epistle to hugh parker
in this strange nd, this uncouth clime,
a nd unknown to prose or rhyme;
where words ne'er cross't the muse's heckles,
nor limpit iic shackles:
a nd that prose did never view it,
except when druacher't thro' it;
here, ambush'd by the chim cheek,
hid in an atmosphere of reek,
i hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
i hear it—for in vain i leuk.
the red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
enhusked by a fog infernal:
here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
i sit and t my sins by chapters;
for life and spunk
Epistle To Hugh Parker(1/3)