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!

  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!

  A BARD’S EPITAPH

  Is there a whim-inspired fool,
  Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
  Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? 
  Let him draw near;
  And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
  And drap a tear.

  Is there a bard of rustic song,
  Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
  That weekly this area throng?—­
  Oh, pass not by! 
  But with a frater-feeling strong
  Here heave a sigh.

  Is there a man whose judgment clear
  Can others teach the course to steer,
  Yet runs himself life’s mad career
  Wild as the wave?—­
  Here pause—­and thro’ the starting tear
  Survey this grave.

  The poor inhabitant below
  Was quick to learn and wise to know,
  And keenly felt the friendly glow
  And softer flame;
  But thoughtless follies laid him low,
  And stain’d his name!

  Reader, attend! whether thy soul
  Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
  Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
  In low pursuit;
  Know, prudent, cautious self-control
  Is wisdom’s root.

  ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

  O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
  Sae pious and sae holy,
  Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
  Your neebour’s fauts and folly! 
  Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
  Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
  The heapet happer’s ebbing still,
  And still the clap plays clatter,—­

  Hear me, ye venerable core,
  As counsel for poor mortals
  That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door
  For glaikit Folly’s portals;
  I for their thoughtless, careless sakes
  Would here propone defences—­
  Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
  Their failings and mischances.

  Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
  And shudder at the niffer;
  But cast a moment’s fair regard,
  What maks the mighty differ? 
  Discount what scant occasion gave,
  That purity ye pride in,
  And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
  Your better art o’ hidin.

  Think, when your castigated pulse
  Gies now and then a wallop,
  What ragings must his veins convulse
  That still eternal gallop: 
  Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
  Right on ye scud your sea-way;
  But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
  It maks an unco leeway.