Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous

My son, these maxims make a rule,And lump them aye thegither;The Rigid Righteous is a fool,The Rigid Wise anither:The cleanest corn that e'er was dightMay hae some pyles o' caff in;So ne'er a fellow-creature slightFor random fits o' daffin.Solomon.—Eccles. vii. 16.

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,Sae pious and sae holy,Ye've nought to do but mark and tellYour Neebour's fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supply'd wi' store o' water,The heapet happer's ebbing still,And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable Core,As counsel for poor mortals,That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,For glaikit Folly's portals;I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences,Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd,And shudder at the niffer,But cast a moment's fair regard,What maks the mighty differ;Discount what scant occasion gaveThat purity ye pride in,And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop,What raging must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop:Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o' baith to sail,It maks an unco leeway.

See Social life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grownDebauchery and Drinking:O would they stay to calculateTh' eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,Ty'd up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor Frailty names,Suppose a change o' cases;A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,A treacherous inclination—But, let me whisper i' your lug,Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother Man,Still gentlier sister Woman;Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,To step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,The moving Why they do it;And just as lamely can ye mark,How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us,He knows each chord—its various tone,Each spring its various bias:Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.