If careless of his future fate,
He daftly wastes a good estate,
And never thinks till thoughts are vain,
And can afford him nought but pain.
Thus will a joiner's fhavings' bleeze
Their low will for fome feconds please,
But foon the glaring leam is past,
And cauldrife darkness follows faft;
While flaw the faggots large expire,
And warm us with a lafting fire.
Then neither, as I ken ye will,
With idle fears your pleasures spill;
Nor with neglecting prudent care,
Do skaith to your fucceeding heir:
Thus fteering cannily thro' life,
Your joys fhall lasting be and rife.
Give a' your paffions room to reel,
As lang as reafon guides the wheel:
Defires, tho' ardent, are nae crime,
When they harmonioufly keep time;
But when they spang o'er reason's fence,
We fmart for 't at our ain expence.
To recreate us we 're allow'd,
But gaming deep boils up the blood,
And gars ane at groom-porter's, ban
The Being that made him a man,
When his fair gardens, house, and lands,
Are fa'n amongst the sharpers' hands.
A cheerfu' bottle fooths the mind,
Gars carles grow canty, free, and kind,
Defeats our care, and heals our strife,
And brawly oils the wheels of life ;
But when juft quantums we tranfgrefs,
Our bleffing turns the quite reverse.
To love the bonny fmiling fair,
Nane can their paffions better ware;
Yet love is kittle and unruly,
And fhou'd move tentily and hooly;
For if it get o'er meikle head,
'Tis fair to gallop ane to dead:
O'er ilka hedge it wildly bounds,
And grazes on forbidden grounds,
Where constantly like furies range
Poortith, diseases, death, revenge:
To toom anes poutch to dunty clever,
Or have wrang'd husband probe ane's liver,
Or void ane's faul out thro' a fhanker,
In faith 't wad any mortal canker.
Then wale a virgin worthy you,
Worthy your love and nuptial vow;
Syne frankly range o'er a' her charms,
Drink deep of joy within her arms;
Be ftill delighted with her breast,
And on her love with rapture feast.
May she be blooming, faft, and young, With graces melting from her tongue; Prudent and yielding to maintain
Your love, as well as you her ain.
Thus with your leave, Sir, I've made free To give advice to ane can gi'e
As good again :-but as mafs John
Said, when the fand tald time was done,
"Ha'e patience, my dear friends, a wee,
"And take ae ither glass frae me;
"And if ye think there 's doublets due,
"I fhanna bauk the like frae you."
AN EPISTLE FROM MR. WILLIAM STARRAT.
AE windy day last owk, I'll ne'er forget,
I think I hear the hail-ftanes rattling yet;
On Crochan-bufs my hirdfell took the lee,
As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my ee:
I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree fide,
Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my plaid.
Right cozylie was set to ease my stumps,
Well hap'd with bountith hose and twa-fol'd pumps;
Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew'd my cood,
Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood;
My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew,
And lilted owre thir twa three lines to you.
Blaw up my heart-ftrings, ye Pierian quines, That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes, And learn'd the Latin lowns fic fprings to play, As gars the world gang dancing to this day.
In vain I feek your help ;-'tis bootlefs toil With fic dead ase to muck a moorland foil; Give me the muse that calls paft ages back, And fhaws proud fouthern fangsters their mistak, That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north, And big Parnaffus on the firth of Forth.
Thy breast alane this gladfome guest does fill With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill, And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher's tongue, The blytheft lilts that e'er my lugs heard fung. Ramfay! for ever live; for wha like you, In deathlefs fang, fic life-like pictures drew? Not he wha whilome with his harp cou'd ca' The dancing ftanes to big the Theban wa'; Nor he (fhame fa's fool head!) as stories tell, Cou'd whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell; Nor e'en the loyal brooker of bell trees,
Wha fang with hungry wame his want of fees; Nor Habby's drone, cou'd with thy wind-pipe please:
When, in his well-ken'd clink, thou manes the
Of Lucky Wood and Spence, (a matchless skaith
To Canigate,) fae gash thy gab-trees gang,
The carlines live for ever in thy fang.
Or when thy country bridal thou pursues,
To red the regal tulzie fets thy muse,
Thy foothing fangs bring canker'd carles to ease,
Some loups to Lutter's pipe, fome birls babies.
But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath, And fings poor Sandy's grief for Adie's death, Or Matthew's lofs, the lambs in concert mae, And lanefome Ringwood yowls upon the brae.
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