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My Son, these Maxirns make a rule,

And lump them ay th-gither :
The Rigid Righteous is a fuol,

The Rigid Wife anither :
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight

May hae fome pyles o caff in ;
So ne’er a fellow-creature fight
For random fits o daffin.

SOLOMON. -- Ecclef. ch. vii,

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Ove wha are sae guid yoursel

Sae pious and fae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Your Neebours' fauts and folly ;
Whase life is like a weel-gáun mill,

Supply'd wi' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still,

And itill the clap plays clatter.

II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for


mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door

For glakit Folly's portals;
1, for their thoughtless, careless fakes,

Would here propone defences,
Their donfie tricks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

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Ye see your state wi’ their's compar'd,

And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard

What makes the mighty differ ;
Discount what scant occalion gave,

That purity ye pride in,
And (what's aft mair than a' the leave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse

That ftill eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But, in the teeth o' baith to fail,

It makes an unco leeway.

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See, Social Life and Glee fit down

All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown.

Debauchery and drinking :
O would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded h-Il to state,

Damnation of expences?

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Daines,

Ty'd up in godly laces ;
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,

Suppose' a change oʻcases ;
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience fnug,

A treacherous inclination
But let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're ablins nae temptation,


Then gently scan your brother Man,',

Still gentler fifter Woman ;
Tho' they may gang a-kennin wrang

To step aside is human:
One point muft ftill be greatly dark,

The moving Why they do it ;
And juit as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.

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Who made the Heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord, its various tone,

Each spring its various bias:
Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjuit it;
What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's refifted.



An honest man's the noblest work of God



AS auld K* * Geen the Deil?
Or great M**** **** + thrawa his heel?
Or R******* again grown weel,

To preach an' read? • Na' waur than a'!' cries ilka chtel,

• Tam Samson's dead!"

K********* lang may grunt an' grain,
An' high, an fab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wise, an' wean,

In mourning weed;
To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane,

Tam Samson's dead !

"When this worthy old Sportsman went out last rouir-fow!! season, he supposed it was to be, in Ofian's phrase, the last of his fields ;' and expreffed an ardent with to die and be buburied is the inuirs. On this hint the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

+ A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide the ORDINATION, p. 54.

| Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the rew, who was at that time ailing. For him fee also the ORDINATION, stanza IX,

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