Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
295 . Epistle to Dr. Blacklock
And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye! And then ye’ll do. And never drink be near his drouth! He tauld myself by word o’ mouth, He’d tak my letter; I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. Had, at the time, some dainty fair one To ware this theologic care on, And holy study; And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on, E’en tried the body. I’m turned a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye’ll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me. Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o’ men. They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; I need na vaunt But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, Before they want. I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers? Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whiles do mair. (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time), To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life. And eke the same to honest Lucky; I wat she is a daintie chuckie, As e’er tread clay; And gratefully, my gude auld cockie, I’m yours for aye.
W