1753 Poem, Anon., 'To the Criticks'
Author: Anonymous
Date: 1753
Source: ‘To the CRITICKS’, an anonymous poem in ‘Scotch Poems’, The Ulster Miscellany, 1753
Comments: This poem is one of nine anonymous ‘Scotch Poems’ from the ‘Laggan’ area of North-East Donegal published in The Ulster Miscellany of 1753. In Philip Robinson’s ‘William Starrat of Strabane: the first Ulster-Scots Poet’, Ullans, 5, 1997, he identifies William Starrat as the likely author of at least some of these. Given Starrat’s well-known friendship and poetical correspondence (in Scots) with Allan Ramsay about 1722, further corroboration of Starrat’s authorship of these ‘Scotch Poems’ is revealed in the seventh poem (‘An additional Verse to the Widow my Laddie’). The original ‘Widow my Laddie’ was published by Allan Ramsay in his Tea-Table Miscellany … of Songs in English and Scots, in 1750.
Doc. ref. no.: USLS/TB/Poetry/1700-1799/004
To the CRITICKS
To the CRITICKS.
Dear criticks, I address to you;
No’ to the fause, but to the true.
Why do the POETS, ane and a’
Sae fiercely on the criticks fa’:
Misca’ them sae, that nane can pass,
Without his share of goose and ass:
Or send them a’ to join the bikes
Of wasps, or herd wi’ snarling tikes:
What is the reason, can ye tell?
But whisht - I’ll fin’ it out my sell.
Some think themsel’s ayont your reach,
And sae will neither fear nor fleetch;
But use you like a tike that strives
To stap a horse, wha furious drives:
The dog gets many a dirty splash;
Or frae the horse’s heels a lash.
Some fear the warst, and sae wou’d fain,
By striking first, the battle gain:
Or like the mob, the hangman claw,
Wha’d for a trifle hang them a’.
Ow’r mickle, like ow’r little dread,
Gi’s courage in the time of need.
Yet young beginners, sic as me,
Shou’d court, and fleetch you to be free:
To pass your judgment on our lays,
To censure, or to give us praise;
For ye’re the trumpeters o’ fame,
That can blaw up, and down, a name:
Upon your breath, it mounts right clever,
Or wi’ a puff, sinks down for ever.
Maist poets join in this mistake,
Nae special difference to make
(As weel they might) ’tween criticks true,
And a pretending senseless crew.
This should be fix’d - fause criticks else,
Will never come to ken themsels:
Then let me tell thae worthless men,
The truths which ye already ken.
A critick, wi’ a genius bright,
Can, like his patron, god of light,
Gi’ ilka thing its proper view;
Shaw what is faw’ty, ald, or new,
Can make a phrase luick beautiful,
Which to the clouded mind seem’d dull:
Sic light he gi’s, the bard may choose
The bonniest prospect for his muse:
Sic light he gi’s - the donsy dark
Tines self-conceit, and quats the wark.
But a fause critick’s like the deel,
Slips, fau’ts, and failings, please them weel;
Of sic he is sae wond’rous fain,
He strives to make them whare there’s nane.
True poets thrive against his will;
For he would damn baith good and ill.
