Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, Oh, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Here pause and, through the starting tear Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below, Was quick to learn, and wise to know, Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. In dedicating his Poems to Gavin Hamilton, Burns took the opportunity not merely to characterize that generous-natured man, but to throw out a few parting sarcasins at orthodoxy and her partisans. This poem, however, was not placed at the front of the volume, though included in its pages. EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, praise A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, wheedling-flattering Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye, This may do 1 maun do, sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; belly-full For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, L be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, L- be thankit, I can beg; VOL. II. 1 The Duke of Hamilton. 2 cannot Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin', The Poet, some guid angel help him, The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What ance he says he winna break it; But then nae thanks to him for a' that, beat cannot Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, It's no through terror of d—tion ; Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! No stretch a point to catch a plack; penny Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Oh ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'! muddy ponds Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! Just frets, till Heaven commission gies him: Your pardon, sir, for this digression, So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronise them wi' your favour, I had amaist said, ever pray, For prayin' I hae little skill o't; foolish I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't; unwilling But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer That kens or hears about you, sir : |