Page images
PDF
EPUB

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked;

But och, mankind are unco weak,
And 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 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 na 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 you can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

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 harden's 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 e'en the rigid feature:

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

An Atheist's 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;

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!

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 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,

And 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 ta'en anither shore,

And owre the sea.

• This was written of himself, and put into the hands of a friend, to be read at the first masonic meeting after he had left them for the West Indies. H. -We have heard it stated that this was composed on one John Gerrond, a smith and poetaster, who went to the West Indies; but this is a mistake. An account of Gerrond will be found in that curious farrago, entitled M'Taggart's Gallovidian Dictionary, where the following anecdote of him occurs. While ranging for subscribers once through the country, a priest was so impudent as to tell him he was no poet. Don't you think, returned our hero, that the Almighty is as potent now as he was in the days of old? Surely, replied the priest. Why then, quoth Gerrond, he has opened the mouth of another ass to-day methinks. M.

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, Wi' 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 ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea ;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea.

Auld, canty Kyle may weepers wear, And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; "Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee:

He was her laureate 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 berth afore the mast,

And 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,

And owre the sea.

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,
And hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him aye a daintie 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;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the sea!

TO A HAGGIS.*

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the pudding race!

tak your place,

Aboon them a' ye

Painch, tripe, or thairm ;

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

This poem, written in the house of Mr Andrew Bruce, Castle Hill, Edinburgh, where a haggis one day made part of the dinner, was originally printed in the Scots Magazine, for January, 1787, in which copy the last stanza reads as follows:

Ye powers wha gie us a' that's gude,

Still bless auld Caledonia's brood,

Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's blude,

In stoups or luggies,

And on our board, that king o' food,

A glorious Haggis !

H.

« PreviousContinue »