Epistle To A Young Friend(1/2)
epistle to a young friend
may __, 1786.
i lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
a something to have sent you,
tho' it should serve nae ither end
than just a kind memento:
but how the subject-theme may gang,
let time and chance 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,
wha 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 an 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' weel-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
may __, 1786.
i lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
a something to have sent you,
tho' it should serve nae ither end
than just a kind memento:
but how the subject-theme may gang,
let time and chance 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,
wha 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 an 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' weel-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
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