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VOL. 111.

The sacred lowe1 o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' concealing;
But, och it hardens 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 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;

1 flame.

N n

But when on life we're tempest-driv'n-
A conscience but a canker,

1

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 rede2,

Than ever did th' Adviser!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,*
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave;

Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

1 without.

2 heed the counsel. 3 bashful.

submit tamely.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend—whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

FROM THE EPISTLE TO MRS. SCOTT OF WAUCHOPE.

I mind it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn,

Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,

1

Yet unco proud to learn:

When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

And wi' the lave3 ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers",
Wearing the day awa:

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that, to my latest hour,

Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan, or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least.

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The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear1,

I turned the weeding-hook aside,
An' spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

'Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie3 quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky* een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,

At ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

Bonie lassie, will ye go,

Will ye go, will ye go,

Bonie lassie, will ye go,

To the Birks of Aberfeldy?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come let us spend the lightsome days.
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.

While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,

Or lightly flit on wanton wing,

In the Birks of Aberfeldy.

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The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The Birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The Birks of Aberfeldy.

Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

Tune- Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.'

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best;

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

By day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw2, or green;

There's not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

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