No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts Our sex with guile and faithless love 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, II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, But och, mankind are unco weak, If self the wavering balance shake, IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, But keek thro' ev'ry other man, VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, I wave the quantum o' the sin, 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, VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 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, 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 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, 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! |