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ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789.
WOW, but your letter made me vauntie! | |
| 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! | 5 |
| And then ye’ll do. | |
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| The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! | |
| And never drink be near his drouth! | |
| He tauld myself by word o’ mouth, | |
| He’d tak my letter; | 10 |
| I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth, | |
| And bade nae better. | |
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| But aiblins, honest Master Heron | |
| Had, at the time, some dainty fair one | |
| To ware this theologic care on, | 15 |
| And holy study; | |
| And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on, | |
| E’en tried the body. | |
| |
| But what d’ye think, my trusty fere, | |
| I’m turned a gauger—Peace be here! | 20 |
| Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, | |
| Ye’ll now disdain me! | |
| And then my fifty pounds a year | |
| Will little gain me. | |
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| Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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| I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; | |
| They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; | |
| Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— | |
| I need na vaunt | |
| But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, | 35 |
| Before they want. | |
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| Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! | |
| I’m weary sick o’t late and air! | |
| Not but I hae a richer share | |
| Than mony ithers; | 40 |
| But why should ae man better fare, | |
| And a’ men brithers? | |
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| Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, | |
| Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! | |
| And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan | 45 |
| A lady fair: | |
| Wha does the utmost that he can, | |
| Will whiles do mair. | |
| |
| But to conclude my silly rhyme | |
| (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time), | 50 |
| To make a happy fireside clime | |
| To weans and wife, | |
| That’s the true pathos and sublime | |
| Of human life. | |
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| My compliments to sister Beckie, | 55 |
| 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.
ROBERT BURNS. | 60 |
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