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.”