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Poem by Robert Burns

A Bard's Epitaph

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 greasy 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, lifes mad career,
    Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, thro 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 staind his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancys flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
    In low pursuit;
Know prudent cautious self-control
    Is wisdoms root.


Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. The Cairds Second Song
  2. The Sailors Song
  3. Had I The Wyte
  4. The Rantin Dog the Daddie Ot
  5. The Toast

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