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Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAY, 1786.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang,
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:
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,

An' 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 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 you can
Frae critical dissection;

But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' 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.

VOL. I.

P

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's 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-driven,
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 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,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

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,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,
An' owre the sea.

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' ee;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble

That's owre the sea.

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud independent stomach
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

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,
An' hap him in a cozie biel;
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fou o' glee;

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.

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