A Dedication(1/4)
a dedication
to gavin hamilton, esq.
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 orthodox
to gavin hamilton, esq.
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 orthodox
本章未完，点击下一页继续阅读