Classic Poem

Clos'd in a Garret, spread wi' beuks,
Whare spider wabs, in dozens,
Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks,
Maist dark'ning up the lozens,
Thro' whilk the Sin, wi' beams sae braw,
Ne'er shows his face discreetly,
Save whan out owre the Misty -L AW ,
He's slitherin' downward sweetly,

To close the day.

Here sits the Bardie, Sir, his lane,
Right glad to rest retir'd;
His griefs an' girnin cares a' gane,
An' a' his fancy fir'd;
The Muses round him dancin' thrang,
Their skill fu' proud to show it;
In lively measure, thun'erin' lang,
To sing an' please the Poet

O' B****, this day

O! how my heart exulting loups,
To meet a chiel like you;
Life's bitter Horn aside it coups,
An' fill'st wi' chearing blue;
While chaunrin' Critics girn an' growl,
An' curse whate'er they light on,
The honest, friendly, gen'rous soul
Can check, inspire and brighten,

Wi' ease, each day.

Yet some there are, whase flinty hearts,
An' hollow heads (poor wretches!)
Despise the Poet's glorious parts,
An' ca' them daudron b — ch — s.
Tell them a plan o' cent. per cent.
They'll glut yer words like hinee;
But mention Poetry, they'll gaunt
An' gloom, as gin't war Sinee,

Or Salts, that day

Anither set comes in my view,
A' trampin' heaven's way in.
See! how they shake their heads, an' groo
At ought but grace an' prayin'.
These godly fouks will tak' the qualms,
To hear a Rhyme-repeater,
An' solemnly declare the 'Salms
To be the far best metre

On earth, this day.

Poor brainless wights! they little ken
Its charms, its soaring fire;
In ev'ry age, the best of men,
Have, raptur'd, tun'd the lyre.
'Tis this that breathes J OB'S mournful plaints,
Or aids him to adore,
And this, the Seraph's mouth and Saints,
Will fill when Time's no more,

But endless Day.

Whan bonny Spring adorns the year,
An'ilka Herb is springing,
An' birds, on blossom'd branches clear,
Wi' lightsome hearts, are singing;
How sweet, to rove at early Morn,
Whare dewy flow'rs are ranket,
While they, wha sic enjoyments scorn,
Lie snorin' in a blanket,

Till height o' day.

I ne'er was rich, nor ever will,
But ony time ye come
To our bit Town, we'se hae a gill,
An' owr't we'se no sit dumb.
A Gill, man, spreads the Muse's wing,
Sets ilka quill in order,
An' gars her mount, an' soar, an' sing,
Till she maist gains the border
O' brightest day.