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O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and soul are quakin',
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin',
An' piss'd wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin' lips and snakin',
Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him;
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their pray'r:

But, for thy people's sake, destroy them,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine

Excell'd by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen !

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EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

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;
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:

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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 harden'd wicked,

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

But oh! 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 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 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;

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 oh! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling!

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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;

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.

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So

In ploughman phrase, God send you speed
Still daily to grow wiser;

And may ye better reck the rede
Than ever did th' adviser!

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ?
Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel,

To preach an' read?
'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,
'Tam Samson's dead!'

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To death, she's dearly paid the kane,--
Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren o' the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,

Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel,-
Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock
Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson's dead!

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He was the king o' a' the core
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's hogscore,
Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,
And eels weel kent for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail
Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,
Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,
Frae couples freed;

But oh! he gaed and ne'er return'd!
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters;
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters
'Tam Samson's dead!'

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit
Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,
"Tam Samson's dead!'

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