No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

May, 1786.

I.

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:

But och, mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life,
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony ;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;

But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it:

I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour;

Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause→→
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits prophane to range, Be complaisance extended;

An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

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,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n
Is sure a noble anchor!

XI.

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunted!

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,
A' ye wha live and never think,

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, 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, W' 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 bumble, 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 cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast;

A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may 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' owre 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 aye 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! 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!