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, My Lords and Gentlemen, Edinburgh, April 4, 1787 ROBERT BURNS POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS, A TALE. "Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, When wearing thro' the afternoon, The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, His locked, letter'd, Braw brass collar, The tither was a ploughman's collie, Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, Our Laird gets in his racked rents, Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 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 breast was white, his towzie back 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, LUATH. Trowth,Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough; |