AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT BURNS. Janet Little (later Richmond) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T126549 Little, Janet, 1759-1813. The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid. Air Printed by John & Peter Wilson 1792 pp. [160]-163.

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AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT BURNS . FAIRFA' the honest rustic swain , The pride o' a' our Scottish plain ; Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain , And notes sae sweet ; Old Ramsay's shade , reviv'd again , In thee we greet . Lov'd Thallia , that delightful Muse , Seem'd long shut up as a recluse : To all she did her aid refuse , Since Allan's day , Till Burns arose , then did she choose To grace his lay . To hear thy song , all ranks desire ; Sae well thou strik'st the dormant lyre . Apollo , wi' poetic fire , Thy breast did warm , An' critics silently admire Thy art to charm . Cæsar an' Luath weel can speak ; 'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek : They into human nature keek , An' knots unravel ; To hear their lectures ance a week , Ten miles I'd travel . Thy dedication to G — H — , In unco bonny , hamespun speech , Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach A better lesson , Than servile bards wha fawn an' fleech , Like beggar's messin . When slighted love becomes thy theme , An' woman's faithless vows you blame , With so much pathos you exclaim , In your Lament , But glanc'd by the most frigid dame , She wad relent . The daisy too , you sing wi' skill ; An' weel ye praise the whiskey gill . In vain I blunt my feckless quill , Your fame to raise , While echo sounds , frae ilka hill , To Burns's praise . Did Addison or Pope but hear , Or Sam , that critic most severe , A plough-boy sing , wi' throat sae clear , They , in a rage , Their works wad a' in pieces tear An' curse your page . If I should strain my rupy throat , To raise thy praise wi' swelling note , My rude , unpolish'd strokes wad blot Thy brilliant shine , An' ev'ry passage I would quote Seem less sublime . The talk I'll drop ; wi' heart sincere To heav'n present a humble prayer , That a' the blessings mortals share May be , by turns , Dispens'd with an indulgent care To Robert Burns .