Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can But keek thro' ev'ry other man, VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt the' illicit rove, VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, And gather gear by ev'ry wile VIII. The fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip And resolutely keep its laws, IX. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature ; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, An Atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange X. When ranting round in pleasure's ring, But when on life we're tempest-driv❜n, XI. Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser: And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did the' adviser! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, Come mourn wi' me! Our billie 's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea. The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him: The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. i Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be ! To tremble under Fortune's cummock, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's ow're the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, And fou' o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie ; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. PAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!` Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, |