EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I I. May 1786. Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A Something to have fent you, Tho' it fhould ferve nae other end Than just a kind memento; Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a Sang; Perhaps, turn out a Sermon. II. Ye'll try the world foon my lad, And ANDREW dear believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble fet your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. III. I'll no fay, men are villains a'; Wha hae nae check but human law, But Och, mankind are unco weak An' little to be trusted; If Self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's ftrife, Y A man may hae an honeft heart, A man may tak a neebor's part, V. Ay free, aff han', your story tell, But ftill keep fomething to yoursel But keek thro' ev'ry other man, VI. The facred lowe o' weel plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th'illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it : I wave the quantum o' the fin; The hazard of concealing; But Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch Dame Fortune's golden fmile, Affiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile, That's justify'd by Honor: But for the glorious priviledge VIII. The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip, But where ye feel your Honor grip, And refolutely keep it's laws, Uncaring confequences. IX. The great CREATOR to revere, But ftill the preaching cant forbear, And ev❜n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with Wits prophane to range, Be complaifance extended; An athieft-laugh's a poor exchange X. When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if the gie a random-fting, It may be little minded; But when on Life we're tempeft-driven, A Confcience but a canker— A correfpondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is fure a noble anchor! XI. Adieu, dear, amiable Youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrafe GOD fend you speed,' Still daily to grow wifer; And may ye better reck the rede, Than ever did th' Advifer! |