driv'n
To mis'ry's brink,
'Till wrenched of every stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine--no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
'Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

* * * * *

XLVII.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAY, 1786.

[Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one
of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter's
Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with
what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The
poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than
truth to his "Andrew dear;" but surely to conceal one's own thoughts
and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it
is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of prudence,
"Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the
counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much
respected--his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry
of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.]

I.

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though 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.

II.

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 attain'd;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

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!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na 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 ma