Classic Poem

WITH THE FIRST SCENE OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

The nipping frosts, and driving sna,
Are o'er the hills and far awa;
Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyrs blaw,
And ilka thing
Sae dainty, youthfou', gay, and bra,'
Invites to sing.

Then let 's begin by creek of day,
Kind muse skiff to the bent away,
To try anes mair the landart lay,
With a' thy speed,
Since Burchet awns that thou can play
Upon the reed.

Anes, anes again beneath some tree
Exert thy skill and nat'ral glee,
To him wha has sae courteously,
To weaker sight,
Set these rude sonnets sung by me
In truest light.

In truest light may a' that 's fine
In his fair character still shine,
Sma' need he has of sangs like mine,
To beet his name;
For frae the north to southern line,
Wide gangs his fame.

His fame, which ever shall abide,
Whilst hist'ries tell of tyrants' pride,
Wha vainly strave upon the tide
T' invade these lands,
Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride,
Which still commands.

These doughty actions frae his pen,
Our age, and these to come, shall ken,
How stubborn navies did contend
Upon the waves,
How free-born Britons fought like men,
Their faes like slaves.

Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you,
This country sang, my fancy flew,
Keen your just merit to pursue;
But ah! I fear,
In giving praises that are due,
I grate your ear.

Yet, tent a poet's zealous prayer;
May powers aboon with kindly care,
Grant you a lang and muckle skair
Of a' that 's good,
'Till unto langest life and mair
You 've healthfu' stood.

May never care your blessings sour,
And may the muses, ilka hour,
Improve your mind, and haunt your bow'r!
I'm but a callan;
Yet, may I please you, while I 'm your
Devoted A LLAN .