Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 549. Epistle to Colonel de Peyster |
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| MY honor’d 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, | 5 |
| And potion glasses. | |
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| O what a canty world were it, | |
| Would pain and care and sickness spare it; | |
| And Fortune favour worth and merit | |
| As they deserve; | 10 |
| And aye rowth o’ roast-beef and claret, | |
| Syne, wha wad starve? | |
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| Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her, | |
| And in paste gems and frippery deck her; | |
| Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker | 15 |
| I’ve found her still, | |
| Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, | |
| ’Tween good and ill. | |
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| Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, | |
| Watches like baudrons by a ratton | 20 |
| 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. | |
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| Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, | 25 |
| First showing us the tempting ware, | |
| Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare, | |
| To put us daft | |
| Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare | |
| O hell’s damned waft. | 30 |
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| Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by, | |
| And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh, | |
| Thy damn’d auld elbow yeuks wi’joy | |
| And hellish pleasure! | |
| Already in thy fancy’s eye, | 35 |
| Thy sicker treasure. | |
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| Soon, heels o’er gowdie, in he gangs, | |
| And, like a sheep-head on a tangs, | |
| Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs, | |
| And murdering wrestle, | 40 |
| As, dangling in the wind, he hangs, | |
| A gibbet’s tassel. | |
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| But lest you think I am uncivil | |
| To plague you with this draunting drivel, | |
| Abjuring a’ intentions evil, | 45 |
| I quat my pen, | |
| The Lord preserve us frae the devil! | |
| Amen! Amen! | |
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