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 ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A'YE wha live by sowps o' drink, Come, mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink,1 Lament him a' ye rantin' core, For now he's ta'en anither shore, And owre the sea! 1 "Our brother has eluded us all." versifying frolic 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, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So, took a berth afore the mast, To tremble under Fortune's cummock, cheerful splinters jilt rod 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. He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The Muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, And hap him in a cozie biel: wrap-snug shelter Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, He wadna wranged the very deil, Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! comrade But may ye flourish like a lily, I'll toast ye in my hinmost gillie, gill A BARD'S EPITAPH. 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. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. bashful succumb Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, Oh, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Yet runs himself life's mad career, Here pause and, through the starting tear Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below, Was quick to learn, and wise to know, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, Reader, attend And stained his name! whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 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, praise A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, wheedling-flattering 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 For, L be thankit, I can plough; VOL. II. 1 The Duke of Hamilton. 2 cannot |