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M I S S L
With BEATTIE's Poems for a New-year's
Gift. Jan. I. 1787.
AGAIN the filent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n, And you,
tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coafts
The infant year to hail ;
I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true;
An Edwin still to you.
I Lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A Something to have sent you, Tho’ it should serve nae other end Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gàng,
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:
Ev'n when your end's attained ;
Where ev'ry nerve is ftrained.
l'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few reftricked :
An' little to be trusted ;
It's rarely right adjusted !
Yet they wha fa’ in Fortune's strife,
Their fate we would na censure,
They equally may answer :
Tho? Poortith hourly stare him ;
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Ay free, aff han', your story tell,
When wi’ a bofom crony;