Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet（1 / 6）
1785
epistle to davie, a brother poet
january
while winds frae aff ben-lomond blaw,
an' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
an' hing us owre the ingle,
i set me down to pass the time,
an' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
in hamely, westlin jingle.
while frosty winds blaw in the drift,
ben to the chimla lug,
i grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
that live sae bien an' snug:
i tent less, and want less
their roomy fire-side;
but hanker, and canker,
to see their cursed pride.
it's hardly in a body's pow'r
to keep, at times, frae being sour,
to see how things are shar'd;
how best o' chiels are whiles in want,
while coofs on countless thousands rant,
and ken na how to wair't;
but, davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
tho' we hae little gear;
we're fit to win our daily bread,
as lang's we're hale and fier:
“mair spier na, nor fear na,”
auld age ne'er mind a feg;
the last o't, the warst o't ↑返回顶部↑
epistle to davie, a brother poet
january
while winds frae aff ben-lomond blaw,
an' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
an' hing us owre the ingle,
i set me down to pass the time,
an' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
in hamely, westlin jingle.
while frosty winds blaw in the drift,
ben to the chimla lug,
i grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
that live sae bien an' snug:
i tent less, and want less
their roomy fire-side;
but hanker, and canker,
to see their cursed pride.
it's hardly in a body's pow'r
to keep, at times, frae being sour,
to see how things are shar'd;
how best o' chiels are whiles in want,
while coofs on countless thousands rant,
and ken na how to wair't;
but, davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
tho' we hae little gear;
we're fit to win our daily bread,
as lang's we're hale and fier:
“mair spier na, nor fear na,”
auld age ne'er mind a feg;
the last o't, the warst o't ↑返回顶部↑