The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
aye be your
border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev'n the rigid feature ;
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or, if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
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!
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 sowps2 o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,"
A' ye wha live an' never think,
Come mourn wi' me!
Our billie's gien us a' a jink,5
An' owre the sea.
1 Heed the counsel. 2 Spoonsful.
Lament him a' ye rantin core,1
Wha dearly like a random-splore,2
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 weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle,3
Wha can do nought but fyke1 an❜ fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;
But he was gleg5 as ony wumble,"
That's owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;
He was her Laureat monie a year,
That's owre the sea!
He saw misfortune's cauld Nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet9 brak his heart at last,
So, took a berth afore the mast,
An' owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune's cummock,10
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,"
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;
So, row't12 his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.
He ne'er was gi'en 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' hap1 him in a cozie biel;2
Ye'll find him ay' a dainty chiel,
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,
TO A HAGGIS.4
FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' 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
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,"
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd' kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,9
"Bethankit" hums.
• A dish which is only known or relished in Scotland. It is said to be composed of minced mutton, oatmeal, and suet; but a Southron reader will not desire a particular receipt.
5 Small entrails. 6 Wipe. 7 Swelled. 8 Stomachs. 9 Burst.
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw1 a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,2
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit ;5
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,7
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;8
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration
A fleechin,' fleth'rin0 Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ;11
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,1
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's just sic Poet, an' sic Patron.
The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.
The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it ;
Aught he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature :
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That's he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no thro' terror of damnation;
It's just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!
No-stretch a point to catch a plack ;3
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal thro' a winnock4 frae a
But point the rake that taks the door;
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