Horace, Ode XI. Lib. I

Horace, Ode XI. Lib. I
Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrip's kittle cunning
To spier how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowie thought opprest,
Whether we see mair winters come,
Than this that spits wi canker'd foam.

  Now moisten weel your geyzen'd waas
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne'er lat your hope owrgang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.
Robert Fergusson

from Robert Fergusson: selected poems, edited by James Robertson, (Polygon, 2000).

Robert Fergusson

Edinburgh-born poet Robert Fergusson achieved so much poetical success in his short life of twenty-four years that Robert Burns called him 'my elder brother in the muse’. 

Read more about this poet