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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;

if self the wavering balance shake,

it's rarely right adjusted!

yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

their fate we shouldna censure;

for still, th' important end of life

they equally may answer;

a man may hae an honest heart,

tho' poortith hourly stare him;

a man may tak a neibor's part,

yet hae nae cash to spare him.

aye free, aff-han', your story tell,

when wi' a bosom crony;

but still keep something to yoursel',

ye scarcely tell to ony:

conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can

frae critical dissection;

but keek thro' ev'ry other man,

wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

the sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,

luxuriantly indulge it;

but never tempt th' illicit rove,