epistle to el de peyster
my honor'd el, deep i feel
your i in the poet's weal
ah! now sma' heart hae i to speel
the steep parnassus,
urrouhus by bolus pill,
and potion glasses.
o what a ty world were it,
would pain and care and siess spare it
and fortune favour worth a
as they deserve
and aye rowth o' roast-beef and claret,
yne, wha wad starve?
dame life, tho' fi out may trick her,
and in paste gems and frippery deck her
oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
i've fouill,
aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
'tween good and ill.
then that curst carmagnole, auld satan,
watches like baudrons by a ratto
our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,
wi'felon ire
yne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
he's aff like fire.
ah nick! ah nick! it is na fair,
first showing us the tempting ware,
right wines, and bonie lasses rare,
to put us daft
yne weave, uhy spider snare
o hell's damned waft.
oor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
and aft, as ce he es thee nigh,
thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi'joy
and hellish pleasure!
already in thy fancy's eye,
thy sicker treasure.
oon, heels owdie, in he gangs,
and, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,
and murdering wrestle,
as, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
a gibbet's tassel.
ut lest you think i am uncivil
to plague you with this draunting drivel,
abjuring a' iions evil,
i quat my pen,
the lord preserve us frae the devil!
amen! amen!
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