raph with the easy
boldness of a great master."

PREFACE.

[The first edition, printed at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson,
bore on the title-page these simple words:--"Poems, chiefly in the
Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns;" the following motto, marked
"Anonymous," but evidently the poet's own composition, was more
ambitious:--

"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, with
all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and
idlenesses of 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 poet 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 impulse of the
softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause,
perhaps the partiality, of friendship awakened his vanity so for as to
make him think anything of his 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
fatigue 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 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.

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 thought of
being branded as--an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on
the world; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel
Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small
consequence, forsooth!

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine
elegies do honour to our language