Classic Poem

MY gude auld friend, on Locher banks,
Your kindness claims my warmest thanks;
Yet thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase,
Of little value now a-days:
Indeed 'tis hardly worth the heeding,
Unless to show a body's breeding.
Yet mony a poor doil't, servile body,
Will scrimp his stomach of its crowdy,
And pride to run a great man's errands,
And feed on smiles and sour cheese-parings,
And think himsel' nae sma' sheep-shank,
Rich laden wi' his lordship's thank.
The sodger too, for a' his troubles,
His hungry wames, and bloody hubbles,
His agues, rheumatisms, cramps,
Receiv'd in plashy winter-camps,
O blest reward! at last he gains
His sov'reign's thanks for a' his pains.

Thus, though 'mang first of friends I rank you,
'Twere but sma' compliment to thank you;
Yet, lest ye think me here ungratefu',
Of hatefu' names, a name most hatefu',
The neist time that ye come to town,
By a' the powers beneath the moon!
I'll treat you wi' a Highland gill,
Though it should be my hindmost fill.

Though in the bustling town, the Muse
Has gather'd little feck of news,
— 'Tis said, the court of antiquarians
Has split on some great point of variance,
For ane has got, in gouden box,
The spectacles of auld John Knox;
A second proudly thanks his fate wi'
The hindmost pen that Nelson writ wi';
A third ane owns an antique rare,
A saep-brush made of Mermaid's hair!
But, niggard wights, they a' refuse 'em,
These precious relics to the Museum,
Whilk selfish, mean, illegal deeds,
Hae set them a' at loggerheads.

Sure taste refin'd, and public spirit,
Stand next to genius in merit;
I'm proud to see your warm regard,
For Caledonia's dearest bard:
Of hiMye've got sae gude a painting,
That nocht but real life is wanting.
I think yon rising genius, Tannock,
May gain a niche in Fame's heigh winnock,
There, with auld Rubens, plac'd sublime,
Look down upon the wreck of time.

I ne'er, as yet, hae found a patron,
For, scorn be till't! I hate a' flatt'ring;
Besides, I never had an itching,
To slake about a great man's kitchen,
And like a spaniel lick his dishes,
And come, and gang, just to his wishes —
Yet studious to give worth its due,
I pride to praise the like of you,
Gude chields, replete wi' sterling sense,
Wha wi' their worth, mak' nae pretence.
Ay — there's my worthy friend, M " M,
I'll lo'e him till my latest breath,
And like a traitor wretch be hang'd,
Before I'd hear that fellow wrang'd;
His every action shows his mind,
Humanely noble, bright, and kind,
And here's the worth o't, doubly rooted,
He never speaks ae word about it!
— My compliments and warm gude-will,
To Masters Smp, Brr, and Le;
Wad rav'ning time but spare my pages,
They'd tell the warld and after ages,
That it, to me, was wealth and fame,
To be esteem'd by chields like them.
O Time, thou all-devouring bear!
Hear — " List, O list " my ardent prayer!
I crave thee here, on bended knee,
To let my dear-lov'd pages be!
O take thy sharp-nail'd, nibbling elfs,
To musty scrolls on college shelfs!
There, with dry treaties on law,
Feast, cram, and gorge thy greedy maw:
But grant, amidst thy thin-sown mercies,
To spare, O spare my darling verses!

Could I but up through hist'ry wimple
With Robertson, or sage Dalrymple;
Or had I half the pith and lear
Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair!
I aiblins then might tell some story,
Wad show the muse in bleezing glory;
But scrimpt of time, and lear scholastic,
My lines limp on in Hudibrastic,
Till Hope, grown sick, flings down her claim,
And drops her dreams of future fame.
— Yes, O waesuck! should I be vaunty?
My Muse is just a Rozinante,
She stammers forth with hilching canter,
Sagely intent on strange adventure,
Yet, sae uncouth in garb and feature,
She seems the fool of literature.