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But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine ;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye 'll try the world soon, my lad,

And Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye 'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye :
For care and trouble set your thought

Ev'n when your end's attained ;
And a' your views may come to nought,

Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, hardened wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricket ;
But, och! mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted ;
If self the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

Their fate we shouldna censure,
For still the important end of life

They equally may answer ;
A man may hae an honest heart,

Tho' pooitith hourly stare him ;
A man may tak a neibor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han' your story tell,

When wi a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection ;
But keeks thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpened, sly inspection.
• poverty.

'poop

The sacred lowe' o' weel-placed love,

Luxuriantly indulge it ;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho'naething should divulge it ;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard o' concealing ; But, och! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling ! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her ; And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train attendanc; But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent.
The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip,

To haud the wretch in order ;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that aye be your border ;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-

Debar a' side pretences ;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences. 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,

Be complaisance extended ;
An atheist-laugh 's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ringe

Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded ;

i flame. NO

VOL. III.

But when on life we're tempest-driv'n

A conscience but a canker.
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,

Is sure a noble anchor !

Adieu, dear amiable Youth !

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,

Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, ‘God send you speed,'

Still daily to grow wiser ;
And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did th’ Adviser !

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate 3 to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near ;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet suns, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, thro’ the starting tear,

Survey this grave.
I without. 2 beed the counsel. 3 bashful.

+ submit tamely

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stained his name !
Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious self-control

Is wisdom's root.

FROM THE EPISTLE TO MRS. SCOTT OF WAUCHOPE.

I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,

An' first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' forfoughten' sair eneugh,

Yet unco? proud to learn :
When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckon'd was,
And wi' the lave: ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing and clearing

The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers 5, an' haiverso,

Wearing the day awa:
Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that, to my latest hour,

Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan, or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least. 1 tired.

2 uncommonly. • the other row of shocks.

gossip Nn

9 rest.

nonsense

The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide

Amang the bearded bear,
I turned the weeding-hook aside,
An' spared the symbol dear :
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise ;
A Scot still, but ? blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,
Wild floated in my

brain ;
Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain :
I see her yet, the sonsie 3 quean,

That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle ;
I fired, inspired,

At ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,

I feared aye to speak.

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

Bonie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonie lassie, will ye go,

To the Birks of Aberfeldy?
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come let us spend the lightsome days

In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Or lightly fit on wanton wing,
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
2 without.

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