An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,

Has blest me with a random-shot

O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries "Hoolie!

I red you, honest man, tak tent?

Ye'll shaw your folly ;

There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
A' future ages;

Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages."

Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale?

Just now we're living sound and hale;

Fame despaired of

The morning of Life

Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

Heave Care o'er-side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
An' social noise :

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning !
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy an' play.

We wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And haply eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

With steady aim, some fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
An' seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
To right or left eternal swervin,

They zig-zag on;

Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin,

They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

My pen

Let's sing our sang.

I here fling to the door,

And kneel, ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,

The varied lot of man

poet's prayer

The "Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids of honour;

An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent. ;

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose or muslin-kail,

Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail

To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

ye douce folk that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool,

Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!

In arioso trills and

graces

Ye never stray;

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:

I see ye upward cast your eyes

Ye ken the road!

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there,
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair.

Whare'er I

THE VISION

DUAN FIRST

gang.

THE Sun had clos'd the winter day,
The curlers quat their roarin play,
And hunger'd maukin taen her way,
To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.

Prudence and passion