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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,

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A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless i atters

Their unknown pages.

THEN farewel hopes o' laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang

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I'LL wander on with tentless heed,

How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall faap the brittle thread;

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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,

Where Pleasure is the Magic Wand,

That wielded right,

Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu’light.

The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's speeld,

See,

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,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin ;
An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,

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

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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;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

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

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' strainingBut 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.

MY pen

I here fling to the door, And kneel, Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,

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• Tho'

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