Less fit to play the part, But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, O enviable early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, How ill exchang'd for riper times, Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Ye little know the ills ye court, That active man engage; TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, Recommending a Boy. Mossgaville, May 3, 1786. I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty Alias, Laird M‘Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An' wad hae don't aff han'; But lest he learn the callan tricks An' faith I muckle doubt himLike scrapin out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin lies about them; As lieve then, I'd have then Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, Ye'll catechise him, every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk— Aye when ye gang yoursel. If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin Friday, Then please sir, to lea'e, sir, The orders wi' your lady. My word of honour I hae gi'en, To try to get the twa to gree, I ken he weel a snick can draw, In faith he's sure to get him. Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS. VERSIFIED REPLY TO AN INVITATION SIR, Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I'm gay and hearty! But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie. MAUCHLIN, Monday night, 10 o'clock. Yours, ROBERT BURNS. SONG-WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? Tune-" Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion." WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? O sweet grows the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, O plight me your faith, my Mary, We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the cause that shall part us! SONG MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O NAE gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Chorus. Within the glen sae bushy, O, O were yon hills and vallies mine, But fickle fortune frowns on me, Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, For her I'll dare the billow's roar, For her I'll trace a distant shore, She has my heart, she has my hand, Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND May, 1786. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Ye'll try the world soon my lad; And muckle they may grieve ye: I'll no say, men are villains a'; Wha hae nae check but human law, But, och! mankind are unco weak, |