A Dedication
Expect
na,
sir,
in
this
narration,
A
fleechin,
fleth'rin
Dedication,
To
roose
you
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,
Set
up
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
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
say
—an'
that's
nae
flatt'rin—
It's
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'
he's
done
yet,
But
only—he's
no
just
begun
yet.
The
Patron
(sir,
ye
maun
forgie
me;
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
downa
see
a
poor
man
want;
What's
no
his
ain,
he
winna
tak
it;
What
ance
he
says,
he
winna
break
it;
Ought
he
can
lend
he'll
no
refus't,
Till
aft
his
guidness
is
abus'd;
And
rascals
whiles
that
do
him
wrang,
Ev'n
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
a'that;
Nae
godly
symptom
ye
can
ca'
that;
It's
naething
but
a
milder
feature
Of
our
poor,
sinfu'
corrupt
nature:
Ye'll
get
the
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,
whase
stay
an'
trust
is
In
moral
mercy,
truth,
and
justice!
No-stretch
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
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
wha
leave
the
springs
o'
Calvin,
For
gumlie
dubs
of
your
ain
delvin!
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'ni
ng
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
that's
a
word
I
need
na
say;
For
prayin,
I
hae
little
skill
o't,
I'm
baith
dead-sweer,
an'
wretched
ill
o't;
But
I'se
repeat
each
poor
man's
pray'r,
That
kens
or
hears
about
you,
sir—
"May
ne'er
Misfortune's
gowling
bark,
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
beet
his
hymeneal
flame,
Till
Hamiltons,
at
least
a
dizzen,
Are
frae
their
nuptial
labours
risen:
Five
bonie
lasses
round
their
table,
And
sev'n
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
ev'ning
o'
his
days;
Till
his
wee,
curlie
John's
ier-oe,
When
ebbing
life
nae
mair
shall
flow,
The
last,
sad,
mournful
rites
bestow!"
I
will
not
wind
a
lang
conclusion,
With
complimentar
y
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.
But
if
(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
no
more;
For
who
would
humbly
serve
the
poor?
But,
by
a
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-gushi
ng
tear,
Should
recognise
my
master
dear;
If
friendless,
low,
we
meet
together,
Then,
sir,
your
hand-my
Friend
and
Brother!
