The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order; [hold]
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause--
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere
Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev'n the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended.
When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, [frolicking]
Religion may be blinded;
Or, if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n--
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, God send you speed
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede [heed the advice]
Than ever did th' adviser!
The general level of the rhyming letters of Burns is astonishingly
high. They bear, as such compositions should, the impression of free
spontaneity, and indeed often read like sheer improvisations.
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