To A Bard


Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.


Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.


Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.


The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!
 

Reader, attend! whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit: 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root. 


 - Robert Burns, "A Bard's Epitah," 1786


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