Epistle V. To A Young Lady Poem by Robert Anderson

Some chiels for fame or riches write,
Of Sense and Reason in despite,
And 'gainst your sex wi' rancour rail:
Shame fa' sic loons, ill may they thrive,
Wha, bent on female ruin, strive
To rend the heart,
A trait'rous part,
Wi' mony a pois'ning tale.

To ithers it great joy maun gi'e
To chase the tear frae Misery's e'e;
While hirelings flatter warldly elves,
And reeling o'er the path o' Vice,
Gain Ruin's summit in a trice;
Then fa'ing fast,
They find at last
Their works e'en d---n themselves.

To thee, wha Wisdom aye pursues,
To thee, fair fav'rite o' the muse,
A hamely, artless rhyme I send,
Prayin that ane sae guid, sae fair,
May lang remain dame Virtue's care,
And be to a',
Baith great and sma',
Th'instructor and the friend.

O had I but the pen o' Burns,
For whom auld Caledonia mourns,
And ilka bardie sings wi' wae,
Or could I but like him indite,
I then a frien' cou'd aye delight,
And proud wou'd be,
Wi' ane like thee,
To tune a rural lay.

Fu' aft I read thy past'ral sang,
As o'er the moor I trudg'd alang--
Haith, few can write sae now a--days!
Sic sentiment throughout doth shine,
Sic sweetness steals thro' ilka line,
Had Rabbie kenn'd
Thou sae had penn'd,
He'd gi'en thee mickle praise.

Then harken what to me befel:
I singin hamewards lost mysel',
As mony mae ha'e done before:
Some loons wha rule this tott'rin state
Ha'e lost themsel's I trow o' late;
Syne angry war
Mak's poor folks jar,
And quat their native shore.

Wand'rin, wha met I but the muse;
`Hizzie,' quo' I, `come gi'es the news:
`Say, whither dost thou bend thy way?'
Quo' she, `I'm gaun to visit ane,
`Where Hether steals thro' yonder glen:
`I'm fond o' she,
`And done wi' ye--
`I bid ye, Sir, guid day.'

I gazin listen'd while she spoke,
Thinkin forsooth she did but joke:
`Guid day,' quo' I, and made a bow.
Now, ha'ing stumpie, ink, and time,
Thought I, I'se try my han' at rhyme;
But this dull strain
Will shew too plain
That madam told me true.

Yet for her loss I'll no' repine,
Gif she but visit aft the Lyne,
Where winsome Mary strays alang:
Then may'st thou, wi' her kindly aid,
When Nature smiles in ilka shade,
In numbers sweet
Saft tales repeat,
And mony a pleasin sang.

While pining in this dinsome town,
Whare ilk ane hunts his neebor down,
And Slander daily hauds her court,
I envy aft the country life,
Where, seated far frae busy Strife,
Content and gay,
Time steals away
In mirth and harmless sport.

How sweet to taste the breeze o' morn,
How sweet to wander down the burn,
When hawthorn buds bloom fair to see;
How sweet at eve amang the broom,
When wild flow'rs lend their rich perfume,
The mavis sings,
The violet springs,
And a' to pleasure thee!

The gowans glint upo' the plain,
And lightly lilts the shepherd swain--
Unnumber'd pleasures on thee wait!
Let great anes range o'er Fashion's round,
Where true content is seldom found:
Dame Virtue flies
Sic fancied joys,
And seeks the lowly state.

In Spring thou hear'st, wi' cheerfu' voice,
Ilk minstrel o' the woods rejoice;
Syne Simmer smiles baith far and wide:
Soon Autumn sicklies o'er the scene;
Bleak Winter niest, wi' breath sae keen,
Bla's o'er the hill
Baith cauld and shrill,
And blasts gay Simmer's pride.

Then may'st thou, Mary, in thy spring
Bethink thee Time is on the wing,
Nor let beguilin Hope persuade.
To me thou seem'st a blushing rose,
Thy sweets just 'ginnin to disclose;
And, like a flow'r,
Thou'lt shine thy hour,
And soon ilk bloom will fade.

Sweet lass, may Virtue dwell wi' thee,
Nor Sorrow wat thy sparklin e'e;
But, cheer'd by meek Religion's ray,
Lang may ilk action be approv'd;
Lang may'st thou live by a' belov'd;
Syne tak' thy pen
And rhyme again
An answer to R. A.