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The Poetry of Robert Burns

Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson
Burns, Robert (1759-1796)
  
[epigraph]
  
[dedication]

expand sectionI. 
Volume I
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Volume II
  
THE JOLLY BEGGARS
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SATIRES AND VERSES
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NOTES AND EPISTLES
  
TO JOHN RANKINE
  
TO JOHN GOLDIE
  
TO J. LAPRAIK
  
TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH
  
TO DAVIE
  
TO JOHN KENNEDY, DUMFRIES HOUSE
  
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE
  
TO MR. M'ADAM OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN
  
REPLY TO AN INVITATION
  
TO DR. MACKENZIE
  
TO JOHN KENNEDY
  
TO WILLIE CHALMERS' SWEETHEART
  
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART
  
EXTEMPORE TO GAVIN HAMILTON
  
REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR
  
TO MAJOR LOGAN
  
TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE
  
TO WM. TYTLER, ESQ., OF WOODHOUSELEE
  
TO MR. RENTON OF LAMERTON
  
TO MISS ISABELLA MACLEOD
  
TO SYMON GRAY
  
TO MISS FERRIER
  
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA
  
TO CLARINDA
  
TO HUGH PARKER
  
TO ALEX. CUNNINGHAM
  
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY
  
IMPROMPTU TO CAPTAIN RIDDELL
  
REPLY TO A NOTE FROM CAPTAIN RIDDELL
  
TO JAMES TENNANT OF GLENCONNER
  
TO JOHN M'MURDO
  
SONNET TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY
  
EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK
  
TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE
  
TO PETER STUART
  
TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ. OF TERRAUGHTIE
  
TO WILLIAM STEWART
  
INSCRIPTION TO MISS GRAHAM OF FINTRY
  
REMORSEFUL APOLOGY
  
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL
  
TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER
  
TO MISS JESSIE LEWARS
  
INSCRIPTION
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THEATRICAL PIECES
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POLITICAL PIECES
  
THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY
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MISCELLANIES
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FRAGMENTS
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EPIGRAMS
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GRACES
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EPITAPHS
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Volume III
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VOLUME IV

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135

TO WILLIAM STEWART

In honest Bacon's ingle-neuk
Here maun I sit and think,
Sick o' the warld and warld's folk,
An' sick, damn'd sick, o' drink!
I see, I see there is nae help,
But still doun I maun sink,
Till some day laigh enough I yelp:—
‘Wae worth that cursed drink!’
Yestreen, alas! I was sae fu'
I could but yisk and wink;
And now, this day, sair, sair I rue
The weary, weary drink.
Satan, I fear thy sooty claws,
I hate thy brunstane stink,
And ay I curse the luckless cause—
The wicked soup o' drink.
In vain I would forget my woes
In idle rhyming clink,
For, past redemption damn'd in prose,
I can do nought but drink.
To you my trusty, well-tried friend,
May heaven still on you blink!
And may your life flow to the end,
Sweet as a dry man's drink!
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