'stir.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer1 about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,
They're makin observations ;

While some are cozie i' the neuk 2,

An' formin assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin,

An' echoes back return the shouts ;
Black Russel is na spairin :

His piercing words, like Highlan swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera 'sauls does harrow' +

Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's raging flame, an' scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane !

The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neibor snorin
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell
How mony stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill',

When they were a' dismist :

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms and benches ;

An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps,

nook.

Was dealt about in lunches

5 flaming.

8

An' dawds that day.

3 Minister of Kilmarnock.

Shakspeare's Hamlet.--R. B 7 ale. 8 lumps.

6 whinstone.

In comes a gaucie' gash Guidwife,
An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife,
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother,

Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them 't like a tether,
Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!

Sma' need has he to say a grace,

6

Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow",
Some wait the afternoon.

8

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon :

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
May 1786.

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end

Than just a kind memento;

Jolly. • cheese 8 waes me! to peal or roar. 7 they can. 8 gaps

4 soil.

5 the bell-ringer.

in fences.

Andrew Aiken

But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
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.

I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, hardened wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricket;

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

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

Yet they wha fa" in fortune's strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure,
For still the important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith 2 hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
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;

VOL. III.

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

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

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

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.

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.

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 profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

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

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded;

Or, if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;

1 flame.

Nn

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 rede3,

Than ever did th' Adviser!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by !

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave;

Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

without.

2 heed the counsel. 3 bashful.

submit tamely.