1785
epistle to davie, a brother poet
january
while ds frae aff ben-loond bw,
an&039; bar the doors wi&039; drivg snaw,
an&039; hg owre the gle,
i set down to pass the ti,
an&039; sp a verse or a o&039; rhy,
haly, westl jgle
while frosty ds bw the drift,
ben to the chi g,
i grud a wee the great-folk&039;s gift,
that live sae bien an&039; snug:
i tent less, and want less
their rooy fire-side;
but hanker, and canker,
to see their cursed pride
it&039;s hardly a body&039;s pow&039;r
to keep, at tis, frae beg ur,
to see how thgs are shar&039;d;
how best o&039; chiels are whiles want,
while ofs on untless thoands rant,
and ken na how to wair&039;t;
but, davie, d, ne&039;er fash your head,
tho&039; we hae little ar;
we&039;re fit to our daily bread,
as ng&039;s we&039;re hale and fier:
“air spier na, nor fear na,”
auld a ne&039;er d a feg;
the st o&039;t, the warst o&039;t
is only but to beg
to lie kilns and barns at e&039;en,
when banes are craz&039;d, and bid is th,
is doubtless, great distress!
yet then ntent uld ake blest;
ev&039;n then, tis, we&039;d snatch a taste
of truest happess
the honest heart that&039;s free frae a&039;
tended fraud or guile,
however fortune kick the ba&039;,
has aye cae to sile;
an&039; d still, you&039;ll fd still,
a fort this nae sa&039;;
nae air then we&039;ll care then,
nae farther can we fa&039;
what tho&039;, like oners of air,
we wander out, we know not where,
but either hoe or hal&039;,
yet nature&039;s chars, the hills and woods,
the sweepg vales, and foag floods,
are free alike to all
days when daisies deck the ground,
and bckbirds whistle clear,
with hones
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