The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/Epistle to a Young Friend
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
MAY, 1786.
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,A something to have sent you,Tho' it should serve nae ither endThan just a kind memento;But how the subject theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps, it may turn out a sang,Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,And, Andrew dear, believe me,Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,And muckle they may grieve ye:For care and trouble set your thought,Ev'n when your end's attained;And a' your views may come to nought,Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say, men are villains a';The real, harden'd wicked,Wha hae nae check but human law,Are to a few restricked:But Och! mankind are unco weak,An' little to be trusted;If self the wavering balance shake,It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,Their fate we should na censure,For still th' important end of lifeThey equally may answer;A man may hae an honest heart,Tho' poortith hourly stare him;A man may tak a neebor's part,Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff han' your story tell,When wi' a bosom crony;But still keep something to yourselYe scarcely tell to ony.Conceal yoursel as weel's ye canFrae critical dissection;But keek thro' ev'ry other man,Wi' sharpened, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,Luxuriantly indulge it;But never tempt th' illicit rove,Tho' naething should divulge it;I wave the quantum o' the sin,The hazard o' concealing:But Och it hardens a' within,And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev'ry wileThat's justify'd by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train attendant;But for the glorious privilegeOf being independent.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,To haud the wretch in order;But where ye feel your honour grip,Let that aye be your border:Its slightest touches, instant pauseDebar a' side pretences;And resolutely keep its laws,Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,Must sure become the creature;But still the preaching cant forbear,And ev'n the rigid feature:Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,Be complaisance extended;An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchangeFor Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,Religion may be blinded;Or if she gie a random sting,It may be little minded;But when on life we're tempest-driv'n,A conscience but a canker—A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'nIs sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear, amiable Youth!Your heart can ne'er be wanting!May prudence, fortitude, and truth,Erect your brow undaunting!In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,'Still daily to grow wiser;And may ye better reck the rede,Than ever did th' Adviser!