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I

NOTE TO GAVIN HAMILTON.

HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty,

To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
And wad hae done 't aff han':
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
And tellin' lies about them;

As lieve then, I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be ye may be

Not fitted other where.

Although I say 't, he's gleg enough,
And 'bout a house that's rude and rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
And get sic fair example straught,

I havena ony fear.

Ye 'll catechise him every quirk,
And shore him weel wi' h—,
And gar him follow to the kirk
Aye when ye gang yoursel'.
If ye, then, maun be, then,
Frae hame this comin' Friday;
Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir,

The orders wi' your leddy.

My word of honour I hae gien,
In Paisley John's, that night at e’en,
To meet the warld's worm;
To try to get the twa to gree,
And name the airles and the fee,
In legal mode and form.

I ken he weel a sneck can draw,
When simple bodies let him;
And if a devil be at a', ·
In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, and praise you,

Ye ken your Laureate scorns:
The prayer still, you share still,
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

I

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

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,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye. For care and trouble set your thought, Even when your end 's attained; And a' your views may come to nonght, Where every nerve is strained.

I'll no say men are villains a’;
The real, hardened 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 should na censure,
For still th' 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 nae 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' sharpened, sly inspection.

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

But never tempt th' 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.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And even the rigid feature.

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be cómplaisance extended;

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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-driven,
A conscience but a canker,
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven
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! 1

1 In a copy of this poem in Burns's own hand, and bearing date "Mossgiel, May 15th, 1786," there occurs an additional stanza which the admirable taste of the poet had doubtless observed to be below the rest in terseness and point, and which he had therefore seen fit to omit. It throws so valuable a light on the state of his own mind at this crisis, that it certainly ought not to be suppressed, though we should not desire to see it replaced in the poem. It occurs immediately after the line, "And petrifies the feeling."

If ye hae made a step aside,

Some hap mistake o'erta'en you,
Yet still keep up a decent pride,
And ne'er o'er far demean you.

Time comes wi' kind oblivious shade,
And daily darker sets it,

And if nae mair mistakes are made,

The world soon forgets it.

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