Expect na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth’rinDedication,
To rooseyou up, an’ ca’ you guid,
An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid,
Because ye’re surnam’d like His Grace-
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when I’m tir’d-and sae are ye,
Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie,
Setup a face how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do-maun do, sir, wi’ them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laighI need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
SaeI shall say-an’ that’s nae flatt’rin-
It’s just sic Poet an’ sicPatron.
The Poet, some guidangel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill aneskelphim!
He may do weelfor a’ he’s done yet,
But only-he’s no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye maunforgieme;
I winna lie, come what will o’ me),
On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be,
He’s just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downasee a poor man want;
What’s no his ain, he winna tak it;
What ancehe says, he winnabreak it;
Oughthe can lend he’ll no refus’t,
Till afthis guidness is abus’d;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Ev’n that, he does na mindit lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a’that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca’that;
It’s naethingbut a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu’ corrupt nature:
Ye’ll getthe best o’ moral works,
‘Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It’s no thro’ terror of damnation;
It’s just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whasestay an’ trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!
No-stretch a point to catch a plack:
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal throughthe winnockfrae a whore,
But point the rake that taks the door;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haudtheir noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving;
No matter-stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half-mile graces,
Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan,
And damn a’ parties but your own;
I’ll warrant they ye’re nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye whaleave the springs o’ Calvin,
For gumliedubs of your aindelvin!
Ye sons of Heresy and Error,
Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror,
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him;
While o’er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, sir, for this digression:
I maistforgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes ‘cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see ’twas nae daftvapour;
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a’my works I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na takit ill),
I thought them something like yoursel’.
Then patronize them wi’your favor,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaistsaid, ever pray,
But that’s a word I need nasay;
For prayin, I haelittle skill o’t,
I’m baithdead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t;
But I’serepeat each poor man’s pray’r,
That kens or hears about you, sir-
“May ne’er Misfortune’s gowlingbark,
Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk!
May ne’er his genrous, honest heart,
For that same gen’rous spirit smart!
May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name
Lang beethis hymeneal flame,
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen,
Are fraetheir nuptial labours risen:
Five bonielasses round their table,
And sev’n brawfellows, stout an’ able,
To serve their king an’country weel,
By word, or pen, orpointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the ev’ning o’his days;
Tillhis wee, curlie John’s ier-oe,
When ebbing life naemairshall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!”
I will not wind a langconclusion,
With complimentary effusion;
But, whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.
Butif (which Pow’rs above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended, in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then nomore;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But, bya poor man’s hopes in Heav’n!
While recollection’s pow’r is giv’n-
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune’s strife,
I, thro’ the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear;
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand-my Friend and Brother!