Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' kintra wit. This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, Something cries "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, Now moths deform, in shapeless tetters, Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound and hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted, fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic wand then let us wield; Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' crepin pace. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' social noise; An' fareweel dear, deluding woman, Oh, life! how pleasant is thy morning, Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, Among the leaves; And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, For which they never toil'd nor swat; They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Through fair, through foul, they urge the race, Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', They zigzag on; Till cursed with age, obscure an' starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' straining- E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, And, Andrew dear, believe me, And muckle they may grieve ye. For care and trouble set your thought, I'll no say men are villains a'; But, och mankind are unco weak, If self the wavering balance shake, Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Conceal yoursel as weel's you can But keek through every other man, The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, But when on life we're tempest-driven, Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting: May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting! |