Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 118. A Bard’s Epitaph |
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| IS there a whim-inspirèd fool, | |
| Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, | |
| Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, | |
| Let him draw near; | |
| And owre this grassy heap sing dool, | 5 |
| And drap a tear. | |
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| Is there a bard of rustic song, | |
| Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, | |
| That weekly this area throng, | |
| O, pass not by! | 10 |
| But, with a frater-feeling strong, | |
| Here, heave a sigh. | |
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| Is there a man, whose judgment clear | |
| Can others teach the course to steer, | |
| Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, | 15 |
| Wild as the wave, | |
| Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, | |
| Survey this grave. | |
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| The poor inhabitant below | |
| Was quick to learn the wise to know, | 20 |
| And keenly felt the friendly glow, | |
| And softer flame; | |
| But thoughtless follies laid him low, | |
| And stain’d his name! | |
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| Reader, attend! whether thy soul | 25 |
| Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, | |
| Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, | |
| In low pursuit: | |
| Know, prudent, cautious, self-control | |
| Is wisdom’s root. | 30 |
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