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Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure,
They equally may answer;
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han', your story tell,
When wi a bosom crony;
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Frae critical dissection;
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
Tho' naething should divulge it;
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;
Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause
Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws,
The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature;
And ev’n the rigid feature;
Be complaisance extended;
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
It may be little minded;
A conscience but a canker,
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!
Still daily to grow wiser;
Than ever did th' adviser!
A BARD'S EPITAPH
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Let him draw near;
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Oh, pass not by!
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 thro’ the starting tear
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
And softer flame;
And stain'd his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soul
In low pursuit;
Is wisdom's root.
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter,
Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals
For glaikit Folly's portals;
Would here propone defences-
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compard,
And shudder at the niffer;
What maks the mighty differ?
That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hidin.
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
That still eternal gallop:
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
It maks an unco leeway.
See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
Th' eternal consequences,
Damnation of expenses !
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Suppose a change o' cases:
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treach'rous inclination-
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance, let's be mute,
We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent: But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
We've had wi' ane anither:
And hand in hand we'll go,
John Anderson, my jo!