O, enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchang'd for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage; The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age!
I hold it, sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An' wad hae don't aff han';
But lest he learn the callan tricks-- An' faith I muckle doubt him-- Like scrapin out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin lies about them; As lieve then, I'd have then Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear. Ye'll catechise him, every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk-- Aye when ye gang yoursel. If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin' Friday, Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir, The orders wi' your lady.
My word of honour I hae gi'en, In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, To meet the warld's worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An' name the airles an' the fee, In legal mode an' form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him: An' if a Devil be at a', In faith he's sure to get him. To phrase you and praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray'r still you share still Of grateful Minstrel Burns.
Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I'm gay and hearty! To tell the truth and shame the deil, I am as fou as Bartie: But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, Expect me o' your partie, If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie.
Robert Burns. Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o'clock.
Tune--“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.”
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic roar?
O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine.