To Terraughty, on His Birthday
HEALTH to the Maxwells’ veteran Chief!
Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief:
Inspired, I turned Fate’s sibyl leaf
This natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,
Scarce quite half worn.
This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka poet)
On thee a tack o’ seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow
Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,
May desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure.
But for thy friends,-and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie,-
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,
Wi’ mornings blithe and e’enings funny
Bless them and thee!
Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa’ me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye
While BURNS they ca’ me.
