A Night Out with Burns by Robert Burns

Death .

    B urns had the guts to speak of the ways that religion may show itself to be blinded and drowned in a sea of unreason, but all the same he sought heaven for an anchor. I always think of the prime minister, Gordon Brown, when I read the following poem (‘May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth/Erect your brow undaunting!’), but since the poem is addressed explicitly to ‘Andrew’, I grew up thinking it must be meant for me. It is heartening to think that Burns is not above a little Polonius-like hypocrisy, and some of us, in our youth, may have found that perfectly congenial.

    Epistle to a Young Friend
    I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
    A Something to have sent you,
    Tho’ it should serve nae other 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 A NDREW 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 should na 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 neebor’s part,
    Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

    Ay 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 wave 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 justify’d by Honor:
    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 Honor grip,
    Let that ay be your border:
    Its slightest touches, instant pause—
    Debar a’ side-pretences;
    And resolutely keep its laws,
    Uncaring consequences.

    The great C REATOR to revere,
    Must sure become the Creature ;
    But still the preaching cant forbear,
    And ev’n the rigid feature:
    Yet ne’er with Wits prophane 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-fling ,
    It may be little minded;
    But when on Life we’re tempest-driven,
    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 , ‘G OD send you speed,’
    Still daily to grow wiser;
    And may ye better reck the rede ,
    Then ever did th’ Adviser !

    T he great night for me in Ayrshire was never Christmas Eve or midsummer, but Halloween, when some sort of folk essence seemed to cling to the cold air. I loved the gathering of nuts and apples door to door, the occasional coins and sweets, while news of