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Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane,
As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;
There's some are fou o' brandy;
And monie jobs that day begin
May end in houghmagandy
Some ither day.



A'YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A'ye wha live and never think,
Come, mourn wi' me!
Our billie's gien us a' a jink,1
And owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's ta'en anither shore,
And owre the sea!

1 "Our brother has eluded us all."



Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,
That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!

So, took a berth afore the mast,
And owre the sea.



He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding

He dealt it free:


To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, meal and water
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So row't his hurdies in a hammock, rolled — loins
And owre the sea.

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.


Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

And hap him in a cozie biel: wrap-snug shelter

Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fou o' glee;

He wadna wranged the very deil,
That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! comrade
Your native soil was right ill-willie e;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hinmost gillie,
Though owre the sea!


Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to


In a different spirit, Burns wrote an epitaph for himself a confession of his errors so solemn and so touching, as to take the sting from every other comment on the subject.

Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.




Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this aréa throng,
Oh, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;

Here pause

and, through the starting tear Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below,

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

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In dedicating his Poems to Gavin Hamilton, Burns took the opportunity not merely to characterize that generous-natured man, but to throw out a few parting sarcasms at orthodoxy and her partisans. This poem, however, was not placed at the front of the volume, though included in its pages.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, wheedling-flattering
To roose you up, and ca' you guid,
And sprung o' great and noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like his Grace; 1

Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; belly-full
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, L be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, L- be thankit, I can beg;



1 The Duke of Hamilton.



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