Again Thou say'st: "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!

Thou layest them with all their cares
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off,
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride arrayed;
But long ere night, cut down, it lies
All withered and decayed.

Η

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.

OH rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,

The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin',
Your dreams and tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin',
Straught to Auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, oh dinna tear it!

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives 't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithing: It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargained for, and mair;
Sae, whan ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang, ye'll sen 't wi' canny care,
And no neglect.

Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've played mysel a bonnie spring,
And danced my fill ;

I'd better gaen and sair't the king
At Bunker's Hill.

'T was ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a-roving wi' the gun,

And brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen,

And as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinking they wad fash me for 't;
But deil-ma-care !

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld used hands had taen a note
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot ;
I scorned to lie;

So gat the whistle o' my groat,
And pay 't the fee.

As soon's the clocking-time is by,
And the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-, I'se hae sportin' by and by,
For my gowd guinea,

Though I should hunt the buckskin kye
For 't in Virginia.

It puts me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme and write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.

TH

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

TUNE- Green grow the Rashes.

HERE'S nought but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, 0:

What signifies the life o' man,

And 't were na for the lasses, O.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O; And warly cares, and warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

For you sae douce ye sneer at this,
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:

Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let 's fly.

No

́O churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare;
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are
here,

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother
- his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.