Poem by Robert Burns

Epistle to a Young Friend

I LANG has thought, my youthfu’ friend,
  A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
  Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
  Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
  Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad,
  And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
  And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
  Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought,
  Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

I’ll no say men are villains a’;
  The real harden’d wicked,
Wha has nae check but human law,
  Are to a few restricked:
But och! mankind are unco weak,
  An’ little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
  It’s rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
  Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still th’ important end of life
  They equally may answer.
A man may has an honest heart,
  Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor’s part,
  Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han’, your story tell,
  When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
  Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can
  Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man
  Wi’ sbarpen’d sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,
  Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
  Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantum o’ the sin,
  The hazard of concealing;
But och! it hardens a’ within,
  And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
  Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev’ry wile
  That’s justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
  Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
  Of being independent.

The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip
  To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
  Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
  Debar a’ side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
  Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere
  Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
  And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with wits profane to range
  Be complaisance extended;
An atheist laugh’s a poor exchange
  For Deity offended.

When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
  Religion may be blinded;
Or, if she gie a random sting,
  It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n,
  A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n
  Is sure a noble anchor.

Adieu, dear amiable youth!
  Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth
  Erect your brow undaunting.
In ploughman phrase, God send you speed
  Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede
  Than ever did th’ adviser!

1. Blythe Was She
2. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
3. The Flowery Banks of Cree
4. The Banks of Nith (THE THAMES flows proudly to the sea)
5. Farewell to Ballochmyle

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