To Dr. Blacklock, In Answer To A Letter.

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

    Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
    And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
    I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
        Wad bring ye to:
    Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,
        And then ye'll do.

    The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
    And never drink be near his drouth!
    He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth,
        He'd tak my letter:
    I lippen'd to the chief in trouth,
        And bade nae better.

    But aiblins honest Master Heron,
    Had at the time some dainty fair one,
    To ware his theologic care on,
        And holy study;
    And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
        E'en tried the body.

    But what dy'e think, my trusty fier,
    I'm turn'd a gauger, Peace be here!
    Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
        Ye'll now disdain me!
    And then my fifty pounds a year
        Will little gain me.

    Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
    Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,
    Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
        Ye ken, ye ken,
    That strang necessity supreme is
        'Mang sons o' men.

    I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
    They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
    Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
        I need na vaunt,
    But I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
        Before they want.

    Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
    I'm weary sick o't late and air!
    Not but I hae a richer share
        Than mony ithers:
    But why should ae man better fare,
        And a' men brithers?

    Come, firm Resolve, take then the van,
    Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
    And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan
        A lady fair:
    Wha does the utmost that he can,
        Will whyles do mair.

    But to conclude my silly rhyme,
    (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
    To make a happy fire-side clime
        To weans and wife,
    That's the true pathos and sublime
        Of human life.

    My compliments to sister Beckie;
    And eke the same to honest Lucky,
    I wat she is a dainty chuckie,
        As e'er tread clay!
    And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
        I'm yours for ay,

ROBERT BURNS.