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Then gently scan your brother Man,
Still gentler 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 you mark
How far, perhaps, they rue it.

Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly 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 ken na what's resisted.

———o——

TO A HAGGIS.

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o' the Puddin-race;
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm;
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace,
As lang's my arm.

The groanin trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill.
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dew distill,
Like amber bead.

F3