When masons' mystic word an' grip, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' a' the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,
In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a’.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better fo’k,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' blotches did him gall

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye 're thinkin A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin
To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought, an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

EPISTLE

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

1786.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though 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.

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 naught,
Where every nerve is strained.

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!

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,
Though poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor'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;

But keek through every other man
Wi' sharpen'd slee inspection.

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

But never tempt the illicit rove,
Though naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by every 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'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-driven,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor !

Adieu, dear anriable 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 the adviser!