A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug
A treacherous inclination-

But, let me whisper i' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

VII.

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.

VIII.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly 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.

* When this worthy old Sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields ;' and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the Author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide the ORDINATION, Stanza II.

Or R******* † again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,

• Tam Samson's dead!'

K********* lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' clead her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

In mourning weed;

To Death, she's dearly paid the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren of the mystic level May hing their head in wofu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel,

Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel,

Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock,

+ Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the Few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the ORDINATION, stanza IX.

When to the loughs the curlers flock,

Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock,

Tam Samson's dead?

He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time of need;

But now he lags on death's hog-score,

Tam Samson's dead

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel ken'd for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail

Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,

Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples freed;

But, Och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!

Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld-age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters;

In vain the burns came down like waters,

An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters,

Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,
And ay the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,

Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd heed;