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For God whan jowes the Judgment bell,
Wi' His ain Hand, His Leevin' Sel',
Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)
Frae them that had it;

And in the reamin' pat o' Hell,
The rich be scaddit.

O Lord, if this indeed be sae,
Let daw that sair an' happy day!
Again' the warl', grawn auld an' gray,
Up wi' your aixe!

And let the puir enjoy their play –
I'll thole my paiks.


F a' the ills that flesh can fear,
The loss o' frien's, the lack o' gear,
A yowlin' tyke, a glandered mear,
A lassie's nonsense

There's just ae thing I cannae bear,
An' that's my conscience.

Whan day (an' a' excüse) has gane,
An' wark is düne, and duty's plain,
An' to my chalmer a' my lane
I creep apairt,

My conscience! hoo the yammerin' pain
Stends to my heart!

A' day wi' various ends in view
The hairsts o' time I had to pu',
An' made a hash wad staw a soo,
Let be a man!

My conscience! whan my han's were fu',
Whaur were ye then?

An' there were a' the lures o' life,
There pleesure skirlin' on the fife,
There anger, wi' the hotchin' knife
Ground shairp in Hell -

My conscience! - you that's like a wife! -
Whaur was yoursel'?

I ken it fine: just waitin' here,
To gar the evil waur appear,

To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
Misca' the great,

My conscience! an' to raise a steer
When a's ower late.

Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, Whan thieves brok' through the gear to


Has lain his dozened length an' grinned
At the disaster;

An' the morn's mornin', wud's the wind,
Yokes on his master.


(Whan the dear doctor, dear to a',
Was still amang us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi' a' my speerit;

But noo, Dear Doctor! he's awa',
An' ne'er can hear it.)

By the various river-Dee's,

Y Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees

In Mars and Manors 'yont the seas
Or here at hame,

Whaure'er there's kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.

They ken your name, they ken your tyke,
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a' your fyke,

(The truth to tell)

It's just your honest Rab they like,
An' no yoursel'.

As at the gowff, some canny play'r
Should tee a common ba' wi' care

Should flourish and deleever fair

His souple shintie

An' the ba' rise into the air,
A leevin' lintie:

Sae in the game we writers play,
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
Their years o' strife,

An' like you Rab, their things o' clay,
Spreid wings o' life.

Ye scarce deserved it, I'm afraid
You that had never learned the trade,
But just some idle mornin' strayed
Into the schüle,

An' picked the fiddle up an' played
Like Neil himsel'.

Your e'e was gleg, your fingers dink;
Ye didnae fash yoursel' to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
Your denty wab: -

Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
An' there was Rab!

Sinsyne, whaure'er your fortune lay By dowie den, by canty brae,

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