The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Or if she gie a random sting, 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! 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 Endies. 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, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' 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, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! But he was gleg as ony wumble That's owre the sea. Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 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, 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 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, Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, And fou o' glee; He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie, Your native soil was right ill-willie ; may ye But I'll toast flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornful view On sic a dinner? P 2 Poor devil! see him owre his trash, 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 powers, wha mak mankind your care, That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, A DEDICATION. EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, |