PART IV.

Now, see what passion rules thy heart,
An' how thou act'st the parent's part.
If a' be true that I've heard said,
Ye're but a vile, ungratefu' blade:
Ye daut your dames thro' a' the year,
Till ance the clockin' time draws near,
Then, if ane wanders frae the rest,
To hatch her young or right her nest,
Ye follow in your surly flegs,
And paiks the hen and breaks the eggs,
Then leaves her, pain'd in waesome manner,
Her liefu' lane thro' woods to wan'er,
Till sair for-fought wi' grief and pinin',
She finds a nest ayont your kennin';
A twig o' hazle's a' her happin',
To hatch her young wi' hungry crappin',
There, tost by wind and beat wi' rain:
But Hope, that sooths the parent's pain,
Calms a' the sorrows o' her breast,
An' points wi' pleasure to her nest.
Parental kindness, child o' Nature,
That warms the breast o' ev'ry creature,
Beeted by feelin's finest fires,
Unstain'd by ony base desires,
Thou mak's ilk bein' kind an' heedfu'
As lang as Nature sees its needfu',
Savin' the seum o' earth accurst,
Wha's ends are sordid gain an' lust:
Yet, thou in this art no thy lane, —
To seek for pleasure without pain;
To like the night but shun the day,
To hate the toil but like the play:
So baudrons likes the trout to eat,
But downa think to douk her feet;
So patriots for their country's glory,
Will act the Whig an' hate the Tory;
Will raise a lengthen'd learn'd digression,
On law an' rights an' constitution;
Will stand by liv'ries an' petitions,
An' rail at wars an' expeditions,
As langs the birkie wants a place,
Or untane tent o' by his grace —
E'en then he'll whiles pay some attention,
Till fairly tongue-tack'd wi' a pension, —
He'll then sit down among the monniest,
An' think the braidest road the bonniest,
Syne leave his countra, whar he gat her —
'Mang wants an' woes, an' wars to swatter.
Thus countra lasses, void o' care,
Like water lilies, saft and fair,
When love's within an' charms without them,
Like flies the lads will buzz about them;
While each his art an' fortune tries,
The fausest aften wins the prize:
For mony a merry tale he'll speak,
To keep the dimple on her cheek;
Brings claps an' squeezes to's assistance —
For what are words when at a distance? —
Then tells the same dull story o'er,
Then he has said to mony a score —
As how she kills him wi' her glances,
That cut his heart-strings thro' like lances;
Swears by his saul he doesnae flout her,
An' that he canna live without her;
That she, wha has the power to save,
Should deign some pity to her slave —
At least, to let him live in hope,
An' no, at ance, his breath to stop:
" Whae'er is dearest to this breast —
He surely maun be truly blest; "
Then steals a kiss, looks in her e'e,
An' thinks she'll hardly let him die.
Sic ravings gars her bosom heave —
'Tis woman's province to believe;
An' a' her kind that e'er I kent o',
Are fully fond to be tane tent o'.
It needs sma' foresight what's to follow,
Or how his sensual saul, an' hollow,
Stoops down below the rax o' truth,
To cheat her unsuspecting youth;
An' whan her feckless virtue's gane,
She's left to sab an' greet her lane:
I've seen her reav'd o' a' her charms,
Her helpless affspring in her arms,
Wi' few to ask her how she fares,
Or sooth her grief or share her cares;
Despis'd, in want, an' deep distress,
Gars a' her feelings bleed a-fresh.
But wha can paint the parent's woes,
Wha's breast wi' piercing sorrow throes —
Their joy, where a' their hopes were center'd,
Owre far on faithless seas has ventur'd?
Haply the parent's lowly laid,
That rear'd wi' care the luckless maid.
Then mae will toy an' praise her beauty,
Than teach the thoughtless maid her duty,
Till left at large to passion's snare,
That aften leads to dark despair. —
When, lost to notice, lost to shame,
She dares the deed we darenae name.
Alas! whare's a' thy beauties now,
Thy dimpl'd cheek and cherry mou' —
The takin' twinkles o' your e'en,
The maiden blush an' modest mien —
The matchless ringlets o' your hair,
Might made a mod'rate face look fair —
That native note, of tunefu' glee,
That carried ay the charm to me —
An' simple kindness without art,
That never fail'd to touch the heart? —
They're feckly fled, what could prevent them? —
An' those still left ha'e few to tent them.
Beauty, tho' sages sair dispute thee,
Poets like ay to rhyme about thee.
Thou cheer'st the heart whene'er we see thee,
An' fetter'd fancy canna leave thee;
Thou plead'st thy cause in silent looks,
Better than orators or books;
Canst smooth the brow o' gloomy thought,
An' set our re-resolves at nought:
Gif weel adorn'd wi' truth an' love,
Thou'd picture a' the joys above;
For what has life to gi'e that's sweeter,
To make our earthly joys completer?
Yet, aft thou'st been a great transgressor,
An' prov'd a bane to the possessor —
Hast foster'd pride an' marr'd instruction,
An' robb'd the mind by deep deduction;
A sign-post set to gather knaves,
An' ruins ten for twa thou saves:
Then, Oh! — but stap, whare's this I'm gaun? —
My story's surely fully lang;
So here my similies shall cease,
An' let my readers rest in peace,
To rax their banes an' rub their een,
For fear they fret an' tak' the spleen —
Only, I'd slightly wish to mention,
How, that it ne'er was my intention
To point at ony trade or callin',
Or triumph in a nei'bour's failin:
For, 'las! we always fin't o'er true,
We're a' possess'd o' fau'ts enow:
But, as for fashion's silly tools,
An' empty dull conceited fools,
That seem to tell us, by their ways,
That sauls o' men are shawn in claes;
An' wit an' worth an' a' respects,
Are tack'd to certain sorts an' sects: —
It shall not hurt my expectation
Altho' I want their approbation;
An', shou'd some passage pet or pout them,
They ken best if the bonnet suit them.
There's mony mae I ha'enae noted,
Deserve't as weel as those ha'e got it: —
For selfish pride an' affectation,
Ha'e spread their wings sae o'er the nation,
That scarce a vestige now ye'll see,
O' what like mankin' ought to be —
Like beggar's cloak o' Bethnal Green,
Wha's origin could scarce be seen: —
But time would fail me — here I'll en',
An' leave them to some abler pen;
Or try mysel', some future time,
When I'm again dispos'd for rhyme.