But never tempt th' illicit rove, And petrefies the feeling ! VII. To catch Dame Fortune's golden fmiley VIII. The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip,. Debar a' fide pretences, IX. The great Creator to revere, Muft fure become the Creature; But ftill the preaching cant forbear, Yet ne'er with Wits prophane to rage,, An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange X. When ranting round in Pleasures ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if the gie a random fling, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempeft-driv’ng. A confcience but a canker A correfpondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,, XI. Adieu, dear, amiable Youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth, In Ploughman's phrafe, God fend you speed,'! Still daily to grow wifer; And may ye better reck the rede, Than e'er did th' Adviser! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A'YE wha live by fowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo.clink, Come, mourn wi' me! : Our Billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the Sea! Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random fplore; Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In focial key; For now he's ta'en another fhore, An owre the Sea ! The bonie laffes weel may wifs him, Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weell I wat they'll fairly mifs him That's owre the Sea! ་ O Fortune, they hae room to grumble !! Hadft thou taen aff fome drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea ; But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the Sea.. Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' ftain them wi' the faut, faut tear :: "Twill make her poor, auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee : He was her Laureat monie a year, That's owre the Sea. He faw Misfortune's cauld Nor-west Lang muftering up a bitter blaft; A Jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may fhe be!! So, took a birth afore the maft, An' owre the Sea. 'To tremble under fortunes cummock,, On fcarce a belly fu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent ftomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the Sea. He ne'er was gien to great mifguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding He dealt it free: The mufe was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the Sea. Jamaica bodies, ufe him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel: Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, An' fou o' glee: He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil, That's owre the Sea.. Fareweel, my rhyme-compofing billie! Your native foil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie: I'll toaft ye in my hindmoft gillie, Tho' owre the Sea!: |