Epistle to a Young Friend
May, 1786.I lang hae 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.
Yell try the world soon, my lad;
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Yell find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Evn when your ends attained;
And a your views may come to nought,
Where evry nerve is strained.
Ill no say, men are villains a;
The real, hardend wicked,
Wha hae 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,
Its rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa in fortunes strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still, th important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibors 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 weels ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro evry other man,
Wi sharpend, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o weel-placd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th illicit rove,
Tho naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortunes golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by evry wile
Thats 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 hells a hangmans 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 evn the rigid feature:
Yet neer with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laughs a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasures ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life were tempest drivn
A conscience but a canker
A correspondence fixd wi Heavn,
Is sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
Your heart can neer 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,
Then ever did th adviser!
Poems by Robert Burns
