epistle to colonel de peyster

my honor'd colonel, deep i feel

your interest in the poet's weal;

ah! now sma' heart hae i to speel

the steep parnassus,

surrounded thus by bolus pill,

and potion glasses.

o what a canty world were it,

would pain and care and sickness spare it;

and fortune favour worth and merit

as they deserve;

and aye rowth o' roast-beef and claret,

syne, wha wad starve?

dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her,

and in paste gems and frippery deck her;

oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

i've found her still,

aye wavering like the willow-wicker,

'tween good and ill.

then that curst carmagnole, auld satan,

watches like baudrons by a ratton

our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,

wi'felon ire;

syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,

he's aff like fire.