epistle to john maxwell, esq., of terraughty

on his birthday.

health to the maxwell's veteran chief!

health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:

inspir'd, i turn'd fate's sibyl leaf,

this natal morn,

i see thy life is stuff o' prief,

scarce quite half-worn.

this day thou metes threescore eleven,

and i can tell that bounteous heaven

(the second-sight, ye ken, is given

to ilka poet)

on thee a tack o' seven times seven

will yet bestow it.

if envious buckies view wi' sorrow

thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,