They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night, cut down, it lies EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I. 1 LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And a' your views may come to nought, III. I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd, wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law But och! mankind are unco weak, If self the wav'ring balance shake, IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Ay free, aff han', your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, And gather gear by ev'ry wile VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order, - Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sing, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n, A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n XI. Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting; In ploughman phrase, "Gad send you speed," And may you better reck the rede Than ever did th' adviser! May, 1786. BOOK II. PATHETIC, ELEGIAC, AND DESCRIPTIVE. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. I. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step II. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn |