Heave Care o'er-side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,
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.

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,
Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creepin' pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
An' social noise:

An' fareweel dear, deluding Woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning,
To joy an' play.

We wander there, we wander here,
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.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
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.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',
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.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?
E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

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,
Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards
And maids of honor;

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it;
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.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose or muslin-kail,

An anxious e'e I never throws
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.

O ye douce folk that live by rule,
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!

Nae hair-brained, sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray;

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin squad:

I see ye upward cast your eyes —
Ye ken the road!

Whilst I but I shall haud me there,

Wi' you I'll scarce gang onie where —
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

- Robert Burns

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE

I gat your letter, winsome Willie;

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;

Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly
And unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,
Your flatterin strain

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented,
On my poor Musie;

Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it
I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,

Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,
The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed

As whyles they're like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain,
She's gotten bardies o' her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise.