But facts are chiels that winna ding, fellows, be beaten And downa be disputed: Is e'en right reft and clouted, cannot Your royal nest, beneath your wing, broken, patched (American colonies) go one from And now the third part of the string, Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire Or say ye wisdom want, or fire, But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better filled their station much who would have And now ye've gien auld Britain peace; given old Your sair taxation does her fleece, 80re Than courts yon day. Thae bonnie bairn-time, Heaven has lent, those children Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye raise too bashful, succumb o'er, sorrow drop A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, Oh, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Herc pause-and, through the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below, Was quick to learn, and wise to know, But thoughtless follies laid him low. Reader, attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious self-control |