May Freedom, Harmony, and Love,
     Unite you in the grand Design,
     Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above,
     The glorious Architect Divine,
     That you may keep th’ unerring line,
     Still rising by the plummet’s law,
     Till Order bright completely shine,
     Shall be my pray’r when far awa.

     And you, farewell! whose merits claim
     Justly that highest badge to wear: 
     Heav’n bless your honour’d noble name,
     To Masonry and Scotia dear! 
     A last request permit me here,—­
     When yearly ye assemble a’,
     One round, I ask it with a tear,
     To him, the Bard that’s far awa.

On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies

     A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,
     A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,
     A’ ye wha live and never think,
     Come, mourn wi’ me! 
     Our billie ‘s gien us a’ a jink,
     An’ owre the sea!

     Lament him a’ ye rantin core,
     Wha dearly like a random splore;
     Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar;
     In social key;
     For now he’s taen anither shore. 
     An’ owre the sea!

     The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
     And in their dear petitions place him: 
     The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him
     Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;
     For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him
     That’s owre the sea!

     O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! 
     Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
     Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble,
     ’Twad been nae plea;
     But he was gleg as ony wumble,
     That’s owre the sea!

     Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
     An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;
     ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
     In flinders flee: 
     He was her Laureat mony a year,
     That’s owre the sea!

     He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west
     Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
     A jillet brak his heart at last,
     Ill may she be! 
     So, took a berth afore the mast,
     An’ owre the sea.

     To tremble under Fortune’s cummock,
     On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,
     Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,
     Could ill agree;
     So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,
     An’ owre the sea.

     He ne’er was gien to great misguidin,
     Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
     Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding;
     He dealt it free: 
     The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
     That’s owre the sea.

     Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
     An’ hap him in cozie biel: 
     Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel,
     An’ fou o’ glee: 
     He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,
     That’s owre the sea.