believe I should have been a wise man; but the first year, from
unfortunately buying bad seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost
half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, "like the
dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the
mire."

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. The
first of my poetic offspring that saw the light was a burlesque
lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them
figuring in my "Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had
some merit; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend,
who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess
who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a
certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar
of applause. "Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to
look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be
pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led
me on another side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest metal.
This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, "The
Lament." This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to
reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal
qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and
mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm
to my brother; in truth, it was only nominally mine; and made what
little preparation was in my power for Jamaica.

But before leaving my native country forever, I resolved to publish my
poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power; I
thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea that I should be