For care and trouble set your thought,

E'en when your end's attained; An a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say men are villains a";
The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law
Are to a few restricked:

But och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake, Its rarely right adjusted

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man my tak a neibor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Aye free, aff han', your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:
I waive 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,
Not for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To hand the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keeps its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature:
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And e'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 th' adviser!

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by cranibo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,
Come mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,1
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 ta en anither shore,
An' owre the sea.

The bonnie lasses weel may miss him, And in their dear petitions place him, The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.

O fortune, they ha'e room to grumble!
Had'st thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nonght 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 flinders 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!

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 wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;

And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn, then stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or Olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad her spew,

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view,
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As freckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit:

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie neive a blade,

He'll make it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Anld Scotland wants no skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

A DEDICATION.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleeching, fileth'rin, dedication,
To roose you up, an, ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like his grace,83
Perhaps related to the race:

Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do--maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou'. For me, sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit, I can plough.

And when I dinna yoke a naig,
Then, lord be thankit, I can beg:

Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin,'
It's just sic poet an' sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him;
He may do weel for a' he done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron. (Sir, he maun forgive me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want:
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse it;
Till aft his goodness is abused;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does nae fail his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature,
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature;
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunter's wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no thro' terror of damnation;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re.
But point the rake that taks the door;
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving:

No matter,-stick to sound believing!

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile grace
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own:
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of heresy and error.

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets, till Heav'n commission gies him;
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones.
Till louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, Sir, for this disgression,
I maist forgat my dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my work I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel'.
Then patronise them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-

I had amaist said, ever pray,

But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin' I hac little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray`r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir-

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark,
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk!
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart,
For that same gen'rous spirit smart!

May Kennedy's far-honour'd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till Hamilton's at least a dizen,
Are by their canty fireside risen;
Five bonnie lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able
To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days:
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not mind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion,

But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which pow'rs above prevent!)
That iron hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances,

By sad mistakes, and black mischances,

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,

Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear,
If friendless, low we meet together,

Then, Sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

Thy sons, EDINA! social, kind,

With open arms, the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet85 strikes th' adoring eye,
Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine:
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine!
V.

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar:
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous walls and massy bor, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

From marking wildly scatter'd flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1ST, 1785.
WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks seraichin' loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin' seen,"
Inspire my mus,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye need na, doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, 'Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?'

They tauld me 'twas an old kind chiel
About Muirkirk,

It pat me fidgin'-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that ken't him, round declar'd
He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine;

That, set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel',
Ör witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith
To hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I could tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;

Tho' rude an' rough,
Yet crooning to a body's sel',
Does weel enough.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can yon e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verses frae prose,
To mak a sang?"
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spade and shools, Or knappin-hammers,

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes?
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire!
That's a' the learning I desire:
Then tho' I druge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.
Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Ferguson's the bauld and slee.
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me!
If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou
I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel';
As ill I like my faults to tell;
But friends and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me.
At dance or fair:

Maybe some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,

An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware
Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him latter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water;
Syne we'll sit down an tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa' ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,
Ev'n love and friendship should give place
To catch the plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

'Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms kae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,
An' thank him kindly?'

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaod stumbie in the ink:
Quoth I, 'Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

An if ye winna mak' it clink,
By Jove, I'll prose it."

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp! Come, kittle up your moorland harp

Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp; She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a' rig!
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg,
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,

A's lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer,

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,
Behint a kist to lie and sklent,
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.
And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane,

Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?

'O Thon wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me if thou please adrift
Thro' Scotland wide;
Wi' cits nor lairds I would na' shift,
In a' their pride!'
Were this the charter of our state,
'On pain' o' hell be rich and great,

Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate
We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began. The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he!'

O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor glorious devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons of Mammoth's light,
Are dark as night.

Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor musie:

Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should 1 but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes of fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.

(Oh Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes,
Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,
As whiles they're like to be my dead,
(Oh, sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed:

It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays,

Till echoes all resound again

Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'-d of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Be-south Magellan

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;