O were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine! The world then the love should know I bear my Highland Lassie, O. But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea! But while my crimson currents flow, I’ll love my Highland lassie, O. Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour’s glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O. For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar, For her I’ll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O. She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret troth and honour’s band! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O. Epistle To A Young Friend May __, 1786. I Lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, A something to have sent you, Tho’ it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev’n when your end’s attained; And a’ your views may come to nought, Where ev’ry nerve is strained. I’ll no say, men are villains a’; The real, harden’d wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; 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 neibor’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-plac’d love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th’ illicit rove, Tho’ naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, Och! it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feeling!