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In which the "Jolly Beggars" caroused on Saturday nights.

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The hills in the distance are those referred to by Burns in "Death and Dr.
Hornbook":

"The rising sun began to glowre

The distant Cumnock hills out owre."

stare

over

[graphic]

SWEET AFTON.

Twenty-one miles from Ayr
Town,

Afton enters the Nith at New

EPISTLE TO REV. JOHN MCMATH
All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid liberal band is found
Of public teachers,

As men, as christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(Which gies ye honour)

Even, sir, by them your hearts esteem'd,
An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd you,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND 1

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;

1 Andrew Aiken, son of R. Aiken, to whom he inscribed "The Cottar's Saturday Night."

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

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 o' life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justify'd 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 you feel your honour grip,
Let that ay be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side-pretences;

And resolutely keeps its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

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