Epistle To Colonel De Peyster

My honor’d Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
Ah! now sma’heart haeI to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
And potion glasses.

O what a canty world were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And Fortune favour worthand merit
As they deserve;
And aye rowtho’roast-beef and claret,
Syne, whawadstarve?

Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
I’ve found her still,
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
‘Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches like baudronsbya ratton
Our sinfu’ saulto geta clauton,
Wi’felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast sauton,
He’s afflike fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is nafair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines, and bonielasses rare,
To put us daft
Syneweave, unseen, thy spider snare
O hell’s damned waft.

Poor Man, the flie, aftbizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy damn’d auldelbow yeuks wi’joy
And hellish pleasure!
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
Thy sickertreasure.

Soon, heels o’er gowdie, in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,
And murdering wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
A gibbet’s tassel.

Butlest you think I am uncivil
To plague you with this drauntingdrivel,
Abjuring a’intentions evil,
I quatmy pen,
The Lord preserve us fraethe devil!
Amen! Amen!

By |2018-11-12T18:25:53+00:00November 12th, 2018|Epistle, None, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

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