ROBERT BURNS.

(1759-1796.)

XLVI.  ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

        My son, these maxims make a rule,
          And lump them aye thegither;
        The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
          The Rigid Wise anither;
        The cleanest corn that ere was dight
          May ha’e some pyles o’ caff in;
        So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
          For random fits o’ daffin’.—­Solomon.—­Eccles. vii. 16.

    This undoubtedly ranks as one of the noblest satires in our
    literature.  It was first published as a broadside, and afterwards
    incorporated in the Kilmarnock and Edinburgh editions.

  Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
    Sae pious an’ sae holy,
  Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tell
    Your neebour’s fauts an’ folly! 
  Whase life is like a weel-gaun[216] mill,
    Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
  The heaped happer’s[217] ebbing still,
    An’ still the clap plays clatter.

  Hear me, ye venerable core,
    As counsel for poor mortals,
  That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
    For glaiket[218] Folly’s portals;
  I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
    Would here propone defences,
  Their donsie[219] tricks, their black mistakes
    Their failings an’ mischances.

  Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
    An’ shudder at the niffer[220],
  But cast a moment’s fair regard,
    What mak’s the mighty differ? 
  Discount what scant occasion gave
    That purity ye pride in,
  An’ (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
    Your better art o’ hiding.

  Think, when your castigated pulse
    Gi’es now an’ then a wallop,
  What ragings must his veins convulse,
    That still eternal gallop. 
  Wi’ wind an’ tide fair i’ your tail,
    Right on ye scud your sea-way;
  But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
    It makes an unco lee-way.

  See social life an’ glee sit down,
    All joyous an’ unthinking,
  Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
    Debauchery an’ drinking: 
  Oh would they stay to calculate
    Th’ eternal consequences;
  Or your more dreaded hell to state,
    Damnation of expenses!

  Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
    Tied up in godly laces,
  Before ye gi’e poor frailty names,
    Suppose a change o’ cases;
  A dear loved lad, convenience snug,
    A treacherous inclination—­
  But, let me whisper i’ your lug[221],
    Ye’er aiblins[222] nae temptation.

  Then gently scan your brother man,
    Still gentler sister woman;
  Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,
    To step aside is human: 
  One point must still be greatly dark,
    The moving why they do it: 
  An’ just as lamely can ye mark,
    How far perhaps they rue it.