M.Another year to banish gloom,
And still my friend retains his bloom!--
Still laughs and jokes, and tells his tale;
Eats heartily : drinks homebrew'd ale;
Though sometimes tortur'd with the gout --
W.The gout! young man! come! come, refrain!
You know, Macneil, 'tis but a sprain ;--
A random step -- a heedless tread --
You smile, I see, and shake your head --
-- Well! be it so -- with all my heart --
You know the truth -- I know the smart!
M.Be thankful, sir! in life's dull round
Few W-----s are to be found:
Oppress'd with want, perplex'd with care,
Diseas'd, or madd'ning with despair,
The poor or wealthy rarely find
Sound health conjoin'd with tranquil mind.
Now these, you know, have blest you long,
But yet, my friend! you're not still young;
And 'twixt us two, you were truths all told,
You think the gout sounds plaguy old --
Arriv'd at years full threescore ten --
W.Who told you that! -- M.Why, there again
The sound is old -- pox on this tongue!
I wish to God you still were young!
-- If I am wrong I cry you mercy;
My proofs, I own, are only -- hearsay --
But tell the truth and I'll engage, sir ;--
W. -- I'm not oblig'd to tell my age, sir --
M.Well! be it seventy, more or less,
I say your lot is happiness.
True, once a year that stomach sprain
A month or longer gives you pain.
The fault's you own; I can assure you
In half the time a child might cure you.
W.Dear Mac! the means?M.Why then I'll tell ye
Stay more at home, please less the belly.
Mark now, my friend, and then complain,
Pray what is e'en a month of pain?
Unknown to fever, gout, or stone,
The passing year glides smoothly on;
And while life frets and discomposes
Hear how you spread your bed of roses.
Esteem'd by all, by some ador'd,
You often grace your neighbour's board;
They give whate'er you prize best,
Old wine -- old joke -- old ale -- old jest,
Yet mix a charm that all surpasses!--
W.What's that you rogue?M. Young bonny lasses.
Some hours in social converse blest,
What say you to a game at whist?
Agreed -- cut in -- you get the worst,
I'll not aver he will be curst,
But for his shuffling, cuts, and dealings,
I would not own them for -- some shillings.
At supper next I see you sit
Replete with glee and social wit;
With some fair nymph you laugh and sport,
Your feast an egg; your liquor port.
The toast goes round, you ask a song,
'The medley, Mac -- if not too long.'
To sing, you know, I ne'er refuse,
(My song is readier than my muse);
But let me warble what I'm able,
You're still the blithest at the table.
Temp'rate and wise, at early day
You spring from rest refresh'd and gay;
And sallying forth from six hours nap,
Away you stroll in gown and cap:
Old honest James, with ruddy cheek
And hobbling gait you need not seek;
He's still at hand to banish sorrow,
To doff his hat and bid good morrow;
For 'weel,' he says, 'round ilka spot
He lies to see your honor stot.'
Here, on some green-inviting walk,
With him you jest, with him you talk;
Mark how each vernal beauty blows,
How fresh the pink, how sweet the rose;
How nature's op'ning charms advance,
And sigh for him who calls it -- chance!
Here, too, on every blossom'd spray
The thrush and linnet yield their lay,
Around the house the cooing dove
Or flutt'ring flies, or woos his love,
And many a fowl with ardour keen
Greet their kind patron on the green,
While Rover mild, and Trap in high glee,
Caper and frisk whene'er they spy ye.
Some time in study next ensues,
Then off go slippers; on go shoes;
From crimson cap and nightgown gay,
A three-tail'd wig, and coat of grey.
Should friends arrive, they'll get pot-luck;
A cod's head stew'd, or roast veal pluck
Should none appear -- 'Why, be it so,
For here comes Davie, Jen, and Joe;
With friends like these I'm ne'er alone,'
You cry -- but where's your favorite, John?
Ah! stop, brisk muse, a little while;
A sudden pang has check'd the smile --
Ye sportive rhimes -- effusions gay,--
For other tasks for me remain!
The pensive thought; the plaintive strain;
The frequent sigh; the throbbing breast
That beats for friendship -- late possess'd!
That droops for mirth's enliv'ning string,
Wit's attic zest, without its string;
Genius that glow'd with sense refin'd,
And worth that charm'd and bless'd mankind!
And thou, poor muse, whose rambling song
In artless numbers roll'd along;
Heedless I ween of critic sneer
When candid, skilful John was near
To watch thy flight, and guide thy way,
And prune thy wild excursive lay!--
Ah me! no more on soaring wing
Thy careless notes thou dar'st sing!
Tim'rous and sad now flutt'ring fly!--
'Tis strains like these thou now must try!
Yes, wretched thing!go -- vent thy moan,
Thy friend! -- thy earthly guide -- is gone!
And still my friend retains his bloom!--
Still laughs and jokes, and tells his tale;
Eats heartily : drinks homebrew'd ale;
Though sometimes tortur'd with the gout --
W.The gout! young man! come! come, refrain!
You know, Macneil, 'tis but a sprain ;--
A random step -- a heedless tread --
You smile, I see, and shake your head --
-- Well! be it so -- with all my heart --
You know the truth -- I know the smart!
M.Be thankful, sir! in life's dull round
Few W-----s are to be found:
Oppress'd with want, perplex'd with care,
Diseas'd, or madd'ning with despair,
The poor or wealthy rarely find
Sound health conjoin'd with tranquil mind.
Now these, you know, have blest you long,
But yet, my friend! you're not still young;
And 'twixt us two, you were truths all told,
You think the gout sounds plaguy old --
Arriv'd at years full threescore ten --
W.Who told you that! -- M.Why, there again
The sound is old -- pox on this tongue!
I wish to God you still were young!
-- If I am wrong I cry you mercy;
My proofs, I own, are only -- hearsay --
But tell the truth and I'll engage, sir ;--
W. -- I'm not oblig'd to tell my age, sir --
M.Well! be it seventy, more or less,
I say your lot is happiness.
True, once a year that stomach sprain
A month or longer gives you pain.
The fault's you own; I can assure you
In half the time a child might cure you.
W.Dear Mac! the means?M.Why then I'll tell ye
Stay more at home, please less the belly.
Mark now, my friend, and then complain,
Pray what is e'en a month of pain?
Unknown to fever, gout, or stone,
The passing year glides smoothly on;
And while life frets and discomposes
Hear how you spread your bed of roses.
Esteem'd by all, by some ador'd,
You often grace your neighbour's board;
They give whate'er you prize best,
Old wine -- old joke -- old ale -- old jest,
Yet mix a charm that all surpasses!--
W.What's that you rogue?M. Young bonny lasses.
Some hours in social converse blest,
What say you to a game at whist?
Agreed -- cut in -- you get the worst,
I'll not aver he will be curst,
But for his shuffling, cuts, and dealings,
I would not own them for -- some shillings.
At supper next I see you sit
Replete with glee and social wit;
With some fair nymph you laugh and sport,
Your feast an egg; your liquor port.
The toast goes round, you ask a song,
'The medley, Mac -- if not too long.'
To sing, you know, I ne'er refuse,
(My song is readier than my muse);
But let me warble what I'm able,
You're still the blithest at the table.
Temp'rate and wise, at early day
You spring from rest refresh'd and gay;
And sallying forth from six hours nap,
Away you stroll in gown and cap:
Old honest James, with ruddy cheek
And hobbling gait you need not seek;
He's still at hand to banish sorrow,
To doff his hat and bid good morrow;
For 'weel,' he says, 'round ilka spot
He lies to see your honor stot.'
Here, on some green-inviting walk,
With him you jest, with him you talk;
Mark how each vernal beauty blows,
How fresh the pink, how sweet the rose;
How nature's op'ning charms advance,
And sigh for him who calls it -- chance!
Here, too, on every blossom'd spray
The thrush and linnet yield their lay,
Around the house the cooing dove
Or flutt'ring flies, or woos his love,
And many a fowl with ardour keen
Greet their kind patron on the green,
While Rover mild, and Trap in high glee,
Caper and frisk whene'er they spy ye.
Some time in study next ensues,
Then off go slippers; on go shoes;
From crimson cap and nightgown gay,
A three-tail'd wig, and coat of grey.
Should friends arrive, they'll get pot-luck;
A cod's head stew'd, or roast veal pluck
Should none appear -- 'Why, be it so,
For here comes Davie, Jen, and Joe;
With friends like these I'm ne'er alone,'
You cry -- but where's your favorite, John?
Ah! stop, brisk muse, a little while;
A sudden pang has check'd the smile --
Ye sportive rhimes -- effusions gay,--
For other tasks for me remain!
The pensive thought; the plaintive strain;
The frequent sigh; the throbbing breast
That beats for friendship -- late possess'd!
That droops for mirth's enliv'ning string,
Wit's attic zest, without its string;
Genius that glow'd with sense refin'd,
And worth that charm'd and bless'd mankind!
And thou, poor muse, whose rambling song
In artless numbers roll'd along;
Heedless I ween of critic sneer
When candid, skilful John was near
To watch thy flight, and guide thy way,
And prune thy wild excursive lay!--
Ah me! no more on soaring wing
Thy careless notes thou dar'st sing!
Tim'rous and sad now flutt'ring fly!--
'Tis strains like these thou now must try!
Yes, wretched thing!go -- vent thy moan,
Thy friend! -- thy earthly guide -- is gone!
