Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
95 . Address to the Unco Guid
O
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibours’ fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water;
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.
As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door For glaikit Folly’s portals: I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences— Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment’s fair regard, What maks the mighty differ; Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in; And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave), Your better art o’ hidin. Gies now and then a wallop! What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, It maks a unco lee-way. All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses! Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treach’rous inclination— But let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,— The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.