The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence. Allan Cunningham

The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence - Allan Cunningham


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the breast,

       We may be wise, or rich, or great,

       But never can be blest:

       Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

       Could make us happy lang;

       The heart ay’s the part ay

       That makes us right or wrang.

      VI.

      Think ye, that sic as you and I,

       Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry,

       Wi’ never-ceasing toil;

       Think ye, are we less blest than they,

       Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

       As hardly worth their while?

       Alas! how aft, in haughty mood

       God’s creatures they oppress!

       Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,

       They riot in excess!

       Baith careless and fearless

       Of either heaven or hell!

       Esteeming and deeming

       It’s a’ an idle tale!

      VII.

      Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce;

       Nor make one scanty pleasures less,

       By pining at our state;

       And, even should misfortunes come,

       I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,

       An’s thankfu’ for them yet.

       They gie the wit of age to youth;

       They let us ken oursel’;

       They make us see the naked truth,

       The real guid and ill.

       Tho’ losses, and crosses,

       Be lessons right severe,

       There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,

       Ye’ll find nae other where.

      VIII.

      But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!

       (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

       And flatt’ry I detest,)

       This life has joys for you and I;

       And joys that riches ne’er could buy:

       And joys the very best.

       There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart,

       The lover an’ the frien’;

       Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,

       And I my darling Jean!

       It warms me, it charms me,

       To mention but her name:

       It heats me, it beets me,

       And sets me a’ on flame!

      IX.

      O, all ye pow’rs who rule above!

       O, Thou, whose very self art love!

       Thou know’st my words sincere!

       The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,

       Or my more dear immortal part,

       Is not more fondly dear!

       When heart-corroding care and grief

       Deprive my soul of rest,

       Her dear idea brings relief

       And solace to my breast.

       Thou Being, All-seeing,

       O hear my fervent pray’r!

       Still take her, and make her

       Thy most peculiar care!

      X.

      All hail, ye tender feelings dear!

       The smile of love, the friendly tear,

       The sympathetic glow!

       Long since, this world’s thorny ways

       Had number’d out my weary days,

       Had it not been for you!

       Fate still has blest me with a friend,

       In every care and ill;

       And oft a more endearing hand,

       A tie more tender still.

       It lightens, it brightens

       The tenebrific scene,

       To meet with, and greet with

       My Davie or my Jean!

      XI.

      O, how that name inspires my style

       The words come skelpin, rank and file,

       Amaist before I ken!

       The ready measure rins as fine,

       As Phœbus and the famous Nine

       Were glowrin owre my pen.

       My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

       ’Till ance he’s fairly het;

       And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

       An’ rin an unco fit:

       But least then, the beast then

       Should rue this hasty ride,

       I’ll light now, and dight now

       His sweaty, wizen’d hide.

      FOOTNOTES:

       Table of Contents

      [4] Ramsay.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      A BROTHER POET.

      [David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.]

      AULD NIBOR,

       I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,

       For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter;

       Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt ye flatter,

       Ye speak sae fair.

       For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

       Some less maun sair.

      Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;

       Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

       To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle

       O’ war’ly cares,

       Till bairn’s bairns kindly cuddle

       Your auld, gray hairs.

      But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;

       I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

      


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