Epistle To James Smith（6 / 6）

  i jouk beneath misfortune's blows
  as weel's i may;
  sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
  i rhyme away.
  o ye douce folk that live by rule,
  grave, tideless-blooded, calm an'cool,
  compar'd wi' you—o fool! fool! fool!
  how much unlike!
  your hearts are just a standing pool,
  your lives, a dyke!
  nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
  in your unletter'd, nameless faces!
  in arioso trills and graces
  ye never stray;
  but gravissimo, solemn basses
  ye hum away.
  ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
  nae ferly tho' ye do despise
  the hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
  the rattling squad:
  i see ye upward cast your eyes—
  ye ken the road!
  whilst i—but i shall haud me there,
  wi' you i'll scarce gang ony where—
  then, jamie, i shall say nae mair,
  but quat my sang,
  content wi' you to mak a pair.
  whare'er i gang. ↑返回顶部↑