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Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange

For Deity offended !

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When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion inay

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' Heay'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!







A' ye

A'ye wha live by soups o' drink,

wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, A

Come mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a'a jink,

An' owre the sea.'



Lament him a' ye rantin core,

a 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 weel 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 bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

'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 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 auld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,


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' owré 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.

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Fareweel, 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 sea.


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