Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
90 . Epistle to James Smith
D
That e’er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For ne’er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon, Just gaun to see you; An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair taen I’m wi’ you. To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you off, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature She’s wrote the Man. My barmie noddle’s working prime. My fancy yerkit up sublime, Wi’ hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time To hear what’s comin? Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random-shot O’countra wit. To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I’m that way bent, Something cries “Hooklie!” I red you, honest man, tak tent? Ye’ll shaw your folly; Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, A’ future ages; Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.” To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistlin’ thrang, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes My rustic sang. How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead Forgot and gone! Just now we’re living sound and hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave Care o’er-side! And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, Let’s tak the tide. Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, Where Pleasure is the magic-wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu’ light. For ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi’ wrinkl’d face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, We’ creepin pace. Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin, An’ social noise: An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman, The Joy of joys! Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning, To joy an’ play. We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho’ the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. For which they never toil’d nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, An’ seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day. Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, To right or left eternal swervin, They zig-zag on; Till, curst with age, obscure an’ starvin, They aften groan. But truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’n let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang. And kneel, ye Pow’rs! and warm implore, “Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes. Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour; An’ yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, In cent. per cent.; But give me real, sterling wit, And I’m content. I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi’ cheerfu’ face, As lang’s the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.” Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows As weel’s I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away. Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’cool, Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! In your unletter’d, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray; But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see ye upward cast your eyes— Ye ken the road! Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi’ you to mak a pair. Whare’er I gang.