EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, flethrin Dedication,
To roose you up, an ca you guid,
An sprung o great an noble bluid,
Because yere surnamd like His Grace
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when Im tird-and sae are ye,
Wi mony a fulsome, sinfu lie,
Set up a face how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may domaun do, sir, wi them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall sayan thats nae flattrin
Its just sic Poet an sic Patron.
The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a hes done yet,
But onlyhes no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me;
I winna lie, come what will o me),
On evry hand it will allowd be,
Hes justnae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
Whats no his ain, he winna tak it;
What ance he says, he winna break it;
Ought he can lend hell no refust,
Till aft his guidness is abusd;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Evn that, he does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for athat;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca that;
Its naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu corrupt nature:
Yell get the best o moral works,
Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That hes the poor mans friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
Its no thro terror of damnation;
Its just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whase stay an trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!
Nostretch a point to catch a plack:
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal through the winnock frae a whore,
But point the rake that taks the door;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply evry art o legal thieving;
No matterstick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile prayrs, an half-mile graces,
Wi weel-spread looves, an lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthend groan,
And damn a parties but your own;
Ill warrant they yere nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs o Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of Heresy and Error,
Yell 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 Heavn commission gies him;
While oer the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deepning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, sir, for this digression:
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see twas nae daft vapour;
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a my works I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill),
I thought them something like yoursel.
Then patronize them wi your favor,
And your petitioner shall ever
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But thats a word I need na say;
For prayin, I hae little skill ot,
Im baith dead-sweer, an wretched ill ot;
But Ise repeat each poor mans prayr,
That kens or hears about you, sir.
May neer Misfortunes gowling bark,
Howl thro the dwelling o the clerk!
May neer his genrous, honest heart,
For that same genrous spirit smart!
May Kennedys far-honourd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen:
Five bonie lasses round their table,
And sevn braw fellows, stout an able,
To serve their king an country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evning o his days;
Till his wee, curlie Johns ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!
I will not wind a lang conclusion,
With complimentary effusion;
But, whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortunes smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.
But if (which Powrs 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 no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But, by a poor mans hopes in Heavn!
While recollections powr is givn
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortunes strife,
I, thro the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear;
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your handmy Friend and Brother!