See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treach’rous inclination— But let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,— The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted. The Inventory^1 In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu’ list, O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith, To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o’ gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My hand-afore ’s a guid auld has-been, An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been: My hand-ahin ’s a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.^2 An’ your auld borough mony a time In days when riding was nae crime. But ance, when in my wooing pride I, like a blockhead, boost to ride, The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to, (Lord pardon a’ my sins, an’ that too!) I play’d my fillie sic a shavie, She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie. My furr-ahin ’s a wordy beast, As e’er in tug or tow was traced. The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastle, A damn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie! Foreby a cowt, o’ cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail: Gin he be spar’d to be a beast, He’ll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel-carriages I ha’e but few, Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o’ the spin’le, An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le. [Footnote 1: The “Inventory” was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.] [Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.—R. B.]