But ftill the preaching cant forbear, Yet ne'er with Wits prophane to range, An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange X. When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if the gie a random fting, It may be little minded; But when on Life we're tempeft-driv'n, A Confcience but a canker A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is fure a noble anchor! XI. Adieu, dear, amiable Youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrafe, God fend you speed,' Still daily to grow wifer; And may ye better reck the rede, ON ON SCOTCH BAR D. GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A'YE wha live by fowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the Sea. Lament rantin core, Lament him a' ye rantin Wha dearly like a random-fplore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, For now he's taen anither fhore, An' owre the Sea! The bonnie laffes weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll fairly miss him That's owre the Sea! O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadft thou taen aff fome drowfy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' ftain them wi' the faut, faut tear; 'Twill mak 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 she be! So, took a birth afore the most, An' owre the Sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On scarce a belly fu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the Sea. He |