*Horace In Scots*

Tempt not the far oonchancie main, Nor fearin' blufferts, frien', Creep roon' fause headlan's; haud your ain Tack fair atween.

The gowden mids, wha aims at it Will shun the tinker's lair, Nor gantin' in a castle sit Whaur flunkeys stare.

The heichest fir storms aft'nest bow; Lums fa' wi' sairest dunt; When lightnings rive, bauld Morven's pow Drees aye the brunt.

Come weel, come wae, wi' hope or fear Prepare your heart for a'; The same Power sends the rain will clear The cloods awa'.

Tho' here the day ye've waes galore The morn may see them gone; Fate whiles lays by the dour claymore An' tunes the drone.

In trouble bauldly bear yoursel'; When thrivin', mind the fret-- "Tho' lang the pig gangs to the well, Its ae day's set."