Poem by Robert Burns

To Terraughty, on His Birthday

HEALTH to the Maxwells’ veteran Chief!
Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief:
Inspired, I turned Fate’s sibyl leaf
    This natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,
    Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
    To ilka poet)
On thee a tack o’ seven times seven
    Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow
Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,
May desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,
    Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
    In brunstane stoure.

But for thy friends,-and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie,-
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
    In social glee,
Wi’ mornings blithe and e’enings funny
    Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie!  Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
    For me, shame fa’ me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye
    While BURNS they ca’ me.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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