Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive— To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch! Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise. Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell “Praise Woman still,” his lordship roars, “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell. 1794 Remorseful Apology The friend whom, wild from Wisdom’s way, The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part, Ah! why should I such scenes outlive? Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!— ’Tis thine to pity and forgive. Wilt Thou Be My Dearie? Tune—“The Sutor’s Dochter.” Wilt thou be my Dearie? When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee! By the treasure of my soul, That’s the love I bear thee: I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my Dearie! Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my Dearie! Lassie, say thou lo’es me; Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, O say na thou’lt refuse me! If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo’es me! Lassie, let me quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo’es me! A Fiddler In The North Tune—“The King o’ France he rade a race.” Amang the trees, where humming bees, At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O: ’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels, She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O: When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.