Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/121
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
69
Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the last!The poor, oppressed, honest man,Had never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,The kindest and the best!Welcome the hour my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest!The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure tornBut, Oh! a blest relief to thoseThat weary-laden mourn!
ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,A' ye wha live an' never think,Come mourn wi' me!Our billie's gien us a' a jink,An' owre the sea.
Lament him a' ye rantin core,Wha dearly like a random-splore,Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,In social key;For now he's taen anither shore,An' owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,And in their dear petitions place him:The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,Wi' tearfu' e'e;For weel I wat they'll sairly miss himThat's owre the sea!
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,'Twad been nae plea;But he was gleg as onie wumble,That's owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear:'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear,In flinders flee;He was her Laureat monie a yearThat's owre the sea!
He saw misfortune's cauld nor-westLang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,Ill may she be!So, took a birth afore the mast,An' owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune's cummock,On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,Wi' his proud, independent stomach,Could ill agree;So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,An' owre the sea.
He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin',Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin',He dealt it free:The Muse was a' that he took pride in,That's owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies, use him weel,An' hap him in a cozie biel;Ye'll find him ay' a dainty chiel,And fu' o' glee;He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,That's owre the sea.
Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!Your native soil was right ill-willie;But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonilie!I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,Tho' owre the sea!