But keek thro' ev'ry other man
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

VI.

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

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantom o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon

her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Not for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that ay be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences..

IX.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And e'en the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!"

X.

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,

But when on life we're tempest driv❜n.

A conscience but a canker
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,

Is sure a noble anchor!

XI.

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting; May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, God send you speed,' ́

Still daily to grow wiser!

And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' adviser!

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

A' YE wha live by soups of drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come mourn wi me!

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,

Lament him a'

An' owre the sea.

ye rantin core,

Wha dearly like a random splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the sea.

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him, The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him," Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For well I wat they'll sairly miss him

That's owre the sea.

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummel, Wha can do nought but fyke and furnble, "Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea.

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill make her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud independent stomach
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;

He dealt it free:

The muse was a' that he took pride in,

That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

An' hap him in a cozie biel:

Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,

And fou' o' glee ;

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,
That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie :
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the sca.

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm;

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour dight, An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!