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PREFACE

TO THE

FIRST EDITION

OF

BURNS' POEMS,

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786.

gether, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth!

THE following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a It is an observation of that celebrated poet, rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Vir- Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to gil. To the author of this, these and other our language, our nation, and our species, that celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at "Humility has depressed many a genius to a least in their original language, a fountain shut hermit, but never raised one to fame!" If any up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the critic catches at the word genius, the author necessary requisites for commencing poet by tells him once for all, that he certainly looks rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilifelt and saw in himself and his ustic com- ties, otherwise his publishing in the manner he peers around him, in his and their native lan- has done, would be a manoeuvre below the guage. Though a rhymer from his earliest worst character, which, he hopes, his worst years, at least from the earliest impulses of enemy will ever give him. But to the genius the softer passions, it was not till very lately of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unfriendship, wakened his vanity so far as to affected sincerity, declares, that, even in his make him think any thing of his worth show-highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most ing; and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his To his Subscribers, the author returns his own breast: to find some kind of counterpoise most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow to the struggles of a world, always an alien over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratiscene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind-tude of the bard, conscious how much he owes these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward.

distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame than for servile imitation.

to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom-to be distingished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and Now that he appears in the public character the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, of an author, he does it with fear and trem- that they will make every allowance for edubling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, cation and circumstances of life; but if, after that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall aghast at the thought of being branded as-Anstand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense him be done by as he would in that case do on the world; and, because he can make a shift by others let him be condemned, without to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes to- mercy, to contempt and oblivion. B

OF THE

SECOND EDITION OF THE

POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED.

TO THE

NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN

OF THE

CALEDONIAN HUNT.

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service-where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native Land; those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha-at the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle over

me.

She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue: I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired-She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured I now obey her dictates. protection;

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours; I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her

ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness.

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social Joy await your return: When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native Seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe!

I have the honour to be,
With the sincerest gratitude,
and highest respect,

My Lords and Gentlemen,
Your most devoted humble servant,

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787

ROBERT BURNS

POEMS,

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

THE TWA DOGS,

A TALE.

"Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod.

His locked, letter'd, Braw brass collar,
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,*

Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit,
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daifin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

CÆSAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have.
An' when the gentry's life I saw
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents.
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man

Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang. His Honour has in a' the lan':

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,

As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.

His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither;

• Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension..

LUATH.

Trowth,Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

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