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O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as onie wumble,

That's owre the Sea!

Auld, cantie KYLE* may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear:
"Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee:

He was her Laureat monie a year,

That's owre the Sea.

He saw Misfortune's cauld Nor-west
Lang-mustering † up a bitter blast;
A Jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be !

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the Sea !

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independant stomach,
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the Sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin;

He dealt it free:

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,

That's owre the Sea.

* "KYLE."-The district of Kyle in Ayrshire. Some editors, in deplorable ignorance, have noted this to mean Kilmarnock !

+"Lang-mustering."-The hyphen here is evidently a printer's error, which was corrected in subsequent editions.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,
An' fou o' glee :

He wad na wrang'a the vera Deil,
That's owre the Sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie !*
Your native soil was right ill-willie ;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!

I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,
Tho' owre the Sea!

* In the MS.-"Then fare-ye-weel, my rhymin billie

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A DEDICATION TO G**** H******* Esq.

[The poet's connection with Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, Mauchline, commenced in the spring of 1784, immediately after the death of his father William Burness, when the family of the deceased removed from Lochlea to the farm of Mossgiel, of which they had obtained a sub-lease from Hamilton, who was principal tenant, under the Earl of Loudoun, the proprietor. The intimacy which sprang up betwixt the poet and his young laird had a marked effect in forming his future career. A strong similarity of taste and sentiment pervaded the minds of both, more particularly in matters of religious faith and practice; and when the latter was placed under the censure of the Kirk-Session of Mauchline for "neglect of public ordinances, and disobedience to the recommendations of the presbytery," the pen of the poet, in his friend's behalf, was wielded with unsparing energy from his own Olympus on the heights of Mossgiel. Satire after satire against Hamilton's alleged enemies, followed each other in close succession, and on these productions chiefly rested the extensive local fame of Burns, prior to the publication of his poems in July, 1786. The present production is generally regarded as one of his best, displaying-as noted by Dr. Currie—– those qualities which his poetical epistles possess," deep insight into human nature, a gay and happy train of reflection, great independence of sentiment, and generosity of heart."

One of the couplets which compliments Hamilton as being

"The poor man's friend in need,

The gentleman in word and deed,"

had been made use of by the poet before, in referring to the same friend, in a poetical epistle addressed in September, 1785, to a young minister of kindred sentiments in Church matters; and in it Burns excuses himself for cracking his jest at holy men and holy things on the ground that Hamilton, "who has mair honour in his breast than scores of his persecutors," was sair misca'd by them: and then he adds

"See him, the poor man's friend in need,

The gentleman in word and deed,-
And shall his fame and honour bleed
By worthless skellums,

And not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums ? "]

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechan, fleth'ran Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid;
Because ye're sirnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race:

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' monie 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 thanket, I can plough;

And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, LORD be thanket, 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 whyles 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 Orth-d-xy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The GENTLEMAN in word and deed,
It's no through terror of D-mn-t-n ;
It's just a carnal inclination,
And Och! that's nae r-g-n-r-t-n! *

* This line was omitted in the Edinburgh Edition (1787), and has been kept out ever since.

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 thro' the winnock frae a wh-re,
But point the Rake that taks the door;
Be to the Poor like onie 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 then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch Believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o' C-lv-n,
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 then 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:

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