GIVEN
TO
A
LADY
WHO
ASKED
ME
TO
WRITE
A
POEM
.
IN
royal
Anna's
golden
days
,
Hard
was
the
task
to
gain
the
bays
:
Hard
was
it
then
the
hill
to
climb
;
Some
broke
a
neck
,
some
lost
a
limb
.
The
vot'ries
for
poetic
fame
,
Got
aff
decrepit
,
blind
,
an'
lame
:
Except
that
little
fellow
Pope
,
Few
ever
then
got
near
its
top
:
An'
Homer's
crutches
he
may
thank
,
Or
down
the
brae
he'd
got
a
clank
.
Swift
,
Thomson
,
Addison
,
an'
Young
Made
Pindus
echo
to
their
tongue
,
In
hopes
to
please
a
learned
age
;
But
Doctor
Johnston
,
in
a
rage
,
Unto
posterity
did
shew
Their
blunders
great
,
their
beauties
few
.
But
now
he's
dead
,
we
weel
may
ken
;
For
ilka
dunce
maun
hae
a
pen
,
To
write
in
uncouth
rhymes
;
An'
yet
forsooth
they
please
the
times
.
A
ploughman
chiel
,
Rab
Burns
his
name
,
Pretends
to
write
;
an'
thinks
nae
shame
To
souse
his
sonnets
on
the
court
;
An'
what
is
strange
,
they
praise
him
for't
.
Even
folks
,
wha're
of
the
highest
station
,
Ca'
him
the
glory
of
our
nation
.
But
what
is
more
surprising
still
,
A
milkmaid
must
tak
up
her
quill
;
An'
she
will
write
,
shame
fa'
the
rabble
!
That
think
to
please
wi'
ilka
bawble
.
They
may
thank
heav'n
,
auld
Sam's
asleep
:
For
could
he
ance
but
get
a
peep
,
He
,
wi'
a
vengeance
wad
them
sen
'
A'
headlong
to
the
dunces'
den
.
Yet
Burns
,
I'm
tauld
,
can
write
wi'
ease
,
An'
a'
denominations
please
;
Can
wi'
uncommon
glee
impart
A
usefu'
lesson
to
the
heart
;
Can
ilka
latent
thought
expose
,
An'
Nature
trace
whare'er
she
goes
:
Of
politics
can
talk
wi'
skill
,
Nor
dare
the
critics
blame
his
quill
.
But
then
a
rustic
country
quean
To
write
–
was
e'er
the
like
o't
seen
?
A
milk
maid
poem-books
to
print
;
Mair
fit
she
wad
her
dairy
tent
;
Or
labour
at
her
spinning
wheel
,
An'
do
her
wark
baith
swift
an'
weel
.
Frae
that
she
may
some
profit
share
,
But
winna
frae
her
rhyming
ware
.
Does
she
,
poor
silly
thing
,
pretend
The
manners
of
our
age
to
mend
?
Mad
as
we
are
,
we're
wise
enough
Still
to
despise
sic
paultry
stuff
.
"
May
she
wha
writes
,
of
wit
get
mair
,
An'
a'
that
read
an
ample
share
Of
candour
ev'ry
fault
to
screen
,
That
in
her
dogg'ral
scrawls
are
seen
.
"
All
this
and
more
,
a
critic
said
;
I
heard
and
slunk
behind
the
shade
:
So
much
I
dread
their
cruel
spite
,
My
hand
still
trembles
when
I
write
.