“Memento… moriture Delli!” – car. ii., 3.
YOUNG man, wha at the gates o’ life
Are bauldly pushing forward,
Forgetna in the fash o’ strife
That a’ your days are order’d.
There’s mony a quest’on greatly vext,
An’ mony a truth disputit,
But that we a’ maun dee ‘s a text
Nae scaptic ever dootit.
There’s some that groan wi’ gather’d cares
Life grief-opprest Cassandras,
An’ some that jig like fule’s at fairs
An’ mock like merry-Andros
But hoo should we comport oorsels,
As life we journey thro’ it?
Or wha that kens will rise an’ tell ‘s
The wisest way to view it?
We’ll let that halesome text, as God,
There’s little doot, design’d it,
Come like a caution on the road
To keep us even-mindit;
To save us in oor prosperous days
From insolent offending,
An’ whisper in the midst o’ waes
That they too have an ending.
It ‘s no’ the pairt, but hoo we ack
That judgment ‘ill be past on;
It’s no’ the red coat nor the black,
It’s no’ what we had last on.
That – only that’s deservin’ praise
That we hae dune oor best in;
The place is but the player’s claes,
The conduck is the quest’on.