epistle to lonel de peyster
y honor&039;d lonel, deep i feel
your terest the poet&039;s weal;
ah! now sa&039; heart hae i to speel
the steep parnass,
surrounded th by bos pill,
and potion gsses
o what a canty world were it,
would pa and care and sickness spare it;
and fortune favour worth and rit
as they deserve;
and aye rowth o&039; roast-beef and cret,
syne, wha wad starve?
da life, tho&039; fiction out ay trick her,
and paste s and frippery deck her;
oh! flickerg, feeble, and unsicker
i&039;ve found her still,
aye waverg like the willow-wicker,
&039;een good and ill
then that curst caragnole, auld satan,
watches like baudrons by a ratton
our sfu&039; saul to t a cut on,
wi&039;felon ire;
syne, whip! his tail ye&039;ll ne&039;er cast saut on,
he&039;s aff like fire
ah nick! ah nick! it is na fair,
first shog the teptg ware,
bright es, and bonie sses rare,
to put daft
syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
o hell&039;s daned waft
poor an, the flie, aft bizzes by,
and aft, as chance he es thee nigh,
thy dan&039;d auld elbow yeuks wi&039;joy
and hellish pleasure!
already thy fancy&039;s eye,
thy sicker treasure
on, heels o&039;er gowdie, he gangs,
and, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
thy girng ugh enjoys his pangs,
and urderg wrestle,
as, danglg the d, he hangs,
a gibbet&039;s tassel
but lest you thk i a uncivil
to pgue you with this drauntg drivel,
abjurg a&039; tentions evil,
i at y pen,
the lord preserve frae the devil!
an! an!
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