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,
     Tho’ naething should divulge it: 
     I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
     The hazard of concealing;
     But, Och! it hardens a’ within,
     And petrifies the feeling!

     To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
     Assiduous wait upon her;
     And gather gear by ev’ry wile
     That’s justified by honour;
     Not for to hide it in a hedge,
     Nor for a train attendant;
     But for the glorious privilege
     Of being independent.

     The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip,
     To haud the wretch in order;
     But where ye feel your honour grip,
     Let that aye be your border;
     Its slightest touches, instant pause—­
     Debar a’ side-pretences;
     And resolutely keep its laws,
     Uncaring consequences.

     The great Creator to revere,
     Must sure become the creature;
     But still the preaching cant forbear,
     And ev’n the rigid feature: 
     Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
     Be complaisance extended;
     An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
     For Deity offended!

     When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
     Religion may be blinded;
     Or if she gie a random sting,
     It may be little minded;
     But when on life we’re tempest driv’n—­
     A conscience but a canker—­
     A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
     Is sure a noble anchor!