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Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile;
And mind still, you'll find still,

A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,

Nae farther can we fa'. '

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hal!
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,

We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Str. Syne rhyme tillit, we'll time tillt,

And sing’t when we hae done.

v.

It's no

It's no

It's no in titles nor in rank,

wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest;

makin muckle mair, '; ? ! It's no in books, it's no in lear,

To make us truly blest;
If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great.

But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

Could make us happy lang;
The heart's ay the part ay

That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet an' dry,

Wi' never ceasing toil ;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcly tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while ?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood,

God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless and fearless

Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming

It's a' an idle tale !

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce,
Nor make our scânty pleasures less,

By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,

An' 's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;

They let us ken oursel,
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.
Tho' losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,

Ye'll find na other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts !
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt’ry I detest ;)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;

And joys the very best.
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lover an' the frien':
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

O, all ye Pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear :
When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,

O ear my fervent pray'r:
Still take her, and make her

Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow;
Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In

every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens,

The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with,

My Davie or my Jean.

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin rank and file,

Anaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phæbus and the farnous Nine

Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he's fairly het;
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:
But lest then, the beast then,

Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now,

His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

TO THE SAME.

AULD NEEBOR,

I'm three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter,
Tho' I maun sayt, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter,

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O’ war’ly cares,
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld gray hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit,
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin the words tae gar them clink ;
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons ;
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons,

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