And a' your views may come to nought,
When 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 should na 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 na cash to spare him.
Ay free, aff han', your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony ;
But still keep something to yoursel,
Ye'll scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can,
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
1 waive 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.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order-
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that ay be your border;
It's 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 sing,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest driv'n,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,
Is sure a nobler anchor!
Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting;
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, “Gad send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may you better reck the rede,
Than ever did th' adviser!
PATHETIC, ELEGIAC, AND DESCRIPTIVE
WHEN Chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
(Began the rev'rend sage ;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law
That man was made to mourn.
Look not alone on youthful prime
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, oh! ill matched pair!
Show man was made to mourn.
A few seem favourites of Fate,
In Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But oh! what crowds in every land,
Are wretched and forlorn;
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth,
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
IX.
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave
By Nature's law design'd;
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?
Yet, let not this too much, my son
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.
O death! the poor man's dearest friend!
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn ;
But, oh-a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these!-
WHEN biting Boreas fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phabus gies a short-liv'd glow'r
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirlin drift!
Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-chocked
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.
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