Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

Their fate we shouldna 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 neebor'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 yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

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 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 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 ring,

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

It may be little minded;
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 ser:d 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 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 thro’ 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
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.

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
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door

For glaikit Folly's portals;
I for their thoughtless, careless sakes

Would here propone defences-
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compard,

And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment's fair regard,

What maks the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave,

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,
What ragings must his veins convulse

That still eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,

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:
O would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal consequences,
Or—your more dreaded hell to state

Damnation of expenses !

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,

Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,

Suppose a change o' cases:

A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,

A treach'rous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man,

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;
And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,

And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo!