An Exhortation to Davie
Not to Forsake the Muse
Auld neibor...
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O’ war’ly cares,
Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld gray 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 be lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns 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;
Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
O’ rhymin’ clink,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban,
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’;
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
An’ while ought’s there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie
Frae door to door.