The Invitation.

To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,
And mad'st a promise that mine appetite
Should meet and tire, on such lautitious meat,
The like not Heliogabalus did eat:
And richer wine would'st give to me, thy guest,
Than Roman Sylla pour'd out at his feast.
I came, 'tis true, and look'd for fowl of price,
The bastard Phoenix; bird of Paradise;
And for no less than aromatic wine
Of maidens-blush, commix'd with jessamine.
Clean was the hearth, the mantle larded jet,
Which, wanting Lar and smoke, hung weeping wet;
At last i' th' noon of winter, did appear
A ragg'd soused neats-foot, with sick vinegar;
And in a burnish'd flagonet, stood by
Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.
At which amazed, and pond'ring on the food,
How cold it was, and how it chill'd my ...

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
    Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
    And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
    Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
    Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
    Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
    Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
    And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,...

    When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
        A time that surely shall come;
    In Heaven itself I'll ask no more
        Than just a Highland welcome.

    Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
    E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,
    L--d, man, there's lasses there wad force
        A hermit's fancy.
    And down the gate in faith they're worse
        And mair unchancy.

    But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's,
    And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
    Till some bit callan bring me news
        That ye are there,
    And if we dinna hae a bouze
        I'se ne'er drink mair.

    It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
    Then like a swine to puke and wallow,
    But gie me just a true good fellow,
        Wi' right ingine,
    And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
        And then we'll shine.

    Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
    Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
    ...

September, 1818.


Some think we bards have nothing real;
    That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,--
    (And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)--
For instance, that we have, instead
    Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,
First course--a Phoenix, at the head.
    Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,
    Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to death--
    Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit ...

    No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
        And cook'ry the first in the nation;
    Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
        Is proof to all other temptation.