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And he wha's guided by this light
Has nought to fear.

Sae, tak it ill or tak it weel,

Blunt truth I'll tell and shame the deil, And to your conscience wad appeal, But nane ye hae,

Ye frozen-hearted ne'er-do-weel,

Wi' pate sae grey.

Lang hae ye bullied, weel I wat,
The curse, the pest, baith soon and late,
To a' that toil within your gate,

'Mid wat and dry;

But still your grave-like greed to sate,
I them defy.

Your fulsome, ill scrap't leein' tongue, For mair than sixty years has swung, And rudely cursed baith auld and young As black as hell,

Till a' around has aften rung,

They ken theirsel.

Ayont a doubt, ah! doubt there's nane, E'en in the merest sceptic's brain,

That you are surely Satan's ain

Dark incarnation—

Of double damn'd damnation plain
An emanation.

And

your infernal lowin' drouth,

Your badge, your curse, frae early youth,
To sloken it but ance, in truth,
I a' defy:

When e'er a groat ye raise, forsooth,
Ye'll aye be dry.

And mony a broken snout ye've had—
Been weeks thegether raving mad-
Blue devils seen, and a' that's bad,
Your pouches picking;

And chairs and stools and bottles, lad,
In fury kicking

A' tapsateerie in a heap;

While snakes and serpents round ye creep,
And mony roused frae their last sleep
Around ye stand,

And spectres dread their watches keep
On ilka hand.

Sic dreadfu' dismal sights as these,
Are fit ane's very bluid to freeze,
And gaur us a' on coffee seize,

Thus turn Teetotal,

And suck our orange at soirees,

And curse the bottle.

Sae, wad ye to my hint attend,

And tak at last a thocht and mend,

But och I fear my words I'll spend
In labour vain,

And just as weel my counsel lend
To ane insane:

As weel attempt to raise the dead,
Or catch the lightning in its speed,
As to amendment you to lead,

And turn frae evil,

Ye God-abandoned, past remeid,

Black as the devil.

THOUGHTS ON GOD.

TERNAL and omniscient Source of all,
Immortal, ever from mutation free,

Ere Nature's system sprang forth at thy call,
Thou wert, and art, and shalt for ever be.

Yon azure canopy, unfurled on high,

Thy fiat first with starry spangles sowed; While through the pathless mazes of the sky The sun and moon in glorious lustre glowed.

Thy voice commands the tempest to forbear, And tranquillizes the tumultuous main

Charges the lightning whom to smite and spare,
The thunder when to peal and peal again.

Volcanoes too, obsequious to thy nod, Hurl forth their rivers of aquatic fire, the nations with the iron rod

To

scourge

Of thy displeasure sore, and vengeance dire.

The earthquake opens by Divine decree,

To spread destruction and lay waste the land;
In darkness stalks the pestilence from thee,
And sickness rages by supreme command.

Before thee, Lord, what are all nations? Nought. In balance hills and mountains dost thou weighThe isles but atoms, buoyantly which float

In mazy dances in the sunny ray.

The clouds for Thy pavilion dread thou takest, Breath'st in the storm, rid'st on the whirlwind's wing; The spacious universe as dust thou makest

Beneath thy feet, O thou Eternal King!

All, all, conspire thy praise to ever sound,
And thy omnipotence to all proclaim.

Ah, where in the created vast is found

The spot unstamped with thy mysterious name!

The heaven and earth pervaded are by Thee,
Who guides the atom and conducts the mite

With equal care, as through immensity

The burning comet and the seraph's flight.

But who by searching can Thee comprehend?
How futile even are our best essays?

What height, what depth, can with Thee co-extend ? "O let expressive silence muse thy praise!"

PORTRAITURE OF REAL LIFE.

URSED above all on this accursed earth!
Child of misfortune, who but pities thee?
Go, curse like Job your ill-starred, hapless birth,
Grim incarnation, rank of misery,

And weep your lot, thrice wretched and obscure,
Reptile of earth, thou poorest of the poor.

But for your sunless, frowning, blasted fate,
Arraign not Heaven, who otherwise designed;
But blame the dunghill, purse-proud, would-be-great,
Those basest tyrants, vipers of our kind,

And your own truckling and ignoble soul,
Where Reason seems to have the least control.

Mute as a statue, trembling, hat in hand,
I spurn your cringing, servile attitude;

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