Lines

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FOYERS, NEAR LOCH NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods

The roaring Foyers pours his mossy floods,

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep-recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim seen through rising mists and ceaseless showers,

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers.

Still, through the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid caldron boils.

Epistle to a Young Friend.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end.
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad;
And, Andrew, dear, believe me,
You'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Even when your end's attain'd ;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strain'd

Epistle to a Young Friend.

I'll no say men are villains a';

The real, harden'd, wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked:

But, och mankind are unco weak,

And little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure,
For still the important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Though poortith hourly stare him;

A man may tak a neibor's part,
Yet hae na cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;

But keek through every other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt the illicit rove,

Though naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by every wile

That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant, But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip.
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;

And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.