The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ she has scarce a tester;

      For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,

      Nae bargain wearing faster,

      Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,

      I shortly boost to pasture

      I’ the craft some day.

      I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

      When taxes he enlarges,

      (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,

      A name not envy spairges,)

      That he intends to pay your debt,

      An’ lessen a’ your charges;

      But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fit

      Abridge your bonnie barges

      An’ boats this day.

      Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck

      Beneath your high protection;

      An’ may ye rax corruption’s neck,

      And gie her for dissection!

      But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,

      In loyal, true affection,

      To pay your Queen, with due respect,

      My fealty an’ subjection

      This great birth-day

      Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!

      While nobles strive to please ye,

      Will ye accept a compliment

      A simple poet gi’es ye?

      Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,

      Still higher may they heeze ye

      In bliss, till fate some day is sent,

      For ever to release ye

      Frae care that day.

      For you, young potentate o’ Wales,

      I tell your Highness fairly,

      Down pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,

      I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;

      But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

      An’ curse your folly sairly,

      That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,

      Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie,

      By night or day.

      Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been known

      To mak a noble aiver;

      So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

      For a’ their clish-ma-claver:

      There, him at Agincourt wha shone,

      Few better were or braver;

      And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,

      He was an unco shaver

      For monie a day.

      For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,

      Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

      Altho’ a ribbon at your lug,

      Wad been a dress completer:

      As ye disown yon paughty dog

      That bears the keys of Peter,

      Then, swith! an’ get a wife to hug,

      Or, trouth! ye’ll stain the mitre

      Some luckless day.

      Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,

      Ye’ve lately come athwart her;

      A glorious galley,[58] stem an’ stern,

      Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter;

      But first hang out, that she’ll discern

      Your hymeneal charter,

      Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

      An’, large upon her quarter,

      Come full that day.

      Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’,

      Ye royal lasses dainty,

      Heav’n mak you guid as weel as braw,

      An’ gie you lads a-plenty:

      But sneer na British Boys awa’,

      For kings are unco scant ay;

      An’ German gentles are but sma’,

      They’re better just than want ay

      On onie day.

      God bless you a’! consider now,

      Ye’re unco muckle dautet;

      But ere the course o’ life be thro’,

      It may be bitter sautet:

      An’ I hae seen their coggie fou,

      That yet hae tarrow’t at it;

      But or the day was done, I trow,

      The laggen they hae clautet

      Fu’ clean that day.

      LXVI. A BARD’S EPITAPH

      [This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it: “Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the ‘poor inhabitant’ it is supposed to be inscribed that

      ‘Thoughtless follies laid him low,

      And stained his name!’

      Who but himself—himself anticipating the but too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a confession at once devout, poetical, and human—a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer, than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized and that the record was authentic?”]

      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, through 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 СКАЧАТЬ