Robert Burns - The Complete Works

Sensibility how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou host also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o’er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
Finer feeling can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

The friend whom wild from wisdom’s way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
’Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
“Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,
“I know your bent—these are no laughing times:
Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears;
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”
I could no more—askance the creature eyeing,
D’ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I’ll laugh, that’s poz—nay more, the world shall know it;
And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief,
That Misery’s another word for Grief;
I also think—so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye;
Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive—
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch!
Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, us the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at their follies—laugh e’en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

Sweet naiveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;
Loves and graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou’dst act a part.

’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralizing muse.
Since thou in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world ‘gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.
Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast,
Chill came the tempest’s lower;
(And ne’er misfortune’s eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower.)
Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more,
Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store—
The comforts of the mind!
Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour’s part;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship’s truest heart.
The joys refin’d of sense and taste,
With every muse to rove:
And doubly were the poet blest,
These joys could he improve.

Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d;
Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

I.
Whom will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a’ that?
Or wha in a’ the country round
The best deserves to fa’ that?
For a’ that, and a’ that;
Thro Galloway and a’ that;
Where is the laird or belted knight
That best deserves to fa’ that?
II.
Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett,
And wha is’t never saw that?
Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree meets
And has a doubt of a’ that?
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that,
The independent patriot,
The honest man, an’ a’ that.
III.
Tho’ wit and worth in either sex,
St. Mary’s Isle can shaw that;
Wi’ dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a’ that.
IV.
But why should we to nobles jouk,
And it’s against the law that;
For why, a lord may be a gouk,
Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
A lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that.
V.
A beardless boy comes o’er the hills,
Wi’ uncle’s purse an’ a’ that;
But we’ll hae ane frae ‘mang oursels,
A man we ken, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
For we’re not to be bought an’ sold
Like naigs, an’ nowt, an’ a’ that.
VI.
Then let us drink the Stewartry,
Kerroughtree’s laird, an’ a’ that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he’s worthy a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that,
A House of Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.