Epistle To James Smith（2 / 6）
some rhyme to court the countra clash,
an' raise a din;
for me, an aim i never fash;
i rhyme for fun.
the star that rules my luckless lot,
has fated me the russet coat,
an' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
but, in requit,
has blest me with a random-shot
o'countra wit.
this while my notion's taen a sklent,
to try my fate in guid, black prent;
but still the mair i'm that way bent,
something cries “hooklie!”
i red you, honest man, tak tent?
ye'll shaw your folly;
“there's ither poets, much your betters,
far seen in greek, deep men o' letters,
hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
a' future ages;
now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
their unknown pages.”
then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
to garland my poetic brows!
henceforth i'll rove where busy ploughs
are whistlin' thrang,
an' teach the lanely heights an' howes
my rustic sang.
i'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
how never-halting moments speed, ↑返回顶部↑
an' raise a din;
for me, an aim i never fash;
i rhyme for fun.
the star that rules my luckless lot,
has fated me the russet coat,
an' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
but, in requit,
has blest me with a random-shot
o'countra wit.
this while my notion's taen a sklent,
to try my fate in guid, black prent;
but still the mair i'm that way bent,
something cries “hooklie!”
i red you, honest man, tak tent?
ye'll shaw your folly;
“there's ither poets, much your betters,
far seen in greek, deep men o' letters,
hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
a' future ages;
now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
their unknown pages.”
then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
to garland my poetic brows!
henceforth i'll rove where busy ploughs
are whistlin' thrang,
an' teach the lanely heights an' howes
my rustic sang.
i'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
how never-halting moments speed, ↑返回顶部↑