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There's some are fou o' brandy; And monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandy Some ither day.

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

A'YE wha live by sowps o' 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,
And owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's ta'en anither shore,
And owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'T will mak 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
Jang mustering up a bitter blast;

A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!

So, took a berth afore the mast,
And 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,
And owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wadna 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,
And hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fou o' glee;

He wadna wranged the very dei',
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 hinmost gillie,
Though owre the sea!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this aréa throng,
Oh, pass not by !

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;

Here pause — and, through the starting tear Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below,

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

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Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,

To roose you up, and ca' you guid,
And sprung o' great and noble bluid,
Because ye 're surnamed like his Grace;
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This

do
may - maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, L-be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, L-be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin',
It's just sic poet, and 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 every hand it will allowed 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;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus’t
Till aft his gudeness is abused;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Even 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', córrupt 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 he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no through terror of d―tion;
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 !

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