Fareweel, auld birkie!  Lord be near ye,
     And then the deil, he daurna steer ye: 
     Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
     For me, shame fa’ me,
     If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,
     While Burns they ca’ me.

Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry

     5th October 1791.

     Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg,
     About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
     Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest
     (Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest);
     Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail? 
     (It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale)
     And hear him curse the light he first survey’d,
     And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

     Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign;
     Of thy caprice maternal I complain;
     The lion and the bull thy care have found,
     One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground;
     Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell;
     Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
     Thy minions kings defend, control, devour,
     In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power;
     Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure;
     The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
     Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
     The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug;
     Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts,
     Her tongue and eyes—­her dreaded spear and darts.

     But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
     To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—­the Bard! 
     A thing unteachable in world’s skill,
     And half an idiot too, more helpless still: 
     No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun;
     No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
     No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
     And those, alas! not, Amalthea’s horn: 
     No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur,
     Clad in rich Dulness’ comfortable fur;
     In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
     He bears th’ unbroken blast from ev’ry side: 
     Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
     And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

     Critics—­appall’d, I venture on the name;
     Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: 
     Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
     He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: 

     His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
     By blockheads’ daring into madness stung;
     His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
     By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear;
     Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife,
     The hapless Poet flounders on thro’ life: 
     Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d,
     And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d,
     Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
     Dead even resentment for his injur’d page,
     He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage!