| |
| | “My son, these maxims make a rule |
| And lump them aye thegither: |
| The Rigid Righteous is a fool, |
| The Rigid Wise anither: |
| The cleanest corn that e’er was dight |
| May hae some pyles o’ caff in; |
| Sae ne’er a fellow-creature slight |
| For random fits o’ daffin.” |
| —SOLOMON, Ecclesiastes vii. 16. |
O YE wha are sae guid yoursel’, | |
| Sae pious and sae holy, | |
| Ye ’ve nought to do but mark and tell | |
| Your neebor’s fauts and folly:— | |
| Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, | 5 |
| Supplied wi’ store o’ water, | |
| The heapèt happer’s ebbing still, | |
| And still the clap plays clatter. | |
| |
| Hear me, ye venerable core, | |
| As counsel for poor mortals, | 10 |
| That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door, | |
| For glaikit Folly’s portals! | |
| I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, | |
| Would here propone defences, | |
| Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, | 15 |
| Their failings and mischances. | |
| |
| Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared, | |
| And shudder at the niffer; | |
| But cast a moment’s fair regard, | |
| What makes the mighty differ? | 20 |
| Discount what scant occasion gave | |
| That purity ye pride in, | |
| And (what ’s aft mair than a’ the lave) | |
| Your better art o’ hidin’. | |
| |
| Think, when your castigated pulse | 25 |
| Gies now and then a wallop, | |
| What ragings must his veins convulse, | |
| That still eternal gallop: | |
| Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, | |
| Right on ye scud your sea-way; | 30 |
| But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, | |
| It makes an unco leeway. | |
| |
| See Social life and Glee sit down, | |
| All joyous and unthinking, | |
| Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown | 35 |
| Debauchery and Drinking: | |
| O, would they stay to calculate | |
| The eternal consequences; | |
| Or your mortal dreaded hell to state, | |
| Damnation of expenses! | 40 |
| |
| Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, | |
| Tied up in godly laces, | |
| Before ye gie poor Frailty names, | |
| Suppose a change o’ cases; | |
| A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, | 45 |
| A treacherous inclination,— | |
| But, let me whisper i’ your lug, | |
| Ye ’re aiblins nae temptation. | |
| |
| Then gently scan your brother man, | |
| Still gentler sister woman; | 50 |
| Though 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 | 55 |
| How far perhaps they rue it. | |
| |
| Who made the heart, ’t is He alone | |
| Decidedly can try us; | |
| He knows each chord,—its various tone, | |
| Each spring,—its various bias: | 60 |
| 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. | |
| |
