They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy:
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless:
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night:
The bum-clock hummed wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they werena men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID; OR, THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

O ye wha are sa guid yoursel,

Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's faults and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply'd wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter !

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,
For glaikit Folly's portals;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' their's compared,
And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gries now and then a wallop,

What raging must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It maks an unco lee-way.

See social life and glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,

Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses !

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Ty'd up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin wrang,

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,

Each spring-its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

THE VISION. DUAN FIRST

The sun had closed the winter day,
The curlers quat their roaring play,
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en 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 tired me;

And whan the day had closed his ee,

Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,

I sat and eyed 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 mused on wasted time,

How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

An' done nae-thing,

*Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation.

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

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank, an' clarkit

My cash account:

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

I started, muttering, "blockhead! coof!"
And heaved on high my waukit loof,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath

When, click! the string the nick did draw,

And 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 needna 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,

And 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;