Epistle to a Young Friend.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature;

But still the preaching cant forbear,
And even the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An atheist laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

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-driven,

A conscience but a canker,

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven

Is sure a noble anchor!

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!

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House.

GUIDWIFE.

I mind it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,

And first could thrash the barn,

Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;

And though forfoughten sair eneugh,

Yet unco proud to learn:

When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckon'd was,

And wi' the lave ilk merry morn

Could rank my rig and lass,

Still shearing, and clearing,

The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers and haivers
Wearing the day awa'.

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House.

Even then, a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast-
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,

I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang,
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that hairst I said before,

My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain :

I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle!
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

To the Guidwife of Wauchope house.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter-days,

And we to share in common:

The gust o' joy, the balm o' woe,
The saul o' life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:

She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her.
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,

That slight the lovely dears;

To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
And plenty be your fa';

May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

My Dannie, D.

TUNE-"My Nannie, O."

BEHIND yon hills, where Lugar flows
'Mang moors and mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I'll awa' to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill: The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal, And owre the hills to Nannie, O.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young,
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.