The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 unbrack'd filly
Proud o' her speed.

102

IX

We've faults and failins—granted clearly!
We're frail, backsliding mortals merely;
Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';
But still, but still—I like them dearly . . .
God bless them a'!

X

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
An' gart me weet my waukrife winkers
Wi' girnin spite.

XI

But by yon moon—and that's high swearin!—
An' every star within my hearin,
An' by her een wha was a dear ane
I'll ne'er forget,
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet!

XII

My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it;

103

Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted:
Then vive l'amour!

XIII

Faites mes baissemains respectueusè
To sentimental sister Susie
And honest Lucky: no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye
To grace your blood.

XIV

Nae mair at present can I measure,
An' trowth! my rhymin ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786