V. SEE Social-life and Glee fit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite tranfmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: ་ O would they ftay to calculate Th' eternal confequences; Or your more dreaded h-ll to ftate, D-mnation of expences! VI YE high, exalted, virtuous Dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppofe a change o' cafes; A dear-lov'd lad, convenience fnug, A treacherous inclination But, let me whifper i' your lug,. Ye're aiblins nae temptation. VIL VII. THEN gently fcan your brother Man, Still gentler fifter Woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang To step afide is human: One point muft ftill be greatly dark, And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. WHO made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord its various tone, Each fpring its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.. TAM TAM SAMSON's * ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God HAS auld K********* feen the deil? To preach an' read? POPE. Na, * When this worthy old Sportsman went out last muir-fowl' season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields;' and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the Author composed his Elegy and Epitaph. † A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide the ORDINATION. Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the Few, who was at that time aillng. For him see also. the ORDINATION,, stanza IX. 'Na, waur than a'! cries ilka chiel, 'Tam Samson's dead !” K********* lang may grunt an' grane, An' figh an' fob, an' greet her lane, An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, In mourning weed; To Death fhe's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samfon's dead! THE Brethren o' the myftic levet May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nofe the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samfon's dead! WHEN Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When When to the loughs the Curlers flock Wi' gleefome fpied, Wha will they station at the cock, Tam Samfon's dead? HE was the king of a' the Core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jebu roar In time o' need; But now he lags on Death's bog-score, Tam Samfon's dead! Now fafe the ftately Sawmont fail, And Trouts bedropp'd wi crimson hail, And Eels weel kend for fouple tail, And Geds for greed, Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samfon's dead! REJOICE & |