Then sore harrass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; O

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion; O

The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untryed; O

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; O

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labor to sustain

me, O

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O

For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for for tune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber: O

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; O

I live to day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow,

0.

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice; O

I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it

farther; O

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard

her, O.

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O Some unforseen misfortune comes generally upon

me; O

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath;

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a ticular pleasure in conning it over.

I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry; though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but, without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature: the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent —in partícular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life-generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those whose heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling.

August. The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience, and nicer observation, throw more light on the subject.In the mean time I shall set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of my heart, will enable any body to determine which of the classess I belong

to.

Green grow the rashes, 0,
Green grow the rashes, O,
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, (;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O,

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O!

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0);
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O!
Green grow the rashes, O, &c.

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious, and the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave-I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the above verses describe-one who spends the hours and thoughts which the vocations of the day can spare, with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. or as the maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear bonie lass in view-I say I do not see that the turn of mind and pursuits of such a one are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honors: and I do not see but he may gain heaven as well, which, by the bye, is no mean consideration, who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way; as he who straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminences, where, after all, he can only see and be seen a little more conspicuously, than what in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him.

August.

A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear.

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou All Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

August.

Misgivings in the hour of despondency and prospect of death.

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene!

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms!
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry GoD,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtues way;