I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricket; But, och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure, For still th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it; I ware the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause;-- Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! 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-inspirèd 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.