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Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection ;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' sharpen', sly inspection.

VI.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt the' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it ;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard of concealing; But och ! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling!

VII. To catch' dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

VIII. The fear o'hell's, a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order ;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that ay be your border ;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-

Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

IX.
The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange

For Deity offended !

X.
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded ;
Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n,

A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,

Is sure 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 phrase, God send you speed,'

Still daily to grow wiser:
And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did the adviser!

ON A SCOTCII BARII,

GONE TO TUE WEST INDIES.

A'YE wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A'ye wha live and never think,

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 bim : 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.

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; "Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear,

In Ainders flee; He was her laureate monie a year,

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be !
So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea,

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu'o' drummock, Wi' his proud independent stomach,

Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a håmmock,

An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ;

He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in,

That's ow're the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel : Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,

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.

Pain fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race !
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

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,
An' cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright

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,

VOL. XXXVIII. R

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