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"THERE's ither Poets much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, • Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
A' future ages;
Now moths deform in shapeless i atters
Their unknown pages.
THEN farewel hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Are whistling thrang,
My rustic sang
I'LL wander on with tentless heed,
How never-halting moments speed,
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!
But why o' Death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound an' hale; Then top and maintop croud the fail,
Heave Care o'er-side
And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.
This life, fae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy-land,
That wielded right,
Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu’light.
The magic wanå then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's speeld,
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,
Wi' wrinkl'd face,
Comes hoftin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creeping pace.
When ance life's duy draws near the gloamin,
An’social noise ;
An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The joy of joys !
O LIFE! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold-paufing Caution's lesson fcorning,
We frisk away.
Like school-boys at th’expected warning,
To joy and play.
WE wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves ;
And tho' the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves,
SOME, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor fwat;
But care or pain.
And, haply, eye the barren hut,
With high disdain.
WITH steady aim, fome Fortune chafe; Keen hope does ev'ry finew brace;
Thro'fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey :
Then canie, in some cozie place,
They close the day,
AND others, like your humble servan', Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin; To right or left, eternal swervin,
They zig-zag on; Till curft with age, obfcure an' starvin,
They aften groan.
ALAS! what bitter toil an' ftrainingBut truce, with peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ?
E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's fing dur sang.
I here fling to the door, And kneel, 'Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,