“Scandit aratas vitiosa naves
Cura.” – CAR. II. 16.
WHAT think ye’s the end that puir mortals should seek
In this weary warstle fra week on to week?
The young folk think pleasure, nae doot, wad be best,
But we, wha are aulder, are lookin’ for rest.
Owre sune like a cludd in a clear mornin’ sky
Comes black-á-viced Care, an’ he winna gang by;
Rin fast an’ rin farrer, he hauds by your side,
An’ whaur ye sit doun he’s determined to bide.
There’s some think to jink him by crossin’ the sea
To the balm-breathin’ shores o’ a far countree;
But he sits in their sails as they speed owre the faem,
An’ croaks their first welcome awa fra their hame.
He’s the happiest man that gangs his ain gate
Unmindfu’ o’ fortun’ and fearless o’ fate;
Tho’ little he owns, he ne’er grummles for mair,
Nor grudges his better-ser’d neebors their share.
There’s you wi’ your crap-land an’ pastoral knowes,
Your corn an’ your clover, your lambs an’ your yowes;
An’ me – a bit kailyard’s the head o’ my lan’,
Yet whil’ o’ the twa o’ ‘s the happier man?