Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788.

     Thou whom chance may hither lead,
     Be thou clad in russet weed,
     Be thou deckt in silken stole,
     Grave these maxims on thy soul.

     Life is but a day at most,
     Sprung from night, in darkness lost: 
     Hope not sunshine every hour,
     Fear not clouds will always lour.

     Happiness is but a name,
     Make content and ease thy aim,
     Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
     Fame, an idle restless dream;

     Peace, the tend’rest flow’r of spring;
     Pleasures, insects on the wing;
     Those that sip the dew alone—­
     Make the butterflies thy own;
     Those that would the bloom devour—­
     Crush the locusts, save the flower.

     For the future be prepar’d,
     Guard wherever thou can’st guard;
     But thy utmost duly done,
     Welcome what thou can’st not shun. 
     Follies past, give thou to air,
     Make their consequence thy care: 
     Keep the name of Man in mind,
     And dishonour not thy kind. 
     Reverence with lowly heart
     Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
     Keep His Goodness still in view,
     Thy trust, and thy example, too.

     Stranger, go!  Heaven be thy guide! 
     Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.

To Alex.  Cunningham, ESQ., Writer

     Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788.

     My godlike friend—­nay, do not stare,
     You think the phrase is odd-like;
     But God is love, the saints declare,
     Then surely thou art god-like.

     And is thy ardour still the same? 
     And kindled still at Anna? 
     Others may boast a partial flame,
     But thou art a volcano!

     Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond
     Death’s tie-dissolving portal;
     But thou, omnipotently fond,
     May’st promise love immortal!

     Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
     Such symptoms dire attend them,
     That last great antihectic try—­
     Marriage perhaps may mend them.

     Sweet Anna has an air—­a grace,
     Divine, magnetic, touching: 
     She talks, she charms—­but who can trace
     The process of bewitching?

Song.—­Anna, Thy Charms

     Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
     And waste my soul with care;
     But ah! how bootless to admire,
     When fated to despair!

     Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
     To hope may be forgiven;
     For sure ’twere impious to despair
     So much in sight of heaven.

The Fete Champetre

     Tune—­“Killiecrankie.”

     O Wha will to Saint Stephen’s House,
     To do our errands there, man? 
     O wha will to Saint Stephen’s House
     O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man?