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Epistle to a Friend

From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 25, 1915. By Robert Burns.

I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
    A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
    Than just a kind momento;
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 fu’ 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,
    Even 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,
What hae nae check but human law,
    Are to a few restricked;
But, och! mankind are unco weak,
    And 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, the 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 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’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o’ well-plac’d 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 Fortune’s golden smile,
    Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by every 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 even 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 you better reck the rede,
    Than ever did th’ adviser!

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