 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
189
A BARD'S EPITAPH
I
Is there a whim-inspirèd 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.
II
Is there a Bard of rustic song,Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this aréa throng?—
O, pass not by!
But with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
III
Is there a man, whose judgment clearCan others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild as the wave?—
Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
190
IV
The poor inhabitant belowWas 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.
V
Reader, attend! whether thy soulSoars Fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit;
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |