But come, your hand, my careless brither,
     I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,
     An’ that there is, I’ve little swither
     About the matter;
     We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
     I’se ne’er bid better.

     We’ve faults and failings—­granted clearly,
     We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,
     Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
     For our grand fa’;
     But still, but still, I like them dearly—­
     God bless them a’!

     Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
     When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers! 
     The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers
     Hae put me hyte,
     And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
     Wi’ girnin’spite.

     By by yon moon!—­and that’s high swearin—­
     An’ every star within my hearin! 
     An’ by her een wha was a dear ane! 
     I’ll ne’er forget;
     I hope to gie the jads a clearin
     In fair play yet.

     My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
     I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
     Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
     Some cantraip hour
     By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted;
     Then vive l’amour!

     Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
     To sentimental sister Susie,
     And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
     Ye may be proud,
     That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
     To grace your blood.

     Nae mair at present can I measure,
     An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure;
     But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,
     Be’t light, be’t dark,
     Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
     To call at Park.

     Robert Burns. 
     Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.

Fragment On Sensibility

     Rusticity’s ungainly form
     May cloud the highest mind;
     But when the heart is nobly warm,
     The good excuse will find.

     Propriety’s cold, cautious rules
     Warm fervour may o’erlook: 
     But spare poor sensibility
     Th’ ungentle, harsh rebuke.

A Winter Night

     Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
     That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! 
     How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
     Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
     From seasons such as these?—­Shakespeare.

     When biting Boreas, fell and dour,
     Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
     When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
     Far south the lift,
     Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
     Or whirling drift: 

     Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
     Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
     While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked,
     Wild-eddying swirl;
     Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
     Down headlong hurl: