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      Let’s tak the tide.

      This life, sae far’s I understand, so

      Is a’ enchanted fairy-land,

      Where Pleasure is the Magic-wand,

      70 That, wielded right,

      Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand, makes

      Dance by fu’ light.

      The magic-wand then let us wield;

      For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, once, climbed/reached

      75 See, crazy, weary, joyless, Eild, old age

      Wi’ wrinkl’d face,

      Comes hostin, hirplan owre the field, coughing, limping over

      Wi’ creepin pace.

      When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin, once, twilight

      80 Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; farewell

      An’ fareweel chearfu’ tankards foamin,

      An’ social noise:

      An’ fareweel dear, deluding Woman,

      The joy of joys!

      85 O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,

      Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!

      Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,

      We frisk away,

      Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning,

      90 To joy an’ play.

      We wander there, we wander here,

      We eye the rose upon the brier,

      Unmindful that the thorn is near,

      Among the leaves;

      95 And tho’ the puny wound appear,

      Short while it grieves.

      Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot,

      For which they never toil’d nor swat; sweated

      They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

      100 But care or pain; without

      And haply eye the barren hut

      With high disdain.

      With steady aim, some Fortune chase;

      Keen Hope does ev’ry sinew brace;

      105 Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,

      And seize the prey:

      Then cannie, in some cozie place, quietly, snug

      They close the day.

      And others, like your humble servan’,

      110 Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, no

      To right or left eternal swervin,

      They zig-zag on;

      Till, curst with Age, obscure an’ starvin,

      They aften groan. often

      115 Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining —

      But truce with peevish, poor complaining!

      Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning?

      E’en let her gang! go

      Beneath what light she has remaining,

      120 Let’s sing our Sang. song

      My pen I here fling to the door,

      And kneel, ye Pow’rs, and warm implore,

      ‘Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, world

      In all her climes,

      125 Grant me but this, I ask no more,

      Ay rowth o’ rhymes. abundant

      ‘Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, give dripping, country

      Till icicles hing frae their beards; hang from

      Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards give, handsome clothes

      130 And Maids of Honor;

      And yill an’ whisky gie to Cairds, ale, give, tinkers

      Until they sconner. are sick of it

      ‘A Title, DEMPSTER merits it;

      A Garter gie to WILLIE PIT; symbol of Knighthood, give

      135 Gie Wealth to some be-ledger’d Cit, give, accounting citizen

      In cent per cent;

      But give me real, sterling Wit,

      And I’m content

      ‘While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale, healthy

      140 I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal,

      Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, gruel, meatless broth

      Wi’ cheerfu’ face,

      As lang’s the Muses dinna fail long, do not

      To say the grace.’

      145 An anxious e’e I never throws eye

      Behint my lug, or by my nose; behind, ear

      I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows dodge/duck

      As weel’s I may; well as

      Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,

      150 I rhyme away.

      O ye douce folk that live by rule, serious/sober

      Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’ cool, no rise & fall of passions

      Compar’d wi’ you — O fool! fool! fool!

      How much unlike!

      155 Your hearts are just a standing pool,

      Your lives, a dyke! stone wall

      Nae hair-brained, sentimental traces no

      In your unletter’d, nameless faces!

      In arioso trills and graces

      160 Ye never stray;

      But gravissímo, solemn basses

      Ye hum away.

      Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; so, no

      Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise no wonder

      165 The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, wild, headlong

      The rattling squad:

      I see ye upward cast your eyes —

      Ye ken the road! know

      Whilst I — but I shall haud me there, hold

      170 Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where — go any

      Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, no more

      But quat my sang, quit, song

      Content wi’ YOU to mak a pair, make

      Whare’er I gang. go

      James Smith (1765–1823) was initially a linen-draper in Mauchline who eventually emigrated to Jamaica after his business partnership in printing near Linlithgow collapsed. He was younger brother to one of the ‘Mauchline Belles’. Smith is the recipient of several letters from Burns.

      This is the first of a series of epistles written by Burns to either Ayrshire intimates or intended intimates. This phase of his life, energised by Masonic

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