Epistle Viii. To A Friend, In Thanks For His Letter Poem by Robert Anderson

Dear Jock, I thank ye for your Letter,
And own mysel' your humble debtor:
Yet, tho' I dinna like to flatter,
It merits praise,
For haith I ne'er receiv'd a better
In a' my days.

Troth lad, it gied me sic delight,
I cou'd nae sleep a wink that night,
In honey words ye sae indite
A line to me:
I'd gi'e my Sunday--coat to write
Sic lines to ye.

Ye've seen nae doubt a wee bit boy
Pleas'd wi' a baubee or a toy;
Just sae this heart o' mine wi' joy
Did beat fu' fain;
For lang I wonder'd ye were coy,
I tell ye plain.

I read your kindly offers a',
And drank t'ye at the Hole i'th' Wa',
Where mony a canty callan bra',
Wha liquor lo'es,
To crack a wee will gi'e a ca',
And hear the news.

Haith, friend, for friends, alake! are few,
Yet those I ha'e seem kind as true;
To them my best o' thanks are due
For offers kind;
And, tent me, Jock, a friend in you
I'm proud to find.

How cheerly thro' this life we pass,
Troth things rub on as smooth as glass,
When, far frae a' the busy class,
We find a friend;
But aft, o'er aft, on man, alas!
We can't depend.

Five simmers, Jock, ha'e now flown by,
Sin' Hope bade me my fortune try;
I thank'd the dame, fu' proud was I,
And aff I came
To this great place, where mony hie
In quest o' fame.

They think no' vice is here a trade;
They think no' Virtue, sonsy maid,
To shew her face is aft afraid
Upo' the street,
Where fashion, folly, and parade
Mak' men leuk great.

O' this I'm tir'd, and think or lang
To leave it a', be't right be't rang,
For frae this bustle, noise, and thrang
I wish to gae;
Aiblins, my lad, I'se northward gang,
I downa say;

But hope we'se range the woods in spring,
And listen while the lintwhites sing;
Syne pipe till glens wi' echoes ring
Right merrily:
Troth I'd be happier than a king
Were I wi' ye.

When Boreas bla's o'er hill and dale,
And nipping frosts gar folk leuk pale,
While some against their neebors rail
Wi' bitter spite,
We'll o'er the ingle tell a tale
To pass the night.

Jock, life's but like a simmer day,
Sae let's be merry while we may,
For soon a debt we a' maun pay
To tyrant Death,
The honest poor, the knaves so gay,
However laith.

Let fickle Fortune slight me still,
We maun submit do what she will:
Sin' whining does nae good but ill,
I'll no' despair;
While I've my lassie, friend, and gill,
I dinna care.

Grown wearied o' a single life,
May ye be happy wi' your wife,
And, seated far frae noise and strife,
Aye live in peace;
And as yer geer 'gins to grow rife,
May joys increase.

I ken ye'll think it time to end
This dull Epistle I ha'e penn'd:
Lang may ye live a poor man's friend,
And plenty ha'e;--
But, Jock, be sure a line aft send
Yer friend R. A.