Robert Burns

Epistle to Colonel de Peyster

MY honour’d Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel
    The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
    And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,
    As they deserve:
And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret:
    Syzie wha wad starve?

Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and fripp’ry deck her,
Oh! flick’ring, feeble, and unsicker
    I’ve found her still,
Aye wav’ring like the willow wicker,
    ‘Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,
Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on
    Wi’ felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on,
    He’s off like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
    To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
    O’ hell’s damn’d waft.

Poor man, the flee, aft bizzes by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,
    And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
    Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels-o’er-gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
    And murd’ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
    A gibbet’s tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
    I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!
    Amen! amen!