epistle to john maxwell, esq., of terraughty
on his birthday.
health to the maxwell's veteran chief!
health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
inspir'd, i turn'd 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,