LITMIR.BIZ

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rule and law, reconciles contradiction—

      I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should bustle,

      I care not, not I—let the critics go whistle!

      But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory

      At once may illustrate and honour my story.

      Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;

      Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits;

      With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,

      No man with the half of ‘em e’er went far wrong;

      With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,

      No man with the half of ‘em e’er went quite right;—

      A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses,

      For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

      Good L—d, what is man? for as simple he looks,

      Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks;

      With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,

      All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.

      On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,

      That, like th’ old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours;

      Mankind are his show-box—a friend, would you know him?

      Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him.

      What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,

      One trifling particular, truth, should have miss’d him;

      For spite of his fine theoretic positions,

      Mankind is a science defies definitions.

      Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,

      And think human nature they truly describe;

      Have you found this, or t’other? there’s more in the wind,

      As by one drunken fellow his comrades you’ll find.

      But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,

      In the make of that wonderful creature, call’d man,

      No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,

      Nor even two different shades of the same,

      Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,

      Possessing the one shall imply you’ve the other.

      But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse,

      Whose rhymes you’ll perhaps, Sir, ne’er deign to peruse:

      Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,

      Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels.

      My much-honour’d Patron, believe your poor poet,

      Your courage much more than your prudence you show it;

      In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle,

      He’ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle;

      Not cabinets even of kings would conceal ‘em,

      He’d up the back-stairs, and by G—he would steal ‘em.

      Then feats like Squire Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ‘em;

      It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him.

      CI. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT

      [This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me—quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem—that while Burns lived at Ellisland—he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his father’s wheat-bread. The poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, “was in great wrath,” said Thomson, “and cursed me, and said little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith; and he was able enough to do it, though I was both young and strong.” The boor of Nithside did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem: when Burns read his remarks he said, “Gregory is a good man, but he crucifies me!”]

      Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,

      And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;

      May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,

      Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.

      Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field!

      The bitter little that of life remains:

      No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains

      To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

      Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,

      No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!

      The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head,

      The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

      Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

      The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn;

      I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn,

      And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

      CII. TO DR. BLACKLOCK, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER

      [This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.—Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.]

      Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

      Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!

      And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?

      I kenn’d it still your wee bit jauntie

      Wad bring ye to:

      Lord send you ay as weel’s I want ye,

      And then ye’ll do.

      The ill-thief blaw the heron south!

      And never drink be near his drouth!

      He tauld mysel’ by word o’ mouth,

      He’d tak my letter:

      I lippen’d to the chief in trouth,

      And bade nae better.

      But aiblins honest Master Heron,

      Had at the time some dainty fair one,

      To ware his theologic care on,

      And holy study;

      And tir’d o’ sauls to waste his lear on

      E’en tried the body.

      But what dy’e think, my trusty fier,

      I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here!

      Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,

      Ye’ll now disdain me!

      And then my fifty pounds a year

      Will little gain me.

      Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,

      Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies,

      Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,

      Ye ken, ye ken,

      That strang necessity supreme is

      ‘Mang sons o’ men.

      I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,

      They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies;

      Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—

      I

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