My Son, these maxims make a rule,An’ lump them aye thegither;The Rigid Righteous is a fool,The Rigid Wise anither:The cleanest corn that ere was dightMay hae some pyles o’ caff in;So ne’er a fellow-creature slightFor random fits o’ daffin.8
(Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.)9
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,Sae pious and sae holy,Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tellYour neibours’ fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi’ store o’ water;The heaped happer’s ebbing still,An’ still the clap plays clatter.17
Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortalsThat frequent pass douce Wisdom’s doorFor glaikit Folly’s portals:I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences—Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.25
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,And shudder at the niffer;But cast a moment’s fair regard,What maks the mighty differ;Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in;And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave),Your better art o’ hidin.33
Think, when your castigated pulseGies 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;But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,It maks a unco lee-way.41
See Social Life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grownDebauchery and Drinking:O would they stay to calculateTh’ eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!49
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.57
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.65
Who made the heart, ’tis He aloneDecidedly 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.73