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 ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th’ adviser! Address Of Beelzebub To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty. Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours, Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors; Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o’ a life She likes—as butchers like a knife.