 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ. OF TERRAUGHTIE
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY
I
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!Health ay unsour'd by care or grief!
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf
This natal morn:
I see thy life is stuff o' prief,
Scarce quite half-worn.
II
This day thou metes threescore eleven,And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
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To ilka Poet)
On thee a tack o' seven times seven,
Will yet bestow it.
III
If envious buckies view wi' sorrowThy lengthen'd days on thy blest morrow,
May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an' hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure!
IV
But for thy friends, and they are monie,Baith honest men and lasses bonie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie
In social glee,
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny
Bless them and thee!
V
Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,And then the Deil, he daurna steer ye!
Your friends ay love, your foes ay fear ye!
For me, shame fa' me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,
While Burns they ca' me!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |