您可以在百度里搜索“Poems and Songs of Robert Burns 艾草文学(www.321553.xyz)”查找最新章节！

　　Epistle To Major Logan

　　Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!

　　Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly

　　To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

　　We never heed,

　　But take it like the unback'd filly,

　　Proud o' her speed.

　　When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter,

　　Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,

　　Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,

　　Some black bog-hole,

　　Arrests us; then the scathe an' banter

　　We're forced to thole.

　　Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!

　　Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

　　To cheer you through the weary widdle

　　O' this wild warl'.

　　Until you on a crummock driddle,

　　A grey hair'd carl.

　　Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,

　　Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,

　　And screw your temper-pins aboon

　　A fifth or mair

　　The melancholious, lazy croon

　　O' cankrie care.

　　May still your life from day to day,

　　Nae “lente largo” in the play,

　　But “allegretto forte” gay,

　　Harmonious flow,

　　A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—

　　Encore! Bravo!

　　A blessing on the cheery gang

　　Wha dearly like a jig or sang,

　　An' never think o' right an' wrang

　　By square an' rule,

　　But, as the clegs o' feeling stang,

　　Are wise or fool.

　　My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase

　　The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,

　　Wha count on poortith as disgrace;

　　Their tuneless hearts,

　　May fireside discords jar a base

　　To a' their parts.

　　But come, your hand, my careless brither,

　　I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,

　　An' that there is, I've little swither

　　About the matter;

　　We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,

　　I'se ne'er bid better.

　　We've faults and failings—granted clearly,

　　We're frail backsliding mortals merely,

　　Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly

　　For our grand fa';

　　But still, but still, I like them dearly—

　　God bless them a'!

　　Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,

　　When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!

　　The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers

　　Hae put me hyte,

　　And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,

　　Wi' girnin'spite.

　　By by yon moon!—and that's high swearin—

　　An' every star within my hearin!

　　An' by her een wha was a dear ane!

　　I'll ne'er forget;

　　I hope to gie the jads a clearin

　　In fair play yet.

　　My loss I mourn, but not repent it;

　　I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it;

　　Ance to the Indies I were wonted,

　　Some cantraip hour

　　By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted;

　　Then vive l'amour!

　　Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,

　　To sentimental sister Susie,

　　And honest Lucky; no to roose you,

　　Ye may be proud,

　　That sic a couple Fate allows ye,

　　To grace your blood.

　　Nae mair at present can I measure,

　　An' trowth my rhymin ware's nae treasure;

　　But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,

　　Be't light, be't dark,

　　Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure

　　To call at Park.

　　Robert Burns.

　　Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns