tho' naething should divulge it:

i waive the quantum o' the sin,

the hazard of concealing;

but, och! 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 be the creature;

but still the preaching cant forbear,

and ev'n the rigid feature:

yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

beplaisance 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,

then ever did th' adviser!