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SEE Social-life and Glee sit down,

All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite tranfmugrify'd, they're grown

Debauchery and Drinking :
would they stay to calculate

Th'eternal confequences ; Or

your more dreaded h-ll to ftate, D-mnation of expences !

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E high, exalted, virtuous Dames,

Ty'd up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names

Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-lov'd'lad, convenience fnug,

A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper it yoar lug,

Ye're aiblins pae temptation,


THEN gently scan your brother Man,

Still gentler sister Woman ;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang.

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.


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,


e never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted


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HAS auld K********* seen the deil?
Or great M******** + thrawn his heel?
Or R******* | again grow weel,

To preach an read ?

Na, • Na, waur than a'! cries ilka chiel,


* When this worthy ord 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.

of A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide the ORDINATHON.

Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the Few, who was at that time aillng. For him sec also the ORDINATION,

Stanza IX.

Tam Samson's dead !

K********* lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh 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 mystic level

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 mufies up his cloak,

And binds the mire like a rock;


When to the loughs the Curlers flock

Wi' gleefome spied, Wha will they station at the cock,

Tam Samson's dead?

He was the king of a' the Core,

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

Or ip the rink like Jebu roar пр

In time o' need ;

But now he lags on Death's bog-score,

Tam Samson's dead !

Now safe the stately 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 fisb-creel we wail

Tam Samson's dead !



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