If happiness hae not her seat

An' centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,

But never can be blest;

Nae treasures nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry,

Wi' never ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how oft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's good,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming, and deeming

It a' an idle tale!

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,
An' sets me a' on flame!

EPISTLE TO DAVIE: A BROTHER POET

O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!

O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST

THE sun had clos'd the winter day, The curlers quat their roarin' play, And hunger'd maukin' taen her way, To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree,
The lee-lang day had tirèd me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin';

An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin'.

All in this mottie, misty clime,

I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

THE VISION

An' done naething,

But stringing blethers up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harket,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank and clarket

My cash-account;

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarket,
Is a' th' amount.

I started, mutt'ring 'blockhead! coof!'
And heav'd on high my wauket loof,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath

When click! the string the snick did draw;
An' jee! the door gaed to the wa';

An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezin' bright,

A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,
Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;
I glowr'd, as eerie's I'd been dusht,

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest Worth, she blusht,

An' stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token;

And come to stop those reckless vows,
Would soon be broken.

A 'hare-brain'd, sentimental trace'
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her;

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,
Beam'd keen with honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was scrimply seen;
An' such a leg! my bonie Jean

Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight an' clean-
Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand;

And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,

A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

There, mountains to the skies were toss't:
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,