Robert Burns - The Complete Works

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil
Wi’ a’ his witches
Are at it, skelpin’ jig and reel,
In my poor pouches!
I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it,
If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi’ life-blood dunted
I’d bear’t in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.
POSTSCRIPT
Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been licket,
And by felt death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn’d a neuk.
But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,
And by that life, I’m promised mair o’t,
My hale and weel I’ll tak a care o’t,
A tentier way:
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t,
For ance and aye!

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet’s prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man’s felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind—
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve!
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne, wha wad starve?)
Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
I’ve found her still,
Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
’Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,
Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on
Wi’ felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on—
He’s aff like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O’ hell’s damn’d waft.
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld danm’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,
And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
Thy sicker treasure!
Soon heels-o’er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd’ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet’s tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the devil,
Amen! amen!

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,
The tender father and the gen’rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
“For ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”

Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov’d, much honour’d name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.

An honest man here lies at rest
As e’er God with his image blest!
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth;
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

The poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam’d:
But with such as he, where’er he be,
May I be sav’d or damn’d!

Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know,
That death has murder’d Johnny!
An’ here his body lies fu’ low—
For saul he ne’er had ony.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
What was his religion?
Wha e’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution—
Small beer, persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid whole weeks awa,
Your wives they ne’er had missed ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass,—
Perhaps he was your father.