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 ev❜n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits prophane to range, An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! In ploughman phrase, God send you speed,' 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' jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea! 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 laureat monie a year, That's owre the sea! He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west I'll 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, The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him well, An' hap him in a cozie biel: And fou' o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing Billie! Now bonnilie! I'll toast 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 of 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, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, Is there that o'er his French ragout Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner! Poor devil! see him owre his trash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. |