For the future be prepar'd,
Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
Burns in their
honeymoon. Burns was preparing a home at Ellisland; Mrs. Burns
was at Mossgiel. --Lang. ]
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my fancys' flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
Song--I Hae a Wife O' My Ain
I Hae a wife of my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll take Cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie Cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There--thanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody's lord,
I'll be slave to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I'll tak dunts frae naebody.
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Lines Written In Friars'-Carse Hermitage
Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame, an idle restless dream;
Peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring;
Pleasures, insects on the wing;
Those that sip the dew alone--
Make the butterflies thy own;
Those that would the bloom devour--
Crush the locusts, save the flower.
For the future be prepar'd,
Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past, give thou to air,
Make their consequence thy care:
Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart
Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still in view,
Thy trust, and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.
To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ. , Writer
Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788.
My godlike friend--nay, do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd-like;
But God is love, the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev'n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death's tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May'st promise love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try--
Marriage perhaps may mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air--a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms--but who can trace
The process of bewitching?
honeymoon. Burns was preparing a home at Ellisland; Mrs. Burns
was at Mossgiel. --Lang. ]
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my fancys' flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
Song--I Hae a Wife O' My Ain
I Hae a wife of my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll take Cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie Cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There--thanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody's lord,
I'll be slave to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I'll tak dunts frae naebody.
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Lines Written In Friars'-Carse Hermitage
Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame, an idle restless dream;
Peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring;
Pleasures, insects on the wing;
Those that sip the dew alone--
Make the butterflies thy own;
Those that would the bloom devour--
Crush the locusts, save the flower.
For the future be prepar'd,
Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past, give thou to air,
Make their consequence thy care:
Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart
Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still in view,
Thy trust, and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.
To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ. , Writer
Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788.
My godlike friend--nay, do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd-like;
But God is love, the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev'n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death's tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May'st promise love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try--
Marriage perhaps may mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air--a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms--but who can trace
The process of bewitching?
