To Capt Gordon ...
Dost ask, dear Captain, why from Syme
I have no invitation,
When well he knows he has with him
My first friends in the nation?
Is it because I love to toast,
And round the bottle hurl?
No! there conjecture wild is lost,
For Syme by God's no churl!
Is't lest with bawdy jests I bore,
As oft the matter of fact is?
No! Syme the theory can't abhor
Who loves so well the practice.
Is it a fear I should avow
Some heresy seditious?
No! Syme (but this is entre nous)
Is quite an old Tiresias.
In vain conjecture thus would flit
Thro' mental clime and season:
In short, dear Captain, Syme's a wit
Who asks of wits a reason?
Yet must I still the sort deplore
That to my griefs add one more,
In balking me the social hour
With you and noble Kenmure.