An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life, There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife, There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife Ground shairp in Hell— My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!— Whaur was yoursel’? I ken it fine: just waitin’ here, To gar the evil waur appear, To clart the guid, confüse the clear, Mis-ca’ the great, My conscience! an’ to raise a steer Whan a’s ower late. Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind, Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned At the disaster; An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind, Yokes on his master. XV—TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN (_Whan the dear doctor_, _dear to a’_, _Was still amang us here belaw_, _I set my pipes his praise to blaw_ _Wi’ a’ my speerit_; _But noo_, _Dear Doctor_! _he’s awa’_, _An’ ne’er can hear it_.) BY Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees, By a’ the various river-Dee’s, In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas Or here at hame, Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please, They ken your name. They ken your name, they ken your tyke, They ken the honey from your byke; But mebbe after a’ your fyke, (The trüth to tell) It’s just your honest Rab they like, An’ no yoursel’. As at the gowff, some canny play’r Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care— Should flourish and deleever fair His souple shintie— An’ the ba’ rise into the air, A leevin’ lintie: Sae in the game we writers play, There comes to some a bonny day, When a dear ferlie shall repay Their years o’ strife, An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay, Spreid wings o’ life. Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid— You that had never learned the trade, But just some idle mornin’ strayed Into the schüle, An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played Like Neil himsel’. Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink; Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think, But wove, as fast as puss can link, Your denty wab:— Ye stapped your pen into the ink, An’ there was Rab! Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay By dowie den, by canty brae, Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day, Rab was aye wi’ ye; An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way Were blithe to see ye. O sir, the gods are kind indeed, An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid, That for a wee bit clarkit screed Sae weel reward ye, An’ lend—puir Rabbie bein’ deid— His ghaist to guard ye. For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be, We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee, An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see Wi’ gladsome caper:— The bogle of a bogle, he— A ghaist o’ paper!