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 wave the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing; But oh! 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 ye better reck the rede Than ever did th’ adviser! TO A HAGGIS Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill; Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’ need; While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin’, rich!