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For Puir Auld Scotland's Sake
A Weet Hairst

Aquosus Eurus arva radat imbribus.*—Hor. Epod. 16.

SANDY, my frien’, I ken it’s sair,
I ken fu’ weel your basket’s bare,
Your store o’ savin’s toom;
I’m wae to see your waefu’ looks
Oot owre thae fields o’ draiglit stooks,
An’ fodder fit to soom.
Wi’ markets cheap an’ wages dear
Ye’ve been at mickle cost,
An’ here’s the hervest o’ the year
An’ a’ your labour lost.
Perplexin’ an’ vexin’
The ways o’ Nature seem;
The haste o’t, the waste o’t—
 It’s like an evil dream!

What touch o’ comfort can ye feel!
It’s sad, it’s angersome atweel
To ken that ane like you,
Wha sawed gude seed in gude dry land,
An’ spared nae sweat o’ head or hand,
In hopes to cairry thro’,—
Wha watched it fra’ the wee green breer
To autumn’s stately show
O’ mony a gallant gowden spear
 In serried rank an’ row—
Maun see’t now, an’ dree’t now,
Lie rottin’ i’ the rain !
The mense o’t, the sense o’t.
Nae mortal can explain!

But human reason’s but a spark,
A caunle’s glimmer i’ the dark ;
An’ he’s the wisest wicht
Wha doots his wisdom and his sense
An’ puts his trust in Providence
Till dawns the dear daylicht.
Sandy, my frien’, a bairn-like faith
That a’ thing’s for your gude
Will lead ye safe through life an’ death,
Thro’ fear o’ fire an’ flude.
Tho’ crosses and losses
Mar a’ the life o’ men,
They’re sent till’s ;—their end till’s
We’ll aiblins ae day ken.

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