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SEE Social-life and Glee sit down,

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

Debauchery and Drinking:
would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal confequences ;

Or your more dreaded h-ll to ftates,

D-mnation of expences !


YE 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 whifper i' yoar lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.



Tsen gently scan your brother Man,

Still gentler filter 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 perbaps they rue it.


Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord its various tone,

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We 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 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.

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

"Tain Samson's dead!'

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

An' sigh an' fob, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an'

wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To Death she'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 mumes up his eloak,

And binds the mire like a rock;


When to the loughs the Curlers flock

Wi' gleesome 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 up the rink like Jebu roar

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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