon grow late;
Let 's live just now.

When northern blasts the ocean snurl,
And gars the heights and hows look gurl,
Then left about the bumper whirl,
And toom the horn;
Grip fast the hours which hasty hurl,
The morn 's the morn.

Thus to Leuconoe sang sweet Flaccus,
Wha nane e'er thought a gillygacus;
And why should we let whimsies bawk us,
When joy 's in season,
And thole sae aft the spleen to whauk us
Out of our reason?

Tho' I were laird of tenscore acres,
Nodding to jouks of hallenshakers,
Yet crush'd wi' humdrums, which the weaker's
Contentment ruins,
I 'd rather roost wi' causey-rakers,
And sup cauld sowens.

I think, my friend, an fowk can get
A doll of roast beef piping het,
And wi' red wine their wyson wet,
And cleathing clean,
And be nae sick, or drown'd in debt,
They 're no to mean.

I read this verse to my ain kimmer,
Wha kens I like a leg of gimmer,
Or sic and sic good belly timmer:
Quoth she, and leugh,
“Sicker of thae, winter and simmer,
“Ye 're well enough.”

My hearty goss, there is nae help,
But hand to nive we twa man skelp
Up Rhine and Thames, and o'er the Alp-
pines and Pyrenians.
The cheerfou carles do sae yelp
To ha'e 's their minions.

Thy raffan rural rhyme sae rare,
Sic wordy, wanton, hand-wail'd ware,
Sae gash and gay, gars fowk gae gare
To ha'e them by them;
Tho' gaffin they wi' sides sae sair,
Cry, “Wae gae by him!”

Fair fa' that soger did invent
To ease the poet's toil wi' print:
Now, William, we man to the bent,
And pouss our fortune,
And crack wi' lads wha 're well content
Wi' this our sporting.

Gin ony sour-mou'd girning bucky
Ca' me conceity keckling chucky,
That we, like nags whase necks are yucky,
Ha'e us'd our teeth;
I 'll answer fine, Gae kiss ye'r Lucky,
She dwells i' Leith.

I ne'er wi' lang tales fash my head,
But when I speak, I speak indeed:
Wha ca's me droll, but ony feed,
I 'll own I am sae;
And while my champers can chew bread,
Yours,—A LLAN R AMSAY .