THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore:

Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,

And like the rootless stubble tost
Before the sweeping blast.

For-why that God the good adore
Hath giv'n them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF
VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU great Being! what Thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.

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The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm. 217

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O free my weary eyes from tears,

Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

ΙΟ

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH

PSALM.

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads

Beneath Thy forming hand,

Before this ponderous globe itself

Arose at Thy command;

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds

This universal frame,

From countless unbeginning time.

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before Thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st, 'Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!'

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Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-
BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER.

THOU's welcome, wean! mishanter fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonnie Betty,
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee,
As dear an' near my heart I set thee
Wi' as guid will,

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Welcome, my bonnie, sweet wee dochter-
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
An' tho' your comin' I hae fought for
Baith kirk an' queir;

Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for!
That I shall swear!

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Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux. 219

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't-
The better half o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee,
An' think't weel war'd.

Tho' I should be the waur bested,
Thou's be as braw an' bienly clad,
An' thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,

As ony brat o' wedlock's bed

In a' thy station.

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins;

"Twill please me mair to see and hear o't,
Then stockit mailins.

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ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him,
Except the moment that they crusht him;
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em,
And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark
To mak a man;

But tell him he was learn'd and clark,
Ye roos'd him than!

ΙΟ

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin', fleth'rin' Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face how I stop short
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ;
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;

And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!

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