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, Epistle to a Young Friend. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad; 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, Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, A man may tak a neibor's part, Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek through every other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 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, That's justified by honour; 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; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. |