To Dr. Blacklock

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south!

And never drink be near his drouth!

He tald mysel by word o' mouth,

He'd tak my letter;

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron,

Had at the time some dainty fair one,

To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on,

E'en tried the body.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,

I'm turn'd a gauger—Peace be here!

Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me!

And then my fifty pounds a year

Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,

Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,

Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,

Ye ken, ye ken,

That strang necessity supreme is

'Mang sons o men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—

I need na vaunt,

But I'll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies,

Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!

I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie ithers;

But why should ae man better fare,

And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,

Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man?

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan

A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time),

To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;

And eke the same to honest Lucky,

I wat she is a daintie chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,

I'm yours for ay.

Robert Burns.