Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/241

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A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
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 area throng,
O, 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, thro' 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 stain'd 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.

 

ADDRESSED TO A LADY

WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED.

Rusticity's ungainly form
 May cloud the highest mind;
But when the heart is nobly warm,
 The good excuse will find.

Propriety's cold cautious rules
 Warm fervour may o'erlook;
But spare poor sensibility
 The ungentle, harsh rebuke.

 

LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER.

My blessings on ye, honest wife,
 I ne'er was here before:
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife
 Heart could not wish for more.

Heaven keep you clear of sturt and strife,
 Till far ayont four score,
And by the Lord o' death and life,
 I'll ne'er gae by your door!

 

TO A PAINTER.

Dear ———, I'll gie ye some advice
 You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
 But try and paint the devil.

To paint an angel's kittle wark,
 Wi' auld Nick there's less danger;
You'll easy draw a weel-kent face,
 But no sae weel a stranger.