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.

The Inventory^1

     In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes

     Sir, as your mandate did request,
     I send you here a faithfu’ list,
     O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith,
     To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith.

     Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
     I hae four brutes o’ gallant mettle,
     As ever drew afore a pettle. 
     My hand-afore ’s a guid auld has-been,
     An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been: 
     My hand-ahin ’s a weel gaun fillie,
     That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.^2
     An’ your auld borough mony a time
     In days when riding was nae crime. 
     But ance, when in my wooing pride
     I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
     The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to,
     (Lord pardon a’ my sins, an’ that too!)
     I play’d my fillie sic a shavie,
     She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie. 
     My furr-ahin ’s a wordy beast,
     As e’er in tug or tow was traced. 
     The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastle,
     A damn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie! 
     Foreby a cowt, o’ cowts the wale,
     As ever ran afore a tail: 
     Gin he be spar’d to be a beast,
     He’ll draw me fifteen pund at least. 
     Wheel-carriages I ha’e but few,
     Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new;
     An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
     Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken;
     I made a poker o’ the spin’le,
     An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le.

     [Footnote 1:  The “Inventory” was addressed to
      Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.]

     [Footnote 2:  Kilmarnock.—­R.  B.]

     For men, I’ve three mischievous boys,
     Run-deils for ranting an’ for noise;
     A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’ other: 
     Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. 
     I rule them as I ought, discreetly,
     An’ aften labour them completely;
     An’ aye on Sundays duly, nightly,
     I on the Questions targe them tightly;
     Till, faith! wee Davock’s grown sae gleg,
     Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg,
     He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling,
     As fast as ony in the dwalling.

     I’ve nane in female servant station,
     (Lord keep me aye frae a’ temptation!)
     I hae nae wife—­and thay my bliss is,
     An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses;
     An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
     I ken the deevils darena touch me. 
     Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented,
     Heav’n sent me