« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates.
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 wor' I 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 Irappiness.
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 li
centiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe!
I have the honour to be,
and highest respect,
My Lords and Gentlemen,
ROBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, Ipril 4, 1787.
THE TWA DOGS,
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
The first l'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew'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,
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
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, * Was made lang syne--Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither, An’unco pack an' thick thegither ; 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' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.
Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.