“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.
