But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
     I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
     An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit
     Until ye fyke;
     Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit,
     Be hain’t wha like.

     For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
     Rivin the words to gar them clink;
     Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
     Wi’ jads or masons;
     An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think
     Braw sober lessons.

     Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
     Commen’ to me the bardie clan;
     Except it be some idle plan
     O’ rhymin clink,
     The devil haet,—­that I sud ban—­
     They ever think.

     Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin,
     Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,
     But just the pouchie put the neive in,
     An’ while ought’s there,
     Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
     An’ fash nae mair.

     Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
     My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
     At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
     The Muse, poor hizzie! 
     Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
     She’s seldom lazy.

     Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie: 
     The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
     But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
     Tho’ e’er sae puir,
     Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie
     Frae door tae door.

Song—­Young Peggy Blooms

     Tune—­“Loch Eroch-side.”

     Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass,
     Her blush is like the morning,
     The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
     With early gems adorning. 
     Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
     That gild the passing shower,
     And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
     And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

     Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
     A richer dye has graced them;
     They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
     And sweetly tempt to taste them;
     Her smile is as the evening mild,
     When feather’d pairs are courting,
     And little lambkins wanton wild,
     In playful bands disporting.

     Were Fortune lovely Peggy’s foe,
     Such sweetness would relent her;
     As blooming spring unbends the brow
     Of surly, savage Winter. 
     Detraction’s eye no aim can gain,
     Her winning pow’rs to lessen;
     And fretful Envy grins in vain
     The poison’d tooth to fasten.

     Ye Pow’rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,
     From ev’ry ill defend her! 
     Inspire the highly-favour’d youth
     The destinies intend her: 
     Still fan the sweet connubial flame
     Responsive in each bosom;
     And bless the dear parental name
     With many a filial blossom.

Song—­Farewell To Ballochmyle