PREFACE.
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The first edition, printed at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson,bore on the title-page these simple words:--"Poems, chiefly in theScottish Dialect, by Robert Burns;" the following motto, marked"Anonymous," but evidently the poet's own composition, was moreambitious:-- "The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art,He pours the wild effusions of the heart:And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire--Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, withall the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies andidlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme with an eye toTheocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and othercelebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their originallanguage, _a fountain shut up, and a book sealed._ Unacquainted withthe necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings thesentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rusticcompeers around him in his and their native language. Though a rhymerfrom his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of thesofter passions, it was not till very lately that the applause,perhaps the partiality, of friendship awakened his vanity so for as tomake him think anything of his worth showing: and none of thefollowing works were composed with a view to the press. To amusehimself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil andfatigue of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings--theloves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears--in his own breast; to findsome kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alienscene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind--these were his motives forcourting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does itwith fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, thateven he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought ofbeing branded as--an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense onthe world; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerelScotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no smallconsequence, forsooth! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divineelegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that"_Humility_ has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raisedone to fame!" If any critic catches at the word _genius_ the authortells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself aspossessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in themanner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the worst character,which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the geniusof a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunateFergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even inhis highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions.These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye inthe following pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame,than for servile imitation. To his Subscriber, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not themercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of theBard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship forgratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of everypoetic bosom--to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularlythe learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, thatthey will make every allowance for education and circumstances oflife; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shallstand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as hewould in that case do by others--let him be condemned, without mercy,in contempt and oblivion.
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