WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love, with sprightly dance, May delude the thoughtless pair; As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While chearful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, Thus resign'd and quiet, creep Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Stranger, go! heav'n be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. |