4
Till, driven at laſt to own he had enough,
Gaed hame a' rage to haud his father's pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan, played anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art:
Of mony a far-aff place he kend the gate;
Was deep, deep learn’d, but unco, unco blate.
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom:
Whare, a' the ſwallows gaed in time o' ſnaw ,
What gars the thunder roar, and tempeſts blaw;
Whare lamps o' ſiller grow aneath the grun'
How a' this yirth rows round about the fun;
In ſhort, on books fae meikle time he ſpent,
Ye cou'dna ſpeak o'ought, but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning, wi ſae little pridė,
Soon gained the love o' a' the kintra ſide,
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Pariſh Miniſter a poor dull ca'f,
Ringan was ſought he cou'dna ſay them nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
MORAL
Now, Mr. Preſident, I think 'tis plain,
That youthfu' diſſidence is certain gain.
Inſtead of blocking up the road to knowledge,
It guides alike, in Commerce or at College;
Struggles, the burſts of paſſion to controul,
Feeds all the finer feelings of the ſoul;
Defies the deep laid ſtratagems of guile,
And gives even innocence a ſweeter ſmile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And ſhields our virtue even to the grave.
