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Robert Burns - Epistle To A Young Friend
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I lang hae thought, my youthfu` friend, 
A something to have sent you, 
Tho` it should serve nae ither end 
Than just a kind momento: 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 
Let time and change determine; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang: 
Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye`ll try the world soon my lad; 
And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye`ll find mankind an unco squad, 
And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 
Ev`n when your end`s attained; 
And a` your views may come to nought, 
Where ev`ry nerve is strained. 

I`ll no say, men are villains a`; 
The real, harden`d wicked, 
What hae nae check but human law, 
Are to a few restricked; 
But, och! mankind are unco weak, 
An` little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 
It`s rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa` in fortune`s strife, 
Their fate we shouldna censure; 
For still, th`important end of life 
They equally may answer; 
A man may hae in honest heart, 
Tho` poortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak a neibor`s part, 
Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff-han`, your story tell, 
When wi` a bosom crony; 
But still keep something to yoursel`, 
Ye scarcely tell to ony: 
Conceal yoursel` as weel`s ye can 
Frae critical dissection; 
But keek thro` ev`ry other man, 
Wi` sharpen`d, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o` well-plac`d love, 
Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th` illicit rove, 
Tho` naething should divulge it: 
I waive the quantum o` the sin, 
The hazard of concealing; 
But, och! it hardens a` within, 
And petrifies the feeling! 

To catch dame Fortune`s golden smile, 
Assiduous wait upon her; 
And gather gear by ev`ry wile 
That`s justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
Nor for a train attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent. 

The fear o` hell`s a hangman`s whip, 
To haud the wretch in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 
Let that aye be your border; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause— 
Debar a` side-pretences; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 
Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 
Must sure become the creature; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 
And ev`n the rigid feature: 
Yet ne`er with wits profane to range, 
Be complaisance extended; 
An atheist-laugh`s a poor exchange 
For Deity offended! 

When ranting round in pleasure`s ring, 
Religion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 
It may be little minded; 
But when on life we`re tempest-driv`n— 
A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fix`d wi` Heav`n, 
Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth! 
Your heart can ne`er be wanting! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
Erect your brow undaunting! 
In ploughman phrase, ``God send you speed,`` 
Still daily to grow wiser; 
And may ye better reck the rede, 
Than ever did th` adviser!
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