Our sex with guile and faithless love EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, But how the subject-theme may gang, Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, I'll no say, men are villains a'; But och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Conceal yoursel as weel's you can But keek thro' ev'ry other man, The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, And gather gear by ev'ry wile VOL. I. P The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, But when on life we're tempest-driven, Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting: May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser; And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser! ON A SCOTCH BARD, Gone to the West Endies. A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, Come mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, For now he's taen anither shore, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! But he was gleg as ony wumble That's owre the sea. Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, He was her laureate monie a year That's owre the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie, Your native soil was right ill-willie ; may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! But I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. |