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Robert Burns - Address To The Unco Guid
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My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An` lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that ere was dight
May hae some pyles o` caff in;
So ne`er a fellow creature slight
For random fits o` daffin.
Solomon.—Ec cles. ch. vii. verse 16


O ye wha are sae guid yoursel`, 
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 heapèd happer`s ebbing still, 
An` still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 
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. 

Ye see your state wi` theirs compared, 
And shudder at the niffer; 
But cast a moment`s fair regard, 
What makes the mighty differ? 
Discount what scant occassion gave, 
That purity ye pride in; 
And (what`s aft mair than a` the lave) 
Your better art o` hidin. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 
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. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, 
All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrifi ed, they`re grown 
Debauchery and Drinking: 
O would they stay to calculate 
Th` external consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state 
Damnation of expenses! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 
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. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 
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. 

Who made the heart, `tis He alone 
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.
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