Classic Poem

Oct: 30th, 1786.
Hail, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie!
Though Fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To ev'ry fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed;
But tak it like th' unbacked Fillie,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavin whyles we saunter,
Yirr, Fancy barks, — awa we canter,
Up-hill, down-brae, till some mishanter,
Some black Bog-hole,
Arreest us; then the scathe an' banter
We're forc'd to thole.

Hale be your Heart! Hale be your Fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink an' didle,
To chear you through the weary widdle
O' this vile Warl:
Until ye on a cummock dridle,
A gray-hair'd Carl!

Come Wealth, come Poortith, late or soon,
Heav'n send your Heart-strings ay In Tune!
An' screw your Temper-pins aboon,
A Fifth or mair,
The melancholious, sairie croon
O' cankrie Care!

May still your Life, from day to day,
Nae Lente Largo, in the play,
But Allegretto Forte, gay,
Harmonious flow:
A sweeping, kindling, bauld Strathspey,
Encore! Bravo!

A' blessins on the cheary gang
Wha dearly like a Jig or sang;
An' never balance Right and Wrang
By square and rule,
But as the Clegs o' Feeling stang,
Are wise or fool!

My hand-wal'd Curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud Race,
Wha count on Poortith as disgrace!
Their tuneless hearts,
May Fire-side Discords jar a Bass
To a' their Parts!

But come — your hand — my careless brither —
I' th' tither Warld, if there 's anither,
An' that there is, I've little swither
About the matter;
We cheek for-chow shall jog the gither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've fauts an' failins, — granted clearly:
We're frail, backsliding Mortals meerly:
Eve's bonie Squad, Priests wyte them sheerly,
For our grand fa':
But still — but still — I like them dearly;
God bless them a'!

Ochon! for poor Castalian Drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly Jinkers!
The witching, curst, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte;
An' gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnan spite.

But by yon Moon! an' that's high swearin;
An' every Star within my hearin!
An' by her een! wha was a dear ane,
I'll ne'er forget;
I hope to gie the Jads a clearin
In fair play yet!

My loss I mourn, but not repent it:
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it:
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour,
By some sweet Elf I may be dinted,
Then, Vive l'Amour!

Faites mes Baisemains respectueuse,
To sentimental Sister Susie,
An' honest Lucky; no to roose ye,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye
To grace your blood.

Nae mair, at present, can I measure;
An' trowth my rhymin ware 's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half hour's leisure,
Be 't light, be 't dark,
Sir Bard will do himsel the pleasure
To call at Park.