This wotye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Saefar I sprackl'd up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. I've been at drucken writers' feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou'mang godly priests- Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!- I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Thou flatt'ring markof friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part, Yet such a head, and more the heart Does both the sexes honour: She show'd her taste refin'd and just, When she selected thee; Yet deviating, own I must, For saeapproving me: Butkind
O thou pale orb that silent shines While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream! I joyless view thy rays adorn
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yonmurky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt'red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The Autumn mourns her rip'ning
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know That Death has murder'd Johnie; An'here his bodylies fu'low; For saulhe ne'er had ony.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honoured name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
The poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd; Butwith such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd ordamn'd!
Epistle To Major Logan Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter, Yirr! fancy barks, awawe canter, Up hill, down brae, tillsome mischanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests
Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society! I owe thee much-Blair. Dear Smith, the slee'st, pawkiethief, That e'erattempted stealth or rief! Ye surely hae some warlock-brief Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, An' ev'ry