A Dedication（2 / 2）

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'ning 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 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.

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-gushing tear,

should recognise my master dear;

if friendless, low, we meet together,

then, sir, your hand—my friend and brother!