Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake

Robert Burns (1759–1796)

Extract from An Epistle to John Lapraik, an Old Scottish Bard

I AM nae Poet, in a sense,

But just a Rhymer like, by chance,

An’ hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?

Whene’er my Muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,

And say, ‘How can you e’er propose,

You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang?’

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye ’re maybe wrang.

What ’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,

Your Latin names for horns an’ stools;

If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye ’d better taen up spades and shools,

Or knappin-hammers.

A set o’ dull, conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,

Plain truth to speak;

An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o’ Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire,

That ’s a’ the learning I desire;

Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,

Or Fergusson’s, the bauld and slee,

Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.