Thomas Blacklock

Thomas Blacklock Poems

Thomas Blacklock Biography

Thomas Blacklock (November 10, 1721 – July 7, 1791) was a Scottish poet. He was born near Annan, Dumfries and Galloway, of humble parentage, and lost his sight as a result of smallpox when six months old. He began to write poetry at the age of 12, and studied for the Church. He was appointed Minister of Kirkcudbright, but was objected to by the parishioners on account of his blindness, and gave up the presentation on receiving an annuity. During the 1750s he was sponsored by the empiricist philosopher David Hume He then retired to Edinburgh, where he became a tutor. He published some miscellaneous poems, which are now forgotten, and is chiefly remembered for having written a letter to Robert Burns, which had the effect of dissuading him from going to the West Indies, indirectly saving his life since the ship sank on the voyage. He was made D.D. in 1767 from the University of Aberdeen (Marischal College). He died at his home in Chapel Street, Edinburgh, and was buried across the way in the churchyard of St Cuthbert's Chapel of Ease. The building in which he lived (at the corner Chapel Street and West Nicholson) now contains two pubs: Peartree House and The Blind Poet (the walls of which are decorated with a number of Blacklock's poems).)

The Best Poem Of Thomas Blacklock

A Letter From Thomas Blacklock To The Author, Respecting Burns

DEAR madam, hear a suppliant's pray'r,
And on our bard your censure spare,
Whase bluntness slights ilk trivial care
Of mock decorum:
Since for a bard its unko rare
To look before him.

With joy to praise, with freedom blame,
To ca' folk by their Christian name,
To speak his mind, but fear or shame,
Was at his fashion:
But virtue his eternal flame,
His ruling passion.

This by-past time, as fame reports,
The author's Muse was out of sorts,
And in some freak, perhaps in dorts,
Or ablins spleen:
She paid her visists at the shorts,
An' lang between.

But, when your sang approach'd his ear,
How fain he was, you need na speer,
The smiles of heaven, whilk nature chear,
Were never brighter:
Na sudden tide of worldly gear
Sae gars him flighter.

But lang enough, perhaps o'er lang,
I draw an auld man's feeble sang;
Yet, tho' in this ye ca' me wrang,
Perhaps na blate;
I still maun ask, for a' my thrang,
ALICIA'S fate.

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