Epistle to a Friend

The sun, my frien,' has reached the west,
And now the pensive gloamin,
Wi' thoughts o' a' I lo'e the best,
Is fast upon me comin;
Sae, now I tak' my fitfu' pen,
Ere yet the stars are blinkin,
And set me down to let ye ken,
On whom I maist am thinkin.

Sin dearest friens maun often part,
He well deserved a blessin,
Wha taught the warld the scribblin art,
Sae richly worth possessin;
For when awa our lo'ed anes gang,
By this we proof can gie 'em,
That to our hearts, nae gate's sae lang
But they can gang it wi' 'em.

My Musie's coy, as ye maun see,
And mickle seeks to shun me;
But, Ise just keep her i' my e'e,
Tho, she may quite outrun me.
And should my verse be unco lame,
I hope ye'll na reject it,
But tak' it a' in friendship's name;
And, charity protect it!

I hope ye're well, an' braw, an' gay,
An' thinkin o' returnin—
That ye'll come hame as blithe as May,
And rosy as its mornin;
And when we get ye safely back,
A' fu' o' glee to find ye;
To see ye smile an' hear ye crack,
'Bout things ye've left behind ye.

I fain wad think o' something new
Wi' us, that's worth disclosin,
But havin sma' or nought to do,
Our warld has fa'en a dozin.
And life is like a standin pool,
Sae void o' sound an' motion,
Ye'd think the betherel, wi' his shool,
Had paid us a' devotion.

Wi' mickle loss o' this warld's gear
The hand o' Gude has tried us,
And wealth an' commerce languish here,
And seem a' maist denied us.
Our dwellins, as ye've seen o' late,
Leuk waur for time an' weather;
They and their ainers ha'e ane gate
An' meet decay thegither.

But nature's warks are bright an' fair,
Tho' art's are gaun to ruin,
As if she'd mak' some kind repair
Where poortith's haun's undoin.
For, greener grass was never prest
Aneath the foot o' Adam,
Nor sweeter flowers could e'er ha'e drest
The bosom o' his madam,

Than those that spring an' bud an' blaw,
A beauteous garment throwin
O'er ilka chink an' broken wa',
To keep the gaps fra showin.
And clear our sparklin burnie glides,
While down to ocean gangin,
As if, along its shinin sides,
A' Eden's fruits were hangin.

Our trees wi' shade our walks supply,
While scorchin heat oppresses;
And when the simmer sun's gaen by,
They doff their coolin' dresses.
Our bonnie birds their boughs amang
Their artless sangs are singin,
And daily to their callow young
Some kind refreshment bringin.

And, when as now, the night is seen
O'er a' creation closin,
Within their nest they close their een,
Their weary wings reposin.
And could I tell our birdies' dreams,
Perchance they might amuse ye,
But tho' sae sma' the favor seems,
'T is what I maun refuse ye.

For't is sae late, the siller moon
Has spread her shinin banner;
By her an' a' that's bright aboon,
I'm still your constant Hannah.
P. S. My name was ne'er, I need nae tell,
A ward to sair the poet,
And, but for this, ye bear 't yoursel,
In verse I wad nae show it!