VOL. 111. The sacred lowe1 o' weel-placed love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature ; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 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- 1 A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Adieu, dear amiable Youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' 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, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, 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 softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, Reader, attend—whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious self-control FROM THE EPISTLE TO MRS. SCOTT OF WAUCHOPE. I mind it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 1 Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn And wi' the lave3 ilk merry morn Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power), Shall strongly heave my breast; Or sing a sang at least. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide I turned the weeding-hook aside, My envy e'er could raise; 'Till on that har'st I said before, She roused the forming strain: At ev'ry kindling keek, 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, While o'er their heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing, In the Birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, Let fortune's gifts at random flee, OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Tune- Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.' Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 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 I see her in the dewy flowers, There's not a bonie flower that springs There's not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. |