A BROTHER POET.
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David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that timemaster of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholarand a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printedat Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his earlycomrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: hedied one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at theage of seventy.] AULD NIBOR,I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,Ye speak sae fair.For my puir, silly, rhymin clatterSome less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you thro' the weary widdleO' war'ly cares,Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddleYour 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 licketUntil yo fyke;Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,Be hain't who like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,Rivin' the words to gar them clink;Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,Wi' jads or masons;An' whyles, but ay owre late, I thinkBraw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,Commen' me to the Bardie clan;Except it be some idle planO' 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 work, 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 monie a shavie;But for the Muse she'll never leave ye,Tho' e'er so puir,Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavieFrae door to door. * * * * *
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