"For that, see aye 'at ye're gude at the spune
And tak yer fair share o' the drink;
Gien ye dinna, I wadna won'er but sune
Ye micht 'maist begin to think!
"Neist, luik efter yer liver; that's the place
Whaur Conscience gars ye fin'!
Some fowk has mair o' 't, and some has less—
It comes o' breedin in.
"But there's waur nor diseases gaein aboot,
There's a heap o' fair-spoken lees;
And there's naething i' natur, in or oot,
'At waur with the health agrees.
"There's what they ca' Faith, 'at wad aye be fain;
And Houp that glowers, and tynes a';
And Love, that never yet faund its ain,
But aye turnt its face to the wa'.
"And Trouth—the sough o' a sickly win';
And Richt—what needna be;
And Beauty—nae deeper nor the skin;
And Blude—that's naething but bree.
"But there's ae gran' doctor for a' and mair—
For diseases and lees in a breath:—
My bairns, I lea' ye wi'oot a care
To yer best freen, Doctor Death.
"He'll no distress ye: as quaiet's a cat
He grips ye, and a'thing's ower;
There's naething mair 'at ye wad be at,
There's never a sweet nor sour!
"They ca' 't a sleep, but it's better bliss,
For ye wauken up no more;
They ca' 't a mansion—and sae it is,
And the coffin-lid's the door!
"Jist ae word mair—-and it's verbum sat—
I hae preacht it mony's the year:
Whaur there's naething ava to be frictit at
There's naething ava to fear.
"I dinna say 'at there isna a hell—
To lee wad be a disgrace!
I bide there whan I'm at hame mysel,
And it's no sic a byous ill place!