epistle to lonel de peyster

y honor&039;d lonel, deep i feel

your terest the poet&039;s weal;

ah! now sa&039; heart hae i to speel

the steep parnass,

surrounded th by bos pill,

and potion gsses

o what a canty world were it,

would pa and care and sickness spare it;

and fortune favour worth and rit

as they deserve;

and aye rowth o&039; roast-beef and cret,

syne, wha wad starve?

da life, tho&039; fiction out ay trick her,

and paste s and frippery deck her;

oh! flickerg, feeble, and unsicker

i&039;ve found her still,

aye waverg like the willow-wicker,

&039;een good and ill

then that curst caragnole, auld satan,

watches like baudrons by a ratton

our sfu&039; saul to t a cut on,

wi&039;felon ire;

syne, whip! his tail ye&039;ll ne&039;er cast saut on,

he&039;s aff like fire

ah nick! ah nick! it is na fair,

first shog the teptg ware,

bright es, and bonie sses rare,

to put daft

syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

o hell&039;s daned waft

poor an, the flie, aft bizzes by,

and aft, as chance he es thee nigh,

thy dan&039;d auld elbow yeuks wi&039;joy

and hellish pleasure!

already thy fancy&039;s eye,

thy sicker treasure

on, heels o&039;er gowdie, he gangs,

and, like a sheep-head on a tangs,

thy girng ugh enjoys his pangs,

and urderg wrestle,

as, danglg the d, he hangs,

a gibbet&039;s tassel

but lest you thk i a uncivil

to pgue you with this drauntg drivel,

abjurg a&039; tentions evil,

i at y pen,

the lord preserve frae the devil!

an! an!