IX. 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, An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange X.. 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 driv❜n. XI. 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! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A'YE wha live by soups o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, wha live and never think, A' ye Come mourn wi me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, Lament him a' An' owre the sea. ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random splore, 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 well 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 bummel, Wha can do nought but fyke and furnble, "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 make 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 Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 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, Jamaica bodics, 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. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm; Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, An' cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strivę, Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that would staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip lash, Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an heads will sned, Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: |