« PredošláPokračovať »
BY CHARLES SORAN.
I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
PUBLISHED BY N. HICKMAN.
NEW YORK:-L. W RANSOM
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
JOHN MURPHY, PRINTER,
146 Market street.
ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.
THE verses herein presented to the public, at the solicitation of my friends, are the effusions of one who
"has to learning nae pretence,"
and whose opportunities for the cultivation of poetic grace have been extremely limited. Many of the articles in the volume were composed whilst in the actual performance of mechanical labor, and written out in moments of relaxation, and all of them are the fruits of time stolen from more important employments.
Believing, however, that such statements, if of any force, argue as much against publishing as in extenuation of faults, he merely mentions the facts for what they are worth, and, relying upon the merit of his productions, lanches them on the public tide, to take their chances and sink or swim, as the public breath may determine; presuming that his readers will, if nothing more, accord to him the merit of the attempt, in the pieces which he values the most, to celebrate in song some of the glories of his native city and the virtues and patriotism of its citizens. THE AUTHов.