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Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 20 He's but a cuif1 for a' that: For a' that, an' a'that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

25 A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

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But an honest man's aboon his might-
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

35 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the greet an' a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,

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It's comin yet for a' that,

That man to man, the world o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that!

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But now he is my deadly fae,1 Unless thou be my ain.

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 10 That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; But thou art queen within my breast, Forever to remain.

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The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idlenesses of 5 upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names (their countrymen) are, at least in their original language, "a fountain shut up, and a book sealed." Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet2 by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his was worth showing; and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast; to find some kind of counterpoise 30 to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind; these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward.

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Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the 40 thought of being branded as "An imper

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Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif1 for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

25 A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

30

But an honest man's aboon2 his might-
Guid faith, he mauna fa's that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

35 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the greet an' a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,

40

It's comin yet for a' that,

That man to man, the world o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that!

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But now he is my deadly fae,1 Unless thou be my ain.

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 10 That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; But thou art queen within my breast, Forever to remain.

15

10

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The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idlenesses of 5 upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names (their countrymen) are, at least in their original language, “a fountain shut up, and a book sealed." Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet2 by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his was worth showing; and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast; to find some kind of counterpoise 30 to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind; these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward.

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25

35

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the 40 thought of being branded as "An imper

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tinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense
on the world; and, because he can make
shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch
rhymes together, looks upon himself as a
poet of no small consequence forsooth."'
It is an observation of that celebrated
poet,1 whose divine Elegies do honor to our
language, our nation, and our species-
that "Humility has depressed many a
genius to a hermit, but never raised one
to fame." If any critic catches at the
word genius, the author tells him, once
for all, that he certainly looks upon him-
self as possessed of some poetic abilities,
otherwise his publishing in the manner he
has done would be a maneuver below the
worst character which, he hopes, his worst
enemy will ever give him. But to the
genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawn-
ings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson,
he, with equal unaffected sincerity, de-
clares that, even in his highest pulse of
vanity, he has not the most distant pre-
tensions. These two justly admired
Scotch poets he has often had in his eye 25
in the following pieces; but rather with
a view to kindle at their flame, than for
servile imitation.

He

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To his subscribers the author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mer- 30 cenary bow over a counter, but the heartthrobbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he is indebted to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every 35 poetic bosom-to be distinguished. begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honor him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circumstances of 40 life; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others -let him be condemned without mercy, to contempt and oblivion.

DEDICATION TO THE SECOND, OR
EDINBURGH EDITION OF
BURNS'S POEMS
1787
1787

TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE
CALEDONIAN HUNT2

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN:

properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land; those who bear the honors and inherit the virtues of their ancestors? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha-at the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue: I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metrop olis of Caledonia and lay my songs under your honored protection: I now obey her dictates.

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favors: that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favors: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the great fountain of honor, the monarch of the universe, for your welfare and happiness.

When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favorite amusement of your forefathers, may pleasure ever be of your party: and may social joy await your return! When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats; and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling, indignant glance; and 50 may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable foe!

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A Scottish bard, proud of the name, 55 and whose highest ambition is to sing in his country's service-where shall he so

1 Shenstone

2 An association of Scottish huntsmen.

I have the honor to be, with the sin-
cerest gratitude and highest respect,
My Lords and Gentlemen,
Your most devoted humble Servant,
ROBERT BURNS.
EDINBURGH, April 4, 1787.

1 See 1 Kings, 19:19.

II. NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS

SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855)

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY 1792 1792

From PART I

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village

green,

With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet

broke,

When round the ruins of their ancient oak 5 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel

play,

And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no

more

With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows 10 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear!

Mark yon old mansion frowning thro' the trees,

Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.

15 That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,

First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.

The mouldering gateway strews the grassgrown court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;

When all things pleased, for life itself was

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the west,

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scene;

The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green!

Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give.

85 Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below

To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;

Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,

When nature fades and life forgets to charm;

Thee would the Muse invoke!-to thee belong

90 The sage's precept and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals,

When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; 95 Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned

Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind.

1 ant

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