« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
WRITTEN WITII A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FOYERS,
NEAR LOCH NESS.
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods
Epistle to a Young friend.
I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you, Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento; But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad;
And, Andrew, dear, believe me, You 'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought,
Even when your end's attain'd ; And a' your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strain'd
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,
And little to be trusted ; If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure, For ştill the important end of life
They equally may answer;
Though poortith hourly stare him A man may tak a neibor's part,
Yet hae na cash to spare him.
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 through every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.