God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess !

Baith careless, and fearless
Of either heaven or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor mak our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;

They mak us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Though losses, and crosses,
Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flattery I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest par
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name

It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a' on flame!

O all ye powers who rule above;
O thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear;
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow;

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phœbus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penned:
Even Ministers, they hae been kenned,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,

I wasna fou, but just had plenty :
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenned aye

Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel;

But whether she had three or four,

I cou'dna tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Though leeward whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang:

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient a wame it had ava!

And then, its shanks,

As cheeks o' branks.

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

"Guid-een," quo I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin * ?"

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak :

Will ye go back ?"

At length says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun,

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

It spak right howe" My name is Death,
But be na fley'd.”—Quoth I, " Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie:

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,

I'm no designed to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wadna mind it, no that spittle

Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I," a bargain be❜t; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat,

Come, gies your news;

This while ye hae been mony a gate,

At mony a house.”

66 Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath:

Folk maun do something for their bread,

An' sae maun Death.

Sax thousand years are near-hand fled,
Sin' I was to the butching bred,

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scar me;

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.