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never tempt th’ illicit rove,

      Tho’ naething should divulge it:

      I waive the quantum o’ the sin,

      The hazard of concealing;

      But, och! it hardens a’ within,

      And petrifies the feeling!

      VII.

      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.

      VIII.

      The fear o’ Hell’s a hangman’s whip,

      To haud the wretch in order;

      But where ye feel your honour grip,

      Let that ay be your border:

      Its slightest touches, instant pause—

      Debar a’ side pretences;

      And resolutely keep its laws,

      Uncaring consequences.

      IX.

      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!

      X.

      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!

      XI.

      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 rede

      Than ever did th’ adviser!

      XLVIII. TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE IN A LADY’S BONNET, AT CHURCH

      [A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it course and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.]

      Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!

      Your impudence protects you sairly:

      I canna say by ye strunt rarely,

      Owre gauze and lace;

      Tho’ faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely

      On sic a place.

      Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner,

      Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,

      How dare you set your fit upon her,

      Sae fine a lady!

      Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner

      On some poor body.

      Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

      There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle

      Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,

      In shoals and nations;

      Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle

      Your thick plantations.

      Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,

      Below the fatt’rells, snug an’ tight;

      Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right

      ’Till ye’ve got on it,

      The vera topmost, tow’ring height

      O’ Miss’s bonnet.

      My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

      As plump an’ gray as onie grozet;

      O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

      Or fell, red smeddum,

      I’d gie you sic a hearty doze o’t,

      Wad dross your droddum!

      I wad na been surpris’d to spy

      You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

      Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

      On’s wyliecoat;

      But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie!

      How daur ye do’t?

      O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,

      An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

      Ye little ken what cursed speed

      The blastie’s makin’!

      Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

      Are notice takin’!

      O wad some Power the giftie gie us

      To see oursels as others see us!

      It wad frae monie a blunder free us

      An’ foolish notion;

      What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

      And ev’n devotion!

      XLIX. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS

      [The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree “Brutes!—damned brutes.” “I dreamed that I was dead,” said the rustic satirist to his superior, “and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship’s friends gang, I chappit, and ‘Wha are ye, and where d’ye come frae?’ Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship’s land. ‘Awa wi’ you,’ cried Satan, ye canna come here: hell’s fou o’ his lordship’s damned brutes already.’”]

      O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,

      The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin’!

      There’s monie godly folks are thinkin’,

      Your dreams[54] an’ tricks

      Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin’

      Straught to auld Nick’s.

      Ye hae sae monie cracks an’ cants,

      And in your wicked, dru’ken rants,

      Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts,

      An’ fill them fou;

      And

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