Ye'll try the world fu' 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, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:
But, och! mankind are unco weak,
And 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 should na censure,
For still th' important end of life,
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him
A man may tak a neibor's part.

Yet hae no 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 yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection ;
But keek through ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of 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-attendant,
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
your honour grip,
Let that aye be your
border:

Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;

And resolutely keeps its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

When taxes he enlarges,

(And Will's a true guid fallow's get (111)
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
And lessen a' your charges;
But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fit
Abridge your bonnie barges (112)
And boats this day.

Adieu, my liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
And may ye rax corruption's neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty and subjection

This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gies you?

Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye

In bliss, till fate some day is sent,

For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales,
I tell your Highness fairly,
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,
I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
And curse your folly sairly,
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,
Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie (113),
By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known
To mak a noble aiver
So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

;

For a' their clish-ma-claver:
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver ;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver

For monie a day (114.)

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg (115),

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug,

Wad been a dress completer:

As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then, swith! and get awife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre,
Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks (116), I learn,
Ye've lately come athrawt her;

A glorious galley (117), stem and stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;

A Bard's Epitaph.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate 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,

Oh, 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 runs, himself, life's mad career,

>

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave.

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 stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

The Twa Dogs,

A TALE. (118)

"TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil (119),
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailor's gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin',
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin'.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang (120),
Was made lang syne Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash and faithful tyke,
As ever lap or sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place,
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gaucie tale, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
And unco pack and thick thegither :
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit.
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And worried ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

CÆSAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
And when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;

;

He rises when he likes himsel
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie:
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His hanour has in a' the lan';

And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own its past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like;
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
And nought but his han' dark, to keep
Them right and tight in thack and rape.
And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
And they maun starve o' cauld or hunger;
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
Theyre' maistly wonderfu' contented:
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.