The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

we hae little gear; have, wealth

      We’re fit to win our daily bread,

      As lang’s we’re hale and fier: long as, whole, vigorous

25 ‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’1 don’t ask more, nor fear

      Auld age ne’er mind a feg; old, fig

      The last o’t, the warst o’t, worst

      Is only but to beg.

      To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,

      30 When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, bones, blood

      Is, doubtless, great distress!

      Yet then content could make us blest;

      Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste

      Of truest happiness.

      35 The honest heart that’s free frae a’ from all

      Intended fraud or guile,

      However Fortune kick the ba’, ball – whatever misfortunes

      Has ay some cause to smile; always

      And mind still, you’ll find still,

      40 A comfort this nae sma’; not small

      Nae mair then, we’ll care then, no more

      Nae farther can we fa’. no, fall

      What tho’, like Commoners of air, owners of air, not land

      We wander out, we know not where,

      45 But either house or hal’? without house or hall

      Yet Nature’s charms, the hills and woods,

      The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

      Are free alike to all.

      In days when Daisies deck the ground,

      50 And Blackbirds whistle clear,

      With honest joy our hearts will bound,

      To see the coming year:

      On braes when we please then, hillsides

      We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune; hum

      55 Syne rhyme till ’t we’ll time till ’t, then

      An’ sing ’t when we hae done. have

      It’s no in titles nor in rank: not

      It’s no in wealth like Lon’on Bank, not, London

      To purchase peace and rest.

      60 It’s no in makin muckle, mair: making much, more

      It’s no in books, it’s no in Lear, wisdom

      To make us truly blest:

      If happiness hae not her seat has

      An’ centre in the breast,

      65 We may be wise, or rich, or great,

      But never can be blest:

      Nae treasures nor pleasures no

      Could make us happy lang; long

      The heart ay ’s the part ay always is

      70 That makes us right or wrang. wrong

      Think ye, that sic as you and I, such

      Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet and dry, who

      Wi’ never ceasing toil;

      Think ye, are we less blest than they,

      75 Wha scarcely tent us in their way, who, notice

      As hardly worth their while?

      Alas! how oft, in haughty mood,

      GOD’s creatures they oppress!

      Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, good

      80 They riot in excess!

      Baith careless and fearless both

      Of either Heaven or Hell;

      Esteeming and deeming

      It a’ an idle tale!

      85 Then let us chearfu’ acquiesce,

      Nor make our scanty Pleasures less

      By pining at our state:

      And, even should Misfortunes come,

      I here wha sit hae met wi’ some, who, have

      90 An ’s thankfu’ for them yet,

      They gie the wit of Age to Youth; give

      They let us ken oursel; know ourselves

      They make us see the naked truth,

      The real guid and ill: good

      95 Tho’ losses and crosses

      Be lessons right severe,

      There’s Wit there, ye’ll get there,

      Ye’ll find nae other where. no

      But tent me, DAVIE, Ace o’ Hearts! take heed

      100 (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt’ry I detest) anything, would wrong, cards

      This life has joys for you and I;

      And joys that riches ne’er could buy,

      And joys the very best.

      105 There’s a’ the Pleasures o’ the Heart,

      The Lover an’ the Frien’; friend

      Ye hae your MEG, your dearest part, have

      And I my darling JEAN!

      It warms me, it charms me

      110 To mention but her name:

      It heats me, it beets me, enraptures

      And sets me a’ on flame!

      O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!

      O THOU whose very self art love!

      115 THOU know’st my words sincere!

      The life blood streaming thro’ my heart,

      Or my more dear Immortal part,

      Is not more fondly dear!

      When heart-corroding care and grief

      120 Deprive my soul of rest,

      Her dear idea brings relief

      And solace to my breast.

      Thou BEING, All-seeing,

      O hear my fervent pray’r!

      125 Still take her, and make her

      THY most peculiar care!

      All hail! ye tender feelings dear!

      The smile of love, the friendly tear,

      The sympathetic glow!

      130 Long since, this world’s thorny ways

      Had number’d out my weary days,

      Had it not been for you!

      Fate still has blest me with a friend

      In every care and ill;

      135 And oft a more endearing band,

      A tye more tender still. tie

      It lightens, it brightens

      The