.
as! what bitter toil an' straining—
but truce with peevish, poor pining!
is fortune's fickle luna waning?
e' her gang!
beh what light she has remaining,
let's sing our sang.
my pen i here fling to the door,
and kneel, ye pow'rs! and warm implore,
“tho' i should waerra o'er,
in all her climes,
gra this, i ask no more,
aye rowth o' rhymes.
“gie dreepin roasts to tra irds,
till icicles hing frae their beards;
gie fine braw ces to fine life-guards,
and maids of honour;
an' yill an' whisky
Epistle To James Smith(8/11)