Epistle Vi. To A Young Lady Poem by Robert Anderson

Now, forc'd to write a lang Epistle,
It puts me in a fearfu' fistle;
And maun be trifling, by my fay,
For haith I ken no' what to say;
But when the fair my verse doth claim,
Should I refuse--'twou'd be a shame,
Tho' weel I ken my frien' wou'd smile,
If seated near me for a while:
I write, cross out, and interline,
Then blame this brainless head o' mine;
Walk roun' the room, at pictures keek,
And think amaist to me they speak;
That Burns aye bids me drap the pen,
Nor woo the maid I woo in vain:
Niest o'er the ingle try a rhyme--
But, lake--a--day! its loss o' time;
Syne screw my pipe, and saftly bla',
The lass I lo'e that's far awa'.

Time was, when a coarse, tawdry jade,
Wha little knew the rhymin trade,
Whyles ca'd, and aye a welcome fan;
Then was poor Rab a happy man:
Her visits made me proud I trow--
But haith nae Muse comes near me now:
Yet, spite o'th' hizzies, aye I'll write,
Sae lang's it gi'es a frien' delight,
Nor care a fig for critics sour--
On folk like me they winna low'r:
As weel might eagles quat the sky
To hunt down some wee buzzing fly.

Now thirty lifeless lines are writ,
Without the aid o' sense or wit;
Again gaes stumpie to the ink,
Again 'bout matter I maun think:
Lines thirty mae I mean to seek,
Lest ye kick up a fearfu' reek.
When frae a frien' the letter's short,
We'd hardly gi'e a thank ye for't;
But, O! if lang, and free frae art,
Warm aff--hand writing frae the heart,
The pleasure that it aye affords
I fain wad tell, but want the words.
Is there a moment half sae sweet,
As when, wi' langin een, we meet
The tale o' ane far, far frae hame?
If sae, then think me much to blame.

Like some weak wand'rer tempest tost,
Or sailor when his rudder's lost,
How to proceed troth I'm perplex'd,
For scribblers write without a text.
O cou'd I but descrive the spring,
And say how sweet the birdies sing;
How slow the trees now blossom forth,
E'en like some bashfu' son o' worth,
Wha dreads Misfortune's nipping blast,
And, blossom--like, to earth is cast:
A' this my frien' fu' weel can tell,
Wha aft has stood the blast hersel'.
Or shou'd I praise thy virtues rare,
And ca' thee fairest o' the fair,
Syne tell o' beauty, wit, and sense;
A' this, tho' true, might gi'e offence,
And, tint me, flattery I detest--
My number's done--forgi'e the rest.