Less fit to play the part,
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here must cry here
At perfidy ingrate!

O enviable early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining Age!

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE,

Recommending a Boy.

Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,

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,
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear.

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,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worm;

To try to get the twa to gree,
An' name the airles an' the fee,
In legal mode an' form:

I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him:
An' if a Devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still you share still

Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

VERSIFIED REPLY TO AN INVITATION

SIR,

Yours this moment I unseal,

And faith I'm gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and shame the deil,
I am as fou as Bartie:

But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,
Expect me o' your partie,

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?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;

But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;

And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!

SONG MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O

NAE gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care:
Their titles a' are empty show;

Gie me my Highland lassie, O.

Chorus. Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,
I set me down wi' right guid will,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

O were yon hills and vallies mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland lassie, O.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea!
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful Highland lassie, O.

For her I'll dare the billow's roar,

For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By secret troth and honour's band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rashy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

May, 1786.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang:
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon my lad;
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked;

But, och! mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;