second epistle to davie

a brother poet

auld neibour,

i'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,

for your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;

tho' i maun say't i doubt ye flatter,

ye speak sae fair;

for my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

some less maun sair.

hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,

lang may your elbuck jink diddle,

to cheer you thro' the weary widdle

o' war'ly cares;

till barins' barins kindly cuddle

your auld grey hairs.

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