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Robert Burns - A Dedication
Work rating: Medium

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!
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