^ I r <^ /V^/^ (fi)iA^U - p,-jj=_ I ^UayA< oi^ '^C THE » WORKS OP BERT BURNS CONTAINING HIS LIFE ; BY JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ,. THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, BY HIMSELF GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, uND OTHERS ; ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CUliiUE; BURNS'S SONGS, FROM JOHNSON'S "MUSICAL MUSEUM," AND "THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES , SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS FROM THE BEST COUJECTIONa, WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. BMING, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUEST EXHIBITION OP THE MAN AND THE POET, AND THE FCLLEST EDITION OP HIS FOETRV AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO FUELISBED. NEW YORK: LEAVITT & ALLEN BROS., No. 8 HOWARD STREET. "^-:«'\^ \'i ^*r ■^4; yd I PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. The fbfrowing trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all ihe advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names their countrymen are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were com- posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward No'.v that he appears in the public character of an author, he does ii with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine ele. g!er do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the Door, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in hi» sye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. \y PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks. Nc>t the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- ti'^'ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom— je distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the ■ iite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- iowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- did, and impartial criticism, be shall stand convicted of dullness and non- Bense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let hats be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivioa. In tlie Ueclication a? the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap tain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and '' men of established reputation naturallj' declined an undertaking, to the " performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approoa- " tion :ould be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper. To such " an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- " pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme *' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, '* joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and ol " other friends ©.f the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist." These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness in favour of persons of established Tepiitation, who might be chary of a tick- lish and impracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage ? They have all voluntarUij written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it, as a decisive test of the evii days and evil tongues, amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be. cor- rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. It is true, Dr. Currie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — • the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- terials. They form truly the verv bacJkbone of the poet's life, as edited by V » ) Dr CuTTie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and howevei largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- men of all degrees, of that literary talent, which had only been inferred, hypothetically, from the nature of her elementary institutions. We have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of reducteur. — He was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora' character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru lence of party strife. The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals ol the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each ol them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon t!,e publications ol Cromek, who in his " Ileliques," and " Selecf Scotti&h Songs," brought to light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- ted and kept alive tlie general feeling, which was not gratified in its full extent until nearly thirty years after t;ie publication of Dr. Currie' t work. It was nijt until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the person of Mr. John Lockhart, tho son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and (ra- ther a discordant title), Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part of that excellent repertory known by the title of Ooiistahles Miscellany. It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the champion of the Bard who sung, " A man's a man for a' tliat :" and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fiing upoi; him. But the lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove prejudices and soften asperities; to say nothing of that independence of mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred soiriu Mr ( i" , Lockhart, It will farther be observed, besides having compiled his H-orlc iir der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical manner than the preceding biographers. He judged for himself; he took neither flicts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet did, always thinks and speaks for himself. These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have preferred It, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present work. 1. The Life by Lockhart. 2. The Poems, as published In the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 3. Essay (by Dr. Currle), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of Burns. 4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and others. The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public. Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire novelty), a fac-simlle of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like- wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. New York, Sept. 11, 1832. CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. OF THE LIFE. Page Chap. I —The Poet's Birth, 1759— Circumstances and pecuhar Character of his Father and Mother — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were> of his J\Iental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, ^w™ i — vifi Chap. II — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Labourers, at stated AVages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir. vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, ix — xix Chap. Ill — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, becom.e tenants of Mossgiel — Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not Prosperous — The JNluse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with heresy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin- cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies Chap. IV — The Poet gives up IMossgiel to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja- maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One of 600 copies printed at Kihnarnock, 17t!6 — It brings him extended repu- tation, and £'J0 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- stances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, .^ ~~^ xxxv — Ixifc' Chap. V The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lighted up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- ressed by the fashionable — M'hat happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields much money to the Poet — Hesolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed witli thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion, ,„ -— ...^^ Ixiv — Isxi Chap. VI — I\Iakes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of tJiese, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in the " Auld Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpots, winter 17B7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Excise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend fllrs. Dunlop not to desert him — (Jrowls over his publisher, but after settling with him leaves Edinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, _-,„—„ Ixii — Ixxr Chap. VII IMarries — Announcements, (apologctical,) of the event — Remarks — Becomes (1/88} Fanner at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six d CONTENTS. Pagt miles from Dumfries— The Hfuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period b}; a brother poet, who shews cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admirLng visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves Elliesland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, — ~-~- Ixxxii — st Uhap. VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. (Jurrie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual discharge of his official duties— He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- loved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- siduous instructor of his children— -Impulses of the French Revolution — Symp- toms of fraternizing — The attention of his official superiors is called to them — Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe- riod — Gives his whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, „^^ xd— cil Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches— His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminished by narrow circumstances Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter — The Poet misses public pa- tronage: and even tlie fair fruits of his own genius — the appropriation of which is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell— His magnani- mity when death, is at hand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man— Dies, 21st July 179f)— Public funeral, at which many attend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the Poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public —-Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and others, ^.^ ex— .cxxxi? Verses on tlie death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, — «, cxxxT Character of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, ~-— ,,„,™-.^ cxxxvil Preface to the Fir3t Edition of Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, . . clxiii Dadication to the Caledonia*' Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, , ,, the* vu CONTENTS OF THE POEMS A Batds Epitapii, Address to a H- Death and Dr Hornbook,- Despondency, aii Ode, a Hymn, , Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, on William Creech -.-.-„-. on Peg Nicolson,- Tarn Samson, on the Year HUH, . Cpistle to a Voun^ Friend, . to Captaui Riddel, - to Davie, a Brother Poet (I), . to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), . to Gavin H.amilton, to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,, to J. Rankin with Poems,— to Mr. Macadam, to Terrauphty, to the Reverend Mr. M'Math, , to W. S. Ochiltree, Epitaph on a Friend, 5.5 40 73 85 17 74 6!t 51 14 82 55 4 75 22 41 18 75 _„ 72 56, 78 58, 78 £9 „-- 69 on a Noisy Polemic,- on a Ruling Elder, on Gavin Hamilton, on R. .Mtkcn, on the Poet's Father, . on Wee Johnny, . Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session, on Falsehood, to a Friend, to Mr. Syme, 9 _ 32 - 78 49 76 77 23 68 39 81 30 59 79 43, 45, 79 47 81 81 79 46 75 55 55 55 55 55 55 82 83 Refusal to Dine,- when at Carlisle, < Halloween, Holy Fair, ». Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,™^ Inscription, Altar of Independence,- Lament of Queen Mary, . 73 50 Pagt Lament for James Earl of G!enoairn,~ 52 for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 4C Lines left at a Friend's House, . left at Carron, left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, — left at Taymouth Inn, . on a Posthumous Child, . on a Wounded Hare, . on Bruar Water, , on Captain Grose, on Miss Cruikshanks,. on Religion, on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, ———„-,— on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, on the Death of J. Macleod, on the Fall of Fyers, — „„— on the Highlands, ,. _„, on William Smellie,- to a Mountain Daisy,- to an Offended Friend, to an Old Sweetheart with his Poeins, . to a Young Lady with Books, ~— to Mi-s L. with Bcattie's Poems,— -~—. to Robert Graham, Esq. to Ruin, . to Sir John Whitefoord, - Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, . Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,- New- Year's Day, a Sketch, . .-., .. Strathallan's Lament,- Tam o' Shanter, . Tarn Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Salut Mare Maggie,- Brips o' Ayr, Calf, Cotter's .Saturday Night, Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, — First Psalm, ^ First Six Verses of 9Uth Psalm, ,„ Henpecked Husband, Jolly Beggars, - Kirk's Alarm,, Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, Newspaper, - Ordination, Twa Dogs, . Twa Herds,. Whistle, Vision, Vowels, a Tale, Winter, a Dirge,— ~~ 37 63 4S 58 59 54 51 56 56 78 76 53 57 59 7S 71 58 74 62 73 39 75 39 52 35 7J Ode on a Miserly Character, 49 on my Early Days, ^ 61 on Pastoral Poetry, -. ~— ~~ 70 on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, — 61 Poor Maillie's Elegy, 16 Scotch Drink,- Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, Stanzas on Death, 10 14 53 16 57 58 68 62 6-: 31 70 13 1 67 59 20 81 33 Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Currie), . 84^^ CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS, ^nilrcw and his Cu.ty Gun,^ \nnie Lawrie, fts I wont out in a May Morning, . Aulcl Rob Morris, .^ Robin Gray, ~ Aye waiikin' 0,-™_~v^v~~~~~~, A waukrife Minny, . Awa Whigs Awa, Beds of Swe^t Roses, Bs'is the Gai kie Bessy Bell an i Mary Gray, Bide ye Vet ( 2 sets|, Blink o'er th( Burn Sweet Betty, ~ Blue Bonnet? over the Border,,' Bonnie Barbara Allan Dundee, Mary Hay,- Came ye o'er frae Franee, . Carle an' the King come,. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,, Ca the Kwes to the Knowes, , Charlie is my Darling, . Clout the Cau'ilron,- Coekpen,, Come under my Blaidie,. Comin' thro' the Rye, Corn Rigs are Bonnie, . Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), L'romlei's Liit, _-™ Dinna think Bonnie Lassie, Donald Coujiar, — Down the Burn Davie,. Dumbarton's Drums,™ Dusty Miller,, Ettrick Banks, Fair Annie of Loehroyan, . Fairly Shot of Her, ,™ False Love and hue ye Played Me This, . Farewell to Ayrshire, Fare ye weel my Auld Wife, For Lack o' Gol.l She's left me, , For the Sakeo' Somebody, „„„ Fye gar rub her o'er wi' Straw,~. Gala Water,, Get up and Bar the Door O, Go to Berwick Johnie, Gude Yill Comes and Gude Vill Goes,, Hame never cam' He, _ Hand awa frae me Donald, , Hap and row the Feetie o't,. Here's a Health to them that's awa,. Hey ca' through, ,,„„„„„„„_.„,„ Highland Laddie, , ^ Hooly and Fairlie, ,,,,, r,,,,- Hughie Graham, ..-„.,.„<>- I had a Horse and I had nae mair, I'm o'er \'oung to Marry Yet, I'll never leave Ye, , I loo'd nae a Laddie but ane, Jenny Dang the Weaver, „, If ye'U be mv Dawtie anil sit on my Plaid, . In the Garb of Old Gaul,„ Pa^e. ~ 148 -. 175 „ 1S7 - 176 157 15C 1)5 184 120 1(11 178 152 114 156 . 178 1,51 157 182 157 129 146 152 105 145 158 156 121) 155 - 117 ~ 157 160 114 127 ~™ 102 ~, — 155 , 154 172 154 127 165 105 127 154 125 ™ 1S5 176 159 155 155 108 154 149 Jockey said to Jenny,- John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, John o' Badenyon, Johnny Cope, Johnny Faa, Johnny's Gray Brceks, , Jumpin John, Kate of Aberdeen,- Kathrlne Og»e, . Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, ~. Kelvin Grove, Kenmure's on and av.a Wi Killycrankie (the Battle), . Killyerankie O (the Braes), . Kind Robin loes me, Lady Mary Ann,- Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now, Lassie lie near me,. Lewis Gordon, . Little wat ye wha's comin', Lochaber no more, Lochnagar, Logan Braes, (double set),, Logie o' Buchan, Lord Ronald, my Son, Low down in the Broom, Macpherson's Rant, Maggie Lauder, Mary's Dream,, Mary Scot, the Flower o' Yarrow, Merry hae I been Teething a Heckle, MUl, Mill, O, My Auld Man, My Dearie, if thou Die, . My Jo Janet, . My Love she's but a Lassie yet. My Love's in Germanic, . My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,. My Native Caledonia, My only Joe and Dearie O, ~- My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing My Wife has taen the Gee, Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, . O an' ye were Dead GudeiTian,„ O can ye labour Lea Young Man,, Och hey Johnny Lad, - O dear Minny what shall I do, . O merry may the Maid be, ~~. O on ochrio (the Widow of Glenco), . Old King Coul,. Pag* .^ 188 115 144 113 136 106 159 lOT 163 159 156 185 147 160 173 146 163 164 119 160 186 184 151) 155 149 164 125 121 112 ™ 124 -, 164 — 12S .™ 165 118 123 165 174 lc2 167 153 166 166 Our Guidman cam' Hame at E'en, . O'er the Muir amang the Heather, . O'er Bogie wi' my Love,,,™, O Waly, Waly up yon Bank,„ Polwarth on the Green,, Poverty parts Gude Company,, — 170 w. 167 — 159 161 160 183 119 168 161 iSo -„ 1S3 128 Roslin Castle,- Roy's VVife,~- Sae 'Merry as We hae been, Sandy o'er the Lea, ~-,„,™„ Saw ye Johnny Comin', „_ Saw ye my Father, ,^,.^.,... 185 163 103 — , 170 lis 165 103 lU CONTENTS. Sav/ ye nae my Peggy, . She roso and iet me in,-, Steer her up and hand her gaun, Strephon and Lydia, Symon Brodie, Tak' your Aiild Cloak about you,. Tarn o" the Balloeli,. Tarry Won,. The Auld Man s Mare's dead. The Auld Wife ayont the Fire, The Battle o' Sherra-muir, . The Ranks o" the Tweed, The Beds o' Sweet Roses, The Birks of Invcrmav, The Blvthesome Bridal,. The Bljthrie o't,. The Bnatie rows. The Bob of Di.mblane,, The bomiie brucket Lassie, The bounie Lass o' Branksonie, The bi>nnie Lass that made the Bed to me,. The Brae< o' Ballendean, The brisk young Lad, The Bmme o' tne Cowdenknov The Bush abion Traquair, . The Campbells are comin', . The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, The Coallier's bonnie Lassie, The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn,, The Flowers of the Forest, . The Flowers of Edinburgh,- The Foray, «-.,„ „.,,.,.,„ The Gabe'rlun/.ie Man, . The happv Marriai^e, „ The Hishland Queen, Tlie Jolly Beggar,. The Lammie, „., The Landart Laird, The Lass of Pcatie's Mill, . The Lass o' Liviston,, The Last lime I cam' o'er the Miiir,„ The Lea-Rig,^.,^^^^....^....^^.^.,^ li>4 11.5 170 J 0,2 170 15,5 176 113 169 177 12.9 1.51 120 179 l.i9 109 110 1.S5 116 166 157 179 175 179 116 161 ISO 115 H7 141 151 187 142 no 12,5 112 171 „ 159 107 105 106 114 The Life and Age o' Man,. The Maid that tends the Goats, . The Maltman, . The merry Men O, The Mdlero' Pee, The Minstrel (Donochthead), The muekin' o' Geordie's Byre, , The Old Man's Song,. The Poets, what Fools tlie're to Deave us The Poesie, . The Roek and the wee pickle Tow, The .Soutois o' Selkirk, The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, The Turnir.ispike,. The weary Pund o' Tow, The wee, wee German Lairdie, ~„ The Wee Thing,, The Wee Wifikie, I he White Cockade, , The Widow, The Vellow-hair'd Laddie, I he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, There's nae Luck about the House, , This is no Mine Ain House, Tibbie Fowler, „- Tibbie Dunbar,, To Daunton Me,„ To tlie Kye wi' Me, {2 sets), Todlin Hame, Tranent-Muir, ~~~. Tiillochgorum, ' V>"tts within a Mile o' Edinburgh lown, ."'side (2 sets),- ., ,iana Warn a' Willie, Up in the Mornin' early,. Wandering Willie, „. Waukin' o' the Fauld, , We're a' Nid Noddin,- Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, Willie was a'Wanton Wag, .-,-„ Wou'd and Married and a', >>— >,^.-,-,. IX Page. 100 11.1 177 184 175 151 125 13i — IH — 111 — 132 ^ 152 184 1'7 159 187 18J 171 181 181 181 1H2 -_ 11.5 142 172 142 156 175 I"J9 121 114 174 109 138 126 182 120 167 , 124 169 liO CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. AQieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu,, Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, , Afton Water, Af;ain rejoicing Nature sees, ~. A Highland L:id my Love was born, Amang the Trees where humming Bees, A Man's a Man {ox a' that,- Anna,- Anni^, — A red red Ro^e,, A R.^se Hud bv my early Walk,- A Southland Jennie, Auld Lang .Syne,- Auld Rob Morris, , Bessy and her .Spinning. Wheel, , Behold the hour the Boat arrives, . Beware of Bonnie .\nn, Beyond thee, Dearie, ~~~~~- Blythe hae I been on yon Hill,, Blythe was She, Bonnie Bell, Jean, . Leslcv, Wee Thing Bruce at Bannoekburn,- Caledonia — (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),, Can'st thou leave me tlius, Katy, Reply, Ca' the Ewes, ..<» Chloc. . Page. ™ )8S ™ LSR 1S8 ™ 189 ™ 189 ,~ 189 190 190 190 191 191 191 ™ 191 192 1.92 193 192 195 195 195 194 194 194 194 195 195 195 196 ™ 195 ™ 196 Chloris, Clarinda, Come let me take Thee to my Breast, Contented wi' Littk?, , Country Lassie, -,- Craigieburn-wood,- Dainty Davie,- Deludeii Swain, Does haughty Gaul,- Down the Burn Davie,. Duncan Gray, — ^ Evan Banks, Fair Eliza, Fauest Maid on Devon Uaidis,. Fate gave the Word, For the Sake o' Somebody, Forlorn my Love, - From thee Eliza,. Gala-Water, - (iloomy December, , (ircen grow the Ra,shes O, — Gudewife coinit the Lawin',.- Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, Hand>/>me Nell, , Her flowing Locks, Here's a health to Ane 1 loe dear. Pagt. 197 197 197 197 198 ~ 193 193 198 :99 99 19S to Them that's awa, ?00 200 200 201) 2(11 201 ?01 201 503 2()2 21 '3 t'04 204 CONTENTS. Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend, — Highland Harry,™ Highland Mary, „—. — «~ — How Cruel are the Parents, How lang and dreary Is the Night, 1 am a Son of Mars Jamie come try me ™ 2(14 „ 20.3 — 203 204 , 204 Raving Winds around her blowing,* Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, _-»-. Scrog^iim,- cream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,-— 205 .''11 aye ca' in by yon Town, — ^ »_~~ 2n5 I'm o'er V'oung to Marry yet, — ~ ^05 it is nae Jean thy bonnie Face,- ~ — ^0° Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss, . ^♦~ 206 John Anderson my jo, ™-~ " ■•• 2"7 John Barleycorn, ■^^^ Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks, ^~~~~ 208 Lay thy Loof in mine Lass, ~~ ~- ~- -08 Let not a Woman e'er complain, -~ — .~~- — — — ~ ^''9 Long, long VhrN^ghT^I^Il —^ I^S Lord Gregory, — . — — — ~ — .„-~~ mj _,ord Daer,-^ ~ — — — -^" Macpherson's Farewell, Maria's Dwelling 210 Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fasliion, Hary Morison, ~~-^ — • — —- Meg o' the Mill, My Bonnie Mary, . ~— My Heart's in the Highlands,- My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't, My Nannie's awa. My Nannie O, — -~ My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, My Spouse Nancy, ^ ~ — ~~ My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, , Musing on the Roaring Ocean, Naebody, — ^«~_~~~— ~~~~ Nancy, ~-. She's "Fair and She's Fause, She says she Loes me best of a'. Sic a Wife as Willie had,,. Steer her up and haud her gaun,^ Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburn.wood, Tarn Glen, The Auld Man, The Banks o' Castle Gordon, o' Cree, o' Devon,- o' Doon, o' Nith, - The Bard's Song, -~ — The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, The Big-bellied Bottle, The Birks o' Aberfeldie,— ~. The Blue-eyed Lassie, „— The bonnie Wee Thing,--. The Braes o' Ballochmyle, The Carle o' Kellybum-Braes, . The Chevalier's Lament, ,. The Day Returns, The Death Song, Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green, Now westlin Winds and slaughtering Guns, O' a' the airts the Wind can blaw, O ay my Wife she dang me, O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,— O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, O gin mv Love were yon Red Rose, O leave NovcUes ye Slauchlin Belles, O let me in this ae Night,— -^ ■ — -. O Love will venture in, — O May, thy Morn, ™. On a Bank of Flowers, — On Cessnock Bank, — . — _— — On the Seas and far away, — Open the Door to me O, w- O Philly happy be that day,* O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, O were I on Parnassus Hill, — — O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,- O wha is She that Loes me,- Out over the Forth,— Peggy Alison,——,—— —— Philli3 the Fair, -.- - Powers Celestial whose protection, Puirtith Cauld,.... The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,. The Election, The Gallant Weaver, The Gardener, Tlie Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast, . The Heather was bloomin', . The Highland Lassie O,— The Lad that's far awa, — The Lass o' Ballochmyle, 2L5 216 . 216 216 . 217 , 217 . 217 . 218 219 218 219 219 . 220 . 220 220 . 221 216 . 216 216 Rantin' Roarin* Willie,- . 221 . 222 . 222 . 222 . 2^2 The Lass that made the Bed to me,. The Lazy Mist,— — ^ ■ ~~ The Lea-Rig,. The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, The Lover's Salutation, -. — - The Riggs o' Barley, — — — The Soldier's Return, Fagt, ^ 22J — 223 _-. 223 223 224 224 . 221 . 225 , 225 . 225 . 226 . 226 . 225 . 236 226 , 226 227 227 228 22« The stown Glance o' Kindness,— The Toast, The Tocher for Me, The Woodlark, — — ^ — ^ ~ The Young Highland Rover, There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame. There's a Youth in this City, — ™ ^™ There's News Lasses, ..— ■ " There was once a Day,— — ^ This is no mine ain Lassie, Thou has left me ever Jamie, Tibbie 1 hae seen the Day, To Mary in Heaven, True-hearted was He, — Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, Wandering Willie, What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man, Wha is that at my Bower Door, ~ When Guildford Good, . Where are the Joys I hae met in the Morning, Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, . Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut, Will Ye go to the Indies my Mary,- Wilt thou be my Dearie, Yon Wild Mo3sy Mountains,-.. Young Jockey was the blythest Lad, 'k'ouu? Peggy, ,..— « 228 , 25S 229 229 230 2.30 , 230 231 . 231 232 252 . 232 233 233 — 233 — 231 234 234 235 235 235 -— 257 236 238 237 237 236 237 257 258 2.i8 239 240 259 ■240 . 240 240 240 241 241 242 . 243 242 , 243 243 CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 1783, 1784. Page. fjBrrt Getters, at 23, in good English, but unavail- ing, -. ™- ~„™ — — ^ ~ 247-9 lo Mr. Murdoch — state of the Poet and his Opi- nions, . — ™~, 249 Extracts from the Scrap-book, -,~~-™ 250-2 1786. To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh — first pub- lishing, . 252 To Mr. Maewhinnie, Ayr— same topic, — .~~~ 252 To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline — route for Ja- To Mr. David Brice — same — about to become Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to commit, ^ . — 255 To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu- To Mrs Dunlop — first Letter — her order for Co- pies — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir VV. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — going abroad —sends .Songs, , ~~~ 255 From Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — ■ witli just estimate of tlie Poet's merits — which puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings him to Kdinburgh, « . — . — .„ 255 From Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary, 256 From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, ^ . 256 1*0 Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline— ^rom Edinburgh — the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan — favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on Lord Daer, „-.„„„.., .>,.-,^ 257 1787. To Mr. John Ballantine, A\t — occurrences at Edmburgh, _-„: 257 To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and humourously apologetical, ., ,,~. ^.-.-. 257 To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and farther incidents at Edinburgit, >..-, 258 To trie Eail of t^linton — a thankful Letter, 258 To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his Writings — critical remarks on his own — and upon himself at the height of popular favour,— 259 To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of Vrom Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet not of the ir- ritabile genus — admires his love of Country and independent spirit, not less than his Poetical Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the Mountain Daisy, 260 To Dr. Moore — general characl:;rof Miss Williams' To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, and getting his/)Ai2 done,.. , ,— 261 From Pr. Moore — with his View of Society — and other Works, 261 To the Earl of Glencairn — with Lmcs for his Pic- To the Earl of Biicrian — as to Pilgrimages in Cale- Jonia, ., 262 Fw'M Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Fer^asstm, 26.,^ To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow— the Poet elinM to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still the Old Man with his deeds, _-„„- 264 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical Museum, . — -« ~~» 264 To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— the Bard— his situation and views, ~~ w-~ 264 To the same, ^ . . 265 To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair — leave taking, ~~~~ 265 From Dr. Blair — who notices hi-^own claims for first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — gives the Poet, at parting, » certificate of cha- racter, with much good advice, both wordly and poetical, ™ 266 To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during the first Pilgrimage, . — : — : , , — ~- 266 From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- ble hints also given, „-..„„ 267 To Mr. William Nicoll — the Poet's Itinerary in braid Scots,--..,,.-, .. 267 From Mr. John Hutcheson, Jamaica — Poems excellent — but better in the Englisli style— Scot- tish now becoming obsolete — dissuades from the West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius there,". 268 To Mr. W. Nicoll— on arriving at home — morali- zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re- cent elevation — gloomily as to the future,~~~- 268 To Gavin Hamilton — occurrences of the second Pilgrimage, ~ 1 263 To Mr. Walker, Blair-in-.\tholc — tlie same — the Duke's family, 270 To Mr. Gilbert Burns — further adventures, „.,,„,- 270 From Mr.Ramsay of Ochtertyrc — with Inscriptions — Tale of Owen Cameron — hints for a Poetical Composition on the grand sciile and otiier taste- ful and interesting matter, ™ ~. — . — . 271-J From Mr. Walker, Athole-House — particulars of the Poet's visit there — female contrivances to Ftom Mr A. M. an admiring Friend returned from abroad — with tributary Verses, ,-, — ,. — ,~ £73 From Mr. Ramsay to the Re^'. William Voung — introductory of the Poet, ^ — . . 274 From the same to Dr. tilacklock — with thanks for the Poet's acquaintance and Songs — .\necdotes, 274 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old Tutkir, rejoicing in tlie fruits of the genius he had helped to cultivate, — 275 From Mr. R. , from Gordon-Castle — incidents of the Poet's visit there, 275 From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natural to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- butes to the Song-making cnterprize, .... 278 From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach— Gaelic airs — the Poet's Northern Tour, .— 277 To Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield — Rhymes,,. 278 Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, — 278-81 To Miss M an Essay on the complimentary style, 2,SI To Mr. Robert Ainslie— friendship, 2S1 To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, \c Banks and Braes o' Bonnie tioon, 2S1 CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Page. To Pr. Moore, from the Poet — Sketch of his From Mr. Gilbert Burns, a running Commentary on the foreaoing, « — ~- 2SG-90 From Mr. Murdoch, as to tlie Poet's early Tui- From Professor Dugalil Stewart — his Siietches of tlie Poet, ,. ~ — -^ .,™,™~292-5 From Mr. Gilbert Hums, giving history of origui of the principal Poems, - — •„ — ~~~~ 295-7 From the same, in continuation— and Essay on Education of lower Classes, .„.™, 297-."n2 Death and Character of Gilbert Burns, ~ ,>ll2 The "^oet's Scrap-Book. (farther extracts), 502-o LETTERS, 1785. fo Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— second visit— _ bruised limb, ™-™ ^_„^,~ 504 To the same — repelling inshiuation as to irreli- _ To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm imputed to _ him against her, 304 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn — origin of the Cheva- _ lier's Lament, ~ 504 From the same, in answer — and with Farming _ To MT. James Smith, Avonfield— marriage pre. _ To Mrs. Dunlup — Farming— reasons for and in- structions m tlie Excise — tart expressions, 305 From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming Nancy," by a Buchan Ploughman, and other _ Songs — his own Latin poetry, — . ™ 306 To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going _ to the Continent, ■« ~ — ~~. ~ 306 To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil— likes the Georgics — disappointed in the .lEneid, often an imitation of Homer — Dryden, Pope's master, _ in genius and harmony of language, -^^^^ — . 307 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dull Letter may be a _ To Mrs. Dunlop — inequality of conditions, 507 To the same— first fiom Ellisland— his marriage, 508 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— s _ slice of it good for indigestion of all kinds, ~~~ 308 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— friendship — the Poet's suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave the light troops of Fancy for the squadrons of heavy-armed Thought— Marriage, — jni9 To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchline— the Poet's To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a serious Letter, SU To Mr. George Lockhart, Glasgow— admiration of certain Female beauties,,^ : SH To Mrs. Dunlop — a luck-penny' — Friar's Carse _ Hermitage and other Lines, . —^ 511 To the same — his answers to her, not Echoes — Marriage Anecdotes — account of his Wife — Let- ter writing, „„„.-. , . ™ 312 To the same — gossip of a Dinner-party— Life and Age of Man — religious impressions, ,„,„^,„-~- 312 To Robert Graham, Esq. with firot Poetical Ad- To Mr. Beugo, Engraver — estimate of the Poet's new neighbours — matters poeticai, . ■ ~ 314 To Miss Chalmers— complimen'ary to her — and explanatory of his marriage^ present state and prospects — Songs, >— ~-> .~ 515 To Mrs. Dunlop — twins — er' Aisms — verses, „. — 516 To Mr. Peter Hill — opinitms of the Poetry of Thomson, _„-. — . — ~, — — ~~- ~ 517 To Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, — ~ 517 To . apologetical for the bloody and tyraimical _ House of Stewart, j.-.^ ,..,„„■,, „ 518 To Mr. James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- To Dr. Blacklock — with Poetical Pieces and Songs — his Marriage and other movements, 319 To Mrs. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet's esti- mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- tions of the immortal soul— Auld Lang Syne — Tc a young Latiy, enclosing a Ballad upon her,~ 52U 789 Pag\ To Sir John Whitefooi . wthanks for his voluntary _ defence of the Poet, -.. " •■•• 38* From Mr. Gilbert Burn >-New- Year's wishes,— 35J To Mrs. Dunlop— the sa t — approves of set times of Devotion — glowing wtiments of a Life be- yond the Grave, .™- — • 321 From the Rev. P. Cari e— of Mylne and his Works, . . 322 To Dr. Moore— poetical purposes— worldly state of the Poet and his Friends, — v ,~ 32J '10 Mr. Robert Ainslie— advice and encourage. _ To Bishop Geddes— " What am 1 ?— Where I am ? _ — and for what am I destined ?" ~ 524 To Mrs. Dunlop— contrast of high and low — _ Myhie's Poems, ~~^ 324 Froni William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out. _ To the Rev. P. Carfrae- Mylne's Poems, 526 lo Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, -~ 326 To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality— order for __ To Mrs. Dunlop— Sketch of Fox, 528 To Mr, Cunningham— effusions of Friendship, ~ 328 From Dr. Gregory — iron bound criticism. ~~~~— 328 To Mr. James Hamilton, Glasgow — consolation, 329 To Mr. William Creech— Toothache, 329 To Mr. M'Auiey of Dumbarton— descriptive of the Poet's feelings and condition, — — ^~~ 350 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same topics, ~~— 5/0 From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish his lays, and to abandon the Scottish stanza and _^ dialect — Zeluco,. — ~~-. — — ■ 331 To Mrs. Dunlop— low spirits — religious feelings,™ .i31 From Miss J. Little— with a poetical tribute, 35i 333 333 poetK From Mr. Cunningham— reminiscences of Fergus- To Mr. Cunningham, in answer. To Mr. Dunlop — domestic matters— Poetical Tri- bute from Miss L a Future State— Zeluco, 334 From Dr. Blacklock— a friendly Letter in Rhyme, .^Sl To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer, 355 To Captain Riddel— the night of the Whistle, 335 To the same — the Scrap-book, 335 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the word '• Exciseman," 355 To Robert Graham, Esq.— Captain Grose and lo. To Mrs. Dunlop — "under the miseiies of a diseas. ed nervous system," -"". „,.~~~~~— 337 To Sir John Sinclair— the Library of Dunscore,-, 538 From Captain Riddel to Sir Jolm— on same sub. ject,. 33S 1790. To Gilbert Rums— the Plavers— Verses for them, 333 From William Burns— at Newcastle— w.ants inlor- mation and fraternal instructions, ^ , ~- 3.i9 To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer— Ballads, ~ 51C From Mr. Cunningham— friendly notices, 311 From Mr. Peter Hil',— " a poor rascally Ganger," —Borough Reform— Books— Note, with secrets _ worth knowing,^... <■■■■■ ~-~ 341 To Mr. William Nicoll— last illness and death of Peg Nicolson — matters theatrical — ecclesiastical squabbling — Exciseman's duty, ~„. — ~ ' — ~ 345 To Mr. Cunningham — on Letter writing — exist- ence — and the course of the Poet's reading — Deism — Scepticism, .„„„..„„,~-.«~,~,— ~~~~ 343 To Mr. Peter Hill— a large order — existence, 313 From William Burns, at London — his adventures —hears the Ca{/' preach at Covent Garden Cha- pel, ^ 544 To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of the Union— Lord Chesterfield— Mirror— Lounger— Man of Feel- ing.- 345 3i5 From Mr. Cunningham — friendly noticcs,„™ — ^ To Dr. Moore — Letter writing — Zeluco— Miss To Mr. Murdoch— rcn wing friendly intercourse, 546 From Mr. Murdoch— Death of William Burns, „ 34'' To Mr. Cunningham— Independence— Smollett's Ode I ~ 341 CONTENTS. xni Page. From Dr. BlacWoek— a Letter !n Rhyme— Dr. Anderson and the Bee, 348 From Mr. Cunnin^liann— a Song for each of the fmir Seasons suggested, .'549 To Mrs. Diinlop — JBirth of a Posthunnous Child- Ode thereon, -„ ■ 349 To Crawford Tait, Esq.— recommending a young Friend,—^ — . ~- — 349 Xo-^— Partiianship, ■ ■.,.. - - 350 1791. To Mr. Cimningham — Elegy on Miss Burnet, . To Mr. Peter Hill — Essay on Poverty,, From A. F. Tytler, Esq. — Tam o' Shanter, 5il To Mr. Tytler — in answer, . 352 To Mrs. Duriloji — broken arm— Elegy on Miss Burnet — a remembrance, 355 To Lady Mary Constable — a Snuff-box, — . 533 To Mrs. Graham of Fintry — Ballad on Queen Mary — the Pcwl's gratitude, 353 From the Flev. Principal Baird — Michael Bruce,~ 353 To Principal Baird— offering every aid for pub- ishing Bruce's Works, 354 To the Ilev. Archibald Allisor. — his Essays on To Dr. Moore — Songs and Ballaus — Zeleuco — pri. vate concerns, 1...~~-»— 355 To Mr. Cunningham — Song, " There'll never be peace till Jamie corae lmme,"„, — „ 356 To Mr. Dalzell, F-ctor to Lord Glencaini — the Poet's grief for his Lordship— his wish to attend From Dr. Moore — criticises Tam o' Shanter, and other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze. leuco — advises him to be more chary of givnig Copies— and to use the modem English, 356 To Mrs- Dunlop-^a domestic occurrence — exclu- sive advantages of humble life. 557 To Mr. Cunningham — in behalf of a persecuted Schoolmaster, ~™ ■ ■ — . 558 From the Earl of Buchan — crowning of Thomson's Bust at Ednari, _„™.™-,. . 358 To the same — in answer, . ™ 359 To .Mr. ThomuJ S!can, Manchester — disappoint- ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet's From the Earl of Buchan — suggests Harvest-home for a theme to the Muse, „^„™„„„„ 359 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the death of her Brother, Lord Glencairn, 360 To -Mr. Robert Ainslie — a Mind diseased, 560 From Sir Jehn Whitefoord — Lament for Lord Glencairn, „„„ 360 From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— the Whistle— the La- ment, ,-, „ , 561 To Miss Davies — sentimental — with some hints as to a Radical Reform, 562 To Mrs Dunlop — with the Death-Song — High- land Air, , 562 To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew. art, 363 To the same — Witch Stories of Kirk-Alloway, 363 To Mrs. Dijnlop — animadversions of the Board — malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness,™, 3f"4 To Mr. W. Smellie— introductory of Mrs. Ruldel, 564 To Mr. W. NicoU — admiration of, and gratitude for sage advice, „.,...,.. -_.„,. ,.^. 5C5 To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's .Vrms, 565 'i o .Mr. Clarke - invitation to come to the Country, 566 To Mrs. Dunlop — a Platonic attachment and a Ballad — Religion indispensible to make Man better .and l.appier, .. „.^, „ 367 To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings, 567 To Mrs. I unlop— difference in Farmitig for one's self and Farming for another, 56S To the same — a Family infliction— condolence, ~ 569 To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life — Right-s of Woman. ..~~- -.— „. 369 To Robert Graham, Esq. — justifies himself against the charge of disaffection to the British Consti- To Mrs. Dunlop — the Poet's improved habits— al- lusions to her suggestions forhis ofBcial prcmo- To Miss B. of Vork — moralizes over the chance. medleys of human intercourse, . .,.. 571 To Patrick Miller, Esq of Dalswinton— an honest To John Francis Er^kineof Mar, Esq. — th; Poefs inilependence of sentiment, and partienlarly his opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, _ 572-J To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — schoolcraft caught by contact, ,...„„ 573-4 To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, Zl\ To Lady Glencairn - gratitude to her Family — from an independent Exciseman, ,^ , 374..^ To Mis.s Chalmers— a curious analysis which fhews " a Wight nearlv as miserable as a Poet,' ~_~ 375 To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, , , ,,,. 3;3-fi LETTERS, 1794, 1795, 1796. To the Earl of Buchan— with " Bruce's Address," 376 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, 376 To a Lady — the same, , .„„ 376 To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- tion and literary leisure, , . . . .'579-7 To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated To the same — gin horse routine of Excise business, 377 To the same — effects of a cool reception, 377 To the same — a sjiice of caprice, ., . ,, 373 To the same — firm yet conciliating, 578 To John Syme, Esq. — praises of Mr. A. — Song on Mrs. Oswald,... 578 To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- claims his MS , 578-3 To Mr CunningViam — a Mind Diseased— Religion necess.iry to Man,„- . 379 To a Lady — from the Sh.ides, ~~ 580 To the Earl of Glencairn — the Poet's gratitude to his late Brother, . 580 To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Lives of the To Mrs. Riddel — solitary confinement good to re- claim Sinners — Ode for Birthday of Wasliiiig. To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for the Museum, ^ ~. 381 To Mr. Miller of Dalswinton — declines to be a re- gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the Morning Chronicle, , „ 3S1 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton — the Poet recommends a particular regimen to him, 382 To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence :ifter excess, .. 58J To Mr. Alexander Findlater— Supervisor — " So much for schemes," , ^ ,"83 To the Editors of the Morning Chronicle — its in- To Mr. W. Dunbar— New- Vear wishes, , 383 To Miss Fontenelle — with a Prologue for her be- J o Mrs. Dunlop — cares of the ALarried Life — Dum- fries Theatricals — Cowper's Task — the Poet's Scrap-book, 3S1-J To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads- Dreams of Excise promotion, ~ 585 To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— in behalf of the Scots Distillers, „. 58a To the Magistrates of Dumfries — Free School E- dueation, ~~™. „ 587 To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's AVork — acting Supervisor- New Year wishes — Dr. Moore, 587-3 To Mrs. Riddel — Anacharsis — the Musfs still pre- sent, To Mrs. Dunlo)) — in aftlietion. To Mrs. Riddel — on Birth-day loyalty, , To Mr. James Johnson — the KliKseum — a eoiisum ing illness han^^s over the Poet, To Mr. Cunningham — from tlie Brow, Sea-bath. ing Quarters^sad picture, To Mrs. Burns — from the Brow— strengthened— but total decay of appetite, 389 To Mrs Uuulop— a last farewell, .^.>^. 3!iS 38S 588 388 3S9 389 1 CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR- GEORGE THOMSON Page. From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to the Select Melodies, , , 591 The I'oet's answer — frankly cmtrarking in the From Mr. 'I'hoinson — views of conjliicting the Work — and with 1 1 Songs for New Verses, 592 From the Poet— «i(h the " I.ea Ris"— " My Nan. nie O" — " Will ye go to ttie Indies my Mary," 593 From the Poet — with " My Wife's a wanton wee thing" — " O saw ye bonnie I^esley," ~^~ . 593 From the l^oet — with " Ye Banks and Braes ;ind Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery,"™ 394 Froin Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,™ 591 From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but cannot aUer bnnie Lesley" — additional Verse for the " Lea Rig," -„ — 595 From the Poet — with " Auld Rob Morris" and From the Poet — with " Poortith Cauld" and •• Galla Water," „ 595 From Mr. Thomson — laudatory for favours re- ceived—details the plan of his Work — P. S. from the Honourable h. Erskine — a brother Poet and contributor, .-.. , 396 From the Poet — approves of the details — offers matter anecdotic — the Song " Lord Gregory"— English arid Scots sets of it, -~ 396-7 From the Poet — with " Wandering Willie," — , 397 From the Poet — " Open the Door to me 0,"~~~ 597 From the I^iet — " True-hearted was he,"- - 597 From Mr. • homsnn — with complete list of Songs, and farther details of the Work, „-, ™. 597-8 From the I'oct — with " The So'Jier's return" — " Meg o' the Mill,"-„~ ,™„„„.„„„ 598 From the Pott — S^ng making his hobby— offers valuable hints for enriching and improving the Work,—™ 598-9 From Mr. Thomson— in answer, - ^ 599 From the Poet -farther hints and critical remarks — sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," -_„-.„,„„„ ."599 From the Poet — with " Ihe last time I came o'er the moor," .„_.^.,. ,. . ., 400 From .Mr. rhomson— excuses his taste as against the Poet's, 400 From the Poet — dogmatically set against altering, 400 'ihe Poet to Mr. Thomson — Eraser the Hautboy Player— Tune and Song, " The Quaker's Wife" — " Blvthe liae 1 been on yon Hill," 403-1 The same — mad ambition — ''Logan Braes" — Frag- ment from Witherspoon's Collection — " O gin my love were yon Red Rose,"-v~~. 401 Mr 'i'homson — m answer — a change of Partners in The Piiet to Mr Thomson — Tune and Air of " Bimnie Jean" — the Poet's Heiomes, 402 The same — a remittame acknowledged—" Flow- ers of the Forest" — the Authoress — Pinkerton's Ancient Ballads — prophecies, 402 Mr. Thomson to the Poet — Airs waiting the Mu- The Poet to Mr. Thomson — I'une, " Robin .'\- dair"— " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," ~~- 403 From Mr. Thomson — grateful for the Poet's "va- lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the burn Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 From the Poet — Tune " Robin Adair" again— 6end3 " Had 1 a Cave" to it— Gaelic origin of the Tuue ..,., 104 Pogt, From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan \Va- From the same — with Song " WhistJe and I'll come to you, my Lad," and " Phillis the Fair," to the " Muckiii' o' Georrtie's byre,"-. 40t From the same — '• Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot at the Muses,— — _,. — ™~ 403 From the same — " Dainty Davie" — four lines of Sopg r.nd four of Chorus, 405 From Mr. 'I'homson — profuse acknowledgments for many favours,-™,. _-„,™— — — 405 From the Poet — Peter Pindar — '• Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the cause of truth and liberty as he did that day,"— lOi From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the Boat arrives," to the Highland Air "Oranpaoil," lOfl From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's .\ddress" — the Air " Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie tatie" — verbal criticisms, -™— —. ,.,..-,„. 406 From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty Davie" — " Through the wood, Laddie" — " Cow- den-knowes" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's form of Song making— " Gill Morrice" — " High- land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee hmi Fathei" — " There's nae luck about the House" — the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa- ther" — " lodlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang Syne" — farther notices of other Songs ind BaU From the Poet — rejects the verbal criticism on the Ode, " Bruce's Address,"— — —- ..i^..., — - 40J From Mr. Thomson — Strictures on the Poet's no- tices of the above Songs — again nibbling at the Ode, „_-„„„ — . — . — ™ 4t>9 From the Poet—" The Ode pleases me so much 1 cannot alter it" — sends Song *' Where are the Joys 1 hae met in the mornin'," ■ — 409 From the Poet— sends " Deluded Swain" and " Raving Winds around her blowing"— Airs and Songs, to adopt or reject — differences of taste, „ -.,-- V -~ 40S From the same — " Thine am I my FaithJul Fair" — to the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh," 41C From Mr. Thomson — in answer. ™- 410 From the Poet— Song to " My Jo Ja et," 410 From Mr. Thomson — proposed conference — Re- marks on Drawings and Songs, , — ~ — ~ 410 FYom the Poet — same subjects — Pkyel — a detenu — wherebv hinderance ot theWork — t-ong " The Banks of tree," ~ — ~~~ — 411 From the same—" The auspicious period jireg- nant with the happiness ot Millions" — Inscrij)- tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, . » 411 From Mr. Thomson- in answer,,. , . 4H From the Poet — with Song " On the Seas and far awav," ■ „ 412 From Mr. Thomson — criticises that Song severely, 412 From the Poet— withdrawing it — " making a Song is like begetting a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewe« to the knowes," . 412 From the same — Irish Air — sends Scmg to it " Sa ■ flaxen were her ringlets" — Poet's taste in Music like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me in this ae night" — Epigram, ., — 41S From Mr. 1 homsoii — profuse of acknowltdg- From the same — Peter Pindar's task completed— Ritson's Collection— Kiressing up of Old Songs, 413 CONTENTS. Page. "rom thk > oot— " Craigie-bum Wood" and the heioino— llocipe for Son<; making— Sonp; " Saw ye my Phely" — " The Posie" — " Donoclithead" %at the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his — so is " Blythe was she" — sends Song " How kng and ilrcary is the niijht" — " Let not Wo- man e'er complain" — " Slecp'st thou" — East Indian Air— Sf land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he ha" originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- liam Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience in the world. " I have met v/ith few," (said the poet, after he had him- self seen a good deal of mankind), " who understood men, their manners, and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the fom of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and from which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the Calvinistic doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of The Cottar s Saturday Night. Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- ner;" and it seems thai, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, the poet resemblcil her more than his fathei'. tShe had an inexhaustible store of ballads and tr iditionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant hnagination by tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to " the weiglitier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for the support of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as her children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, when his garde- ner expressed a wish to try his for tunaon a farm of his, then vacant, and confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, at once advanced £100 towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of .4yr) at Whitsuntide 1766, when his eldest son was between six and seven years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hands of a \\zxiX\ factor, (who afterwards sat for his pictuie in the Tica Dogs), Burnes was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six years. He then removed about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfor- iiinate misunderstanding toak place as to the conditions of the Ie?se ; the LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three years of suspense, the result involved Barnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. He died of consumption on the 13th February 1784. Severe labour, and hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- table structure and temperament of body and of mind. In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at AUoway Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell, the teacher, being in the course of a few months removed to another situation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, and Gilbert his next brother, were the aptest and the favourite pupils of this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part which he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of the virtues of William Barnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his humble abode. " He was (says Murdoch) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- sure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as come parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, hi was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. " He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were labourers under him. 1 think I never saw him angry but twice : the one time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other tune, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendos and double entendres." " In this mean cottage, of which I my- self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger po"- tion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cottar s Saturday Niyht will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there." The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing ; they committed psalms and hymns to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he tells U!s) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. '• As soon," says he, " as tliey were capable of it, 1 taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors. The books most commonly used in the sc/iool were the Spelling Book, the New Testament, the Bible, 3fason's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fishers English Grammar." — " Gilbert alwi ys appeard to me to possess a ttioire hvely imagination, and to be more o the wit, than Robert. I at- V JLIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tempted to teach them a Httle church-music. Here they were kft far be* hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, was remark- ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mincL Gilbert's face said, 3Iirth, with thee I mean to live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Roben had a propensity of that kind." " At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means a favfurite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a siuuborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- tives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef- fort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision qf3Iirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning. How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular- ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave — " I met with these pieces in Masons English Collection, one of my school- books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Han- nibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my reins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest." Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. "There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arith- metic in the winter evenings by candle light — and in this way my two elder sisters received all the education they ever received." Gilbert tells an anec- dote which must not be omitted here, since it furnishes an early instance of the liveliness of his broiher's imagination. Murdoch, being on a visit to the family, read aloud on '. evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- IUCU8 — the circle listened w h the deepest interest until he came to Act 8, oc. 5, where Lavinia is troduced ' with her hands cut off, and her LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. v tongue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you." — " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good young man interfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left 'llie School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert was nine years of age. '-' Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rai ely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no bo^s of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geogra- p/iicnl Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Der/iams Physico and Astro- Theology, and Bay's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to Stackhouses History of the Bible. From this Robert col- lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book ivas so rr- luminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches." A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly deliglited him. When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, for the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. *' I was a dex- terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother, (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I. My indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail — " To the butfetings of misfortune," says he, " we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the c op of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and lUfficulties, was very great. To think of oui fathei growing old (for he was VI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now above fifty), broken down with the long-continued fatfgues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull headach which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in the night-time." The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, one before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stiaiti- ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in the town of Ayr, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He laboured enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- night with a dictionary and a Telemaque, of which he made such use at his eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pro- gress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something of a prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that Robert Burns must next attempt the rudiments of tlie Latin tongue. He did so, but with little perseverance, we maybe sure, since the results were of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a (qw scraps of hackneyed quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's Rudiments can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little French, and no Latin. He had read, however, and read well, ere his six- teenth j^ear elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, I'ope, (the Homer included), TuU and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, Jus- tice's British Gardener s Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of Eiiglish Songs, Hervey's ]fIediiatio7is," (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this list Pamela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- lumes 0^ Peregrine Pickle, two o? Count Fathom, and a single volume of " some English historian," containing the reigns of James L, and his son. The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vade mecum. 1 pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from aftectation or fustian ; and I am convinced 1 owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is." He derived, during this period, considerable advantages from the vicinity of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr — a place then, and still, distmguish- ed by the residervce of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin- cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first instance, whatever attentions he received tlierc fiom people older as wcU LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tD as higlier than himself: some such persons appear to have taken a pleasure in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been nrnre useful to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very just!}, " It is not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the distance between them and their ragged playfellow's. My young superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the clouterhj appearance of my olough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- ten to me a sore affliction, — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — (Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well as toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, look place when Burns was in his sixteenth yc^x He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- ted the sin of Rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- tumn my partner Avas a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the 8cottisli idiom — she was a hoimie, street, sonsie lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in tliat delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : you medical people talk much of infection from breathing tlie same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- strings thrill like an TEolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick cut the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as lo imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com- posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father hving in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my "•ilv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy ▼iii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. The earliest of the poet's productions is the littJe ballad, " O once I loved a bonny lass. Bums himself characterises it as "a very puerile and silly performance ,* yet it contains here and there lines of which he need hardly have been ashamed at any period of his life : — " She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Baith decent and genteel, And then there's something in her g , Gars ony dress look weeL" '< Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al- ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS. Memorandum book, August 1783.) In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says — " Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough ; Yet crooning to a body's sell Does weel eneugh." And in some nobler verses, entitled *' On my Early Days," we have the following passage : — " I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, And first could thrash the bam, Or haud a yokin' o' the pleugh, An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugb, Yet unco proud to learn — When first amang the yellow com A man I reckoned was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom Could rank my rig and lass- Still shearing and clearing The tither stookit raw, Wi' claivers and haivers Wearing the day awa — E'en then a wish, I mind its power, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave niy breast : That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some useful plan or book could make. Or sing a sang, at least : The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Amang tlie bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, And spAed the symbol dear." He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate witliout emotion, this exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indefinite stirrings of immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magnifi- cent image of " the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around the walls of lus cave." CHAPTER II. AtNTiNTS. — Prom 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Labourers, at stated Wages — At Rural Work the Poet feared no Competitor — This period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing- School — Progress in Love and Pi.etry^A School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Irvine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Mem her of a Batchelors' Club. ** O enviable early days. When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care and guilt unknown ! How ill exchanged for riper times, To feel the follies or the crimes Of others — or my own !" As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quilted Mount Oliphant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugality. Robert and Gilbert were employed by their father as regular labourers — he allow- ing them £1 of wages each per annum ; from which sum, however, the value of any home-made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- ducted. Robert Burns's person, inured to daily toil, and continually expos- ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every cha- racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself, that he never feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion ; and Gilbert Burns, a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in the corn field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert says, that Ro- bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. He was separated from his acquaintances of the to^vn of Ayr, and proba- bly missed not only the stimulus of their conversation, but the kindness that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. But the main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of his own turbulent passions. " In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, I went to a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable anti- pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment I rtp^nt, in opposition to his wishes. My father was subject to strong pas- sions from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though the Willo'-Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights oi nty path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within tlie line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed or me perpttual labour. The only two openings by ich I could enter the temple ol" lor- X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tune, wer" the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I could ncvei squeeze myself into it; — the last I always hated — there v/as contamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondria cism that made me % solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, mj deputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense : and it will iiot seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest wheic I vi- sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, there was 1 among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was wi pmc limit pour l adorable moitie du genre humain. My heart was com- oletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven- ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- fepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of lialf the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe." In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother writes as follows : — " 1 wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he began to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and which he would naturally think a dancing- school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense on cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. He had indeed that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during Roberts first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of the« family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. And thus the seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from \hQ seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) were not markeil by much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laici of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their •ociety became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and died away ; but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had alwaj-s a particular jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or who had LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x» wjre conseq ence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons ot this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty ot his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, slie was instaity invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions., which formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youth " without an aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sufficiently various moods o: his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* that he wrote some stanzas which begin beautifully : " I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam ; Listening to the wild birds singing By a fallen crystal stream. Straight the sky grew black and danng, Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave, Trees with aged arms were warring. O'er the swelling drumlie wave. Such was life's deceitful morning." St/e. On comparing these verses with those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two siwrt years, must be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs but one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad ol much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over with delight, because of the faithfulness with which it recalled to hira the circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. — " My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, And carefully he brought me up in decency and order. And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er a farthing ; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding. Then out into the world my course I did determine ; Tho^ to lie rich was not viy wish, yet to be great wat charming g My t(ilnit.i they were nnt the u-ont, nor yet my education ; Resolved was 1 at least to try to mend my situation. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me ; So I nuist toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me. To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early ; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to wander; Till down my weary bones 1 lay, in everlasting slumber. No view, nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; I Dve to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow," &c. Tliese are the only two of his very early productions in which we ha>e nothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the charnj.s of those rural beauties who followed each other in the dominion cf " Rcliques, p. 242 XU LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS his fancy — or shared the capricious throne between them ; and we may easily beheve, that one who possessed, with his other quahfications, such powers of flattering, feared competitors as httle in the diversions of his evenings as in the toils of his daj^ The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style. »he especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- what difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, or, if the weather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents the journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- monly wink at, if they do not openly approve, the observance ; and the consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- sons not familiar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry may find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, are, without exception, beautiful. They show how powerfully his boyish fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just, of-en originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each successive ballad. The best of the songs written at this time is that begmning, — " It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie. The time flew by wi' tentless heed, Till, 'tween the late and early, "W'i' sma' persuasion she agreed To see me thro' the barley." We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says he, " which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. But I made a greater pro- gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; but 1 was no enemy to social life. Here, though 1 learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a morth which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/t/ft, who hved next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the gar- den one chaiming noon to take the sun's altitude, diere I met mv angel, love : — LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xiS " Proserpine, gathering flowera, Herself a fairer flower." " It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain ing week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in ttie country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my school -fellows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- dents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Vive /'(tmoia; et vive la bagatelle, were my sole princi- ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy Sind The Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet." Of the rhymes of those days, few, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their number ; The Death of Poor 3Iailie, 3Iailies Elegy, and John Barleycorn ; and one charming song, inspired by the Njinph of Kirkoswald's, whose at* tractions put an end to his trigonometry. Now westlin winds, and slaughterm «uu» Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather. . . . — Pegg)' dear, the evening's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading green and yellow ; Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c. John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and txtended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor Mailie deserve more atten- tion. The expiring animal's admonitions touching the education of the " poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, embedded upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand in the Twa Dogs, and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his Deatli and Doctor Hornbook. It need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and became exceedingly attached to hia oersvourite vic- tim of Burns's, John Russell, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards of Stirling " From this time," Burns says, " I began to be known in the country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willies Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, presents Holy Willie's Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of the poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to a rational view of the nature of prayer." — " This," says that bold com- mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions of Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose ve,ry essence is love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but a few of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disciples of Maho- met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, descend to the pit of perdition, man, woman, and child, without the possi- bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians of the present day, and such was Lloly W^illie's style of prayer. The hy- pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, were perceived by the discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- ed bawd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who lias hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the wilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour of the world ioves stXTf LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High | Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves mankind, and who f' has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with horror. . . . The gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * This Keverend author may be considered as expressing in the above, and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments with which even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received , among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so bias- I phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- i ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go far to make the I reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing more about their professional character and authority, were almost the only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when "ather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youtli ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me fcr these hints." It is am.using to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gains from being cet in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of " Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; Yet has sae mony taken' arts WV great and sma* Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa," &c • The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Life of Burns, pp. 40, 41 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxvu Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as havmg merited Willie's most fervent execration by his *' glib-tongued" defence di the heterodox doctor of Ayr : " Lord ! visit them wha did employ him. And for thy people's sake destroy 'em." Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise of his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," said he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into repute." Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as T/ie Ordination ; The Kirk's Alarm, &c. &c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper that malice had forn^ed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- spect, Avere held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest mutt.erings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Burns's previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among the earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, (i. e. Mr. David Sillar), and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of William Burnes, This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must be literally taken, on the celebration of Jean, with which the epistle ter- minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- ercised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURi-JS. be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without an^ regular plan. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, Si as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, an embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to pleasi liim, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud ing stanzas ; lience the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was. I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of harder labour, he and were weeaing in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Ro- bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and, I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to| me the Address to the Deil. The curious idea of such an address was sug-' gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person-^ age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmar-j nock edition, was produced early in the year 1785. The schoolmaster ofl Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful* class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- tached to *he study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he h.id advertised, that " Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions, he men- tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- peated the verses to me next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, ana he was letting the water off" the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap^ raik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem. On Fasten-een we had a rockin. I believe he has omit- ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours io spinning on the rock or distaff". This simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase oi going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the con- nexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock LIFE OF ROBERT BURETS. xxlx gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — " When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the 3Iouse and 3Iountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v/ere produced for the pur- pose of bringing ft 'ward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man ivas made to Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- tar s Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken from Ferguson's Farmer s Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, vfe used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday aftcw noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure .jf hearing the author repeat The Cottars Saturday Night. I do not recollect to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly ekctrijied. The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my soul." The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among the most popular of his brother's performances ; and there may be a time for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may be mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial pursuits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless the lucky hour in which the dominie of Tarbolton provoked the castigation of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit of a considerable circuit of parishes ; and his advice, to say the least of the matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma «on lodce. XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In 3Ian was made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual Idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with wliich he through life contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con- trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, tlian in some of those stanzas : — " See yonder poor o'erlaoour'd wiglit, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil. And see his lordly fellow worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— By Nature's laws design'd — Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty and scorn, Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ?" " I hadmn old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man'' In Man was made to Mourn, Burns appears to have taken many hints from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : " Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie; On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, With many a sigh and sob did say— Ah ! man is made to moan !"• TJie Cottar s Saturday Niffht is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stanzas, it ap- pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he remained but a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no glare on the surface. It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and pe- nury, who shall affect to treat as unreal ? Yet the}^ shrunk to small dimen- sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the pieties of virgin loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. • Cromek's Scottish Songs. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi Tlie Cottar s Saturday Night and the Holy Fair have been put in con trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung from the same source. " The annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Suppet in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfort'Anate Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the display of that strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous ; of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he had ne- cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the exquisite graphic truth of the poem to which the critic refers ? The ques- tion remains as it stood ; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what is " affectingly beautiful in rural life," niaks a part in the original which was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and " Fun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ? It would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival in which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above the tombs of their fathers. Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad with the inspiration of the moment, from whatever source derived, too far It can hardly be doubted that the author of The Cottar s Saturday Night had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Holy Fair is quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself The family prayers of the Saturday's night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they ate — and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered under the gravest sanction. The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion ot The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and^ indeed, expressly applauds Burns for havmg endeavoured to explode " a* Duses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Halloween, a descrip tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Holy Fair and containing nothing that could offend ♦.he feelings of anybocy, was pro- xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax but it is time that we should revert more particular!^' to the personal his- tory of the poet. He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so large a family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only escaped in occ asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes or solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- ing his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the managers of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention of his acquaintances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his native land ; and but for an accident, his arrangements would certainly have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to inquire ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Moruon — Behind yon hills V)here Stinchnr jiows — On Cessnock bank there lives a lass — belong to this period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell — the ob- ject of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which he has accordingly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — " Will ye go to the Indies, my IMary, And leave auld Scotia's shore ? — ^Vill ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic's roar ?" Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the Wcs* Indies, I took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on — " Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The Castel o' iMontgomcrie ; Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie." he adds, — " After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal afTeo- tion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequester- ed spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell be- fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her ill- ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love," gives some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions. I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS xxxn and to impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, holding a Bible be- tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. Thej parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Cromek's story has recently been confirmed very strongly by the accidental discovery of a Bible presented by Burns to Mary Campbell, in the possession of her still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my name falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. 12. On the second volume, — " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oath." — St. Matth. chap, v., v. 33. And, on a blank leaf of either, — " Ro- bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of thia pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious attempts in poetry. In the Epistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- ed), the very earliest, according to Gilbert, of these attempts, the poet celebrates " his Davie and his Jean." This was Jean Armour, a young woman, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter of a respectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- spected wid(w of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden charms in the best pieces which he produced at Mossgiel ; amongst others is the six Belles of Mauchline, at the head of whom she is placed. " In Mauchline there dwells six proper yoursg belles. The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a ; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In lion'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : *' Miss fllillar is fine, Miss Markland's divine. Miss Smith she lias wit, and IMiss Betty is braw ; There's beauty and fortune to get wi' ]Miss IMorton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'." The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- pected. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement of it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country at once ; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline, the confidant of his amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things I am fixed as fate — staying at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do ! — the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me God, in my hour o« need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of the meeting was what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to the Scots law, was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irregular marriage having really taken place ; it being of course imderstood that the marriage was to be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred to xxxiy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the las*, moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with equal surprise and anger. Burns, confessing himself to be unequal to the maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- don his farm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed on his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- came the mother of twins. — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful feelings of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that presented \t self to his view was America or a iai! CHAPTER IV, Contents.— TVie Poet gives up Mosspiel to his Brother Gilbert — Intends for Jamaica^., Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit— r O ne o/'fiOO copies printed at Kilmarnock, 1796 — It brings him extended reputation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, hut no patron — In these circumstances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fume- Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blackloch to vublish at Edinburgh, vherein the Poet sqjourns. ** He saw misfortune's cauld nnr^-west., Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast. An' owre the sea." Jamaica was now his mark, for at that time the United States w^ere not looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ot his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, however, he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the kw pounds requisite for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest poems that ever delighted mankind. His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard an experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- cess in the matter ; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to the printer ; and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the Twa Dogs, for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been written in the short interval between the publication being determined on and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore is as follows : — " I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was onl} nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power foi Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1 thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea thit I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to th© xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre inconnn as I then was, I had uretty nearly as high an idea of myself" and of my works as I have at this moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- rance of themselves. — To know myself, had been all along my constant stuvly. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch- ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides, I pocketed nearly £20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." *' I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details, gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — While the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means ot remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular guaging, it occurred to himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the publication of the poems than one might suppose from his own narrative, in the hope that these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts in his behalf. The poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr, and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in Gal- loway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough boys and maid-servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earneu the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, if they might but procure the Works of Burns." — The poet soon found that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a lively interest in his nersonal fortunes was excited among some of the gen • n; lilbert Burns mentions, that a single individual, flfr. William ParV« Kilraarnock. subscribed for 35 GOOiM> LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii fry of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it was prett}'^ sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among others, the celebarted Professor Dugald Stewart of EdinbiH-gh, and his ac- complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to notice him with much polite and friendly attention. Dr. Hugh Blair, who then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened to be paying Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading The Holy Fair, at once pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and Mrs. Stewart, her self a poetess, flattered him perhaps still more highly by her warm com- mendations. But, above all, his little volume happened to attract the no- tice of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, enthusiastically attached to her country, and interested in whatever ap- peared to concern the honour of Scotland. This excellent woman, while slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume at The Cottar's Saturday Night. " She read it over,'' says Gilbert, " with the greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and satisfaction." INIrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Burns, re- questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns was from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this very interesting letter : — " Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. " I A^f truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me. Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. " Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" " The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The History of Sir William Wallace : for several of my earlier years I had ^ew other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part o^ Wallace's story where these lines occur — " Syne to th«> Lpglan wre Burns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to his earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — " For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bun- yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along vith the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge." LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x ▼ It is but a melancholy business to trace among the records of literary history, the manner in which most great original geniuses have been greet- ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters oi taste ; coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies of professional criti- cism flowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : But the reception of Burns was worthy of The Man of Feeling. Mr. Henry Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal taste. After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- tion of the poems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin burgh periodical of that period : — " I hope I shall not be thought to assume too much, if I endeavour to place him in a higher point of view, to call for a verdict of his country on the merits of his works, and to claim fcr him those honours which their excellence appears to deserve. In men- tioning the circumstance of his humble station, I mean not to rest his pre- tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- sidered in relation to the lowness of his birth, and the little opportunity of improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." After quoting various passages, in some of which his readers " must discover a high tone of feeling, and power, and energy of expres- sion, particularly and strongly characteristic of the mind and the voice of a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition, had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent appeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in whkch it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh when he thus wrote to one of his early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes the same letter with an ominous prayer for " better health and more spi- rits."f — Two or three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- nuary 14, 1787). I went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W Grand Master Charteris, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were present in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- lemnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard, Brother Burns,' which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck ; an(J trembling in everj' nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, one of tho " The Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786. + liCtter to Mr. Ballantyne of Ayr, December J3, 1/86 ; Reliques, p. 12. xir LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS Grand Officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting ac- cent, ' very well indeed,' which set me something to rights again." — And a iew weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associatet who was meditating a visit to Edinburgh. " By all accounts, it will be a difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told tbit— " Cards to invite, fly by thousands each night ;" and if you had one, there would also, I suppose, be * bribes for your old secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. Qucsrenda pecunia prU mum est — Virtus post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosophers in Edinburgh have taught you better sense." In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried always a sufficient memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself; and of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that ot selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above it. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- quent among the upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked Dy a thoughtful gravity which shaded at times into sternness. In his large dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided. It was full of mind ; and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday costume of a farmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- ated. His black hair, without powder, at a time when it was very gene- rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. Upon the whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- iectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of affecta- tion, nor coiJd a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviour LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii 9T conversation, that he had been for some months the favourite of all the ."ashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was powerful. His conceptions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and on all sul)ject3 were as remote as possible from common places. Though somewhat autho- ritative, it was in a way Avhich gave little offence, and was readily imputed to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and softening asscr tion, which are important characteristics of polished manners. After break- fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublishe'' piccCo, and he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des- cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than the poem itself. I paid particular attention to his recitation, which wau plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but without any eloquence or art. He did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the sentiment by the variations of his voice. He was standing, during the time, with his face towards the window, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the language of his composition might have borrowed from the language of hij countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal performers on the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the fcong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to make him the central figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest propor- tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was expected." * To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — " As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any lite- rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, 1 saw hira one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- brated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re- presenting a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These liiiea irere written beneath, — " Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain. Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops, mingling with the milk he drew, •■ Morrison's Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, IxxiL XiTiii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears." " Burns seemed much affected by the print, or ra'cher the ideas which it suggested to liis mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the Hnes were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpr«mising title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look anc a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, with very great pleasure. " His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- man who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (1 say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or inte- rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himsell with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, M'here he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- rary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his reliet were extremely trifling. I remember on this occasion I mention, I thought Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of terguson, he talked of them with too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. I do not speak in malam partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- tvays with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged .their attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty years since." — There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period highly favourable for his reception as a British, and especially as a Scottish poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed sin ;e the death of Thomson : — LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlix Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared : — Dr. Johnson nad belied the rich promise of his early appearance, and confined him- self to prose ; and Cowper had hardly begun to be recognized as having any considerable pretensions to fill the long-vacant throne in England. At home — without derogation from the merits either of Douglas or the Min- strel, be it said — men must have gone back at least three centuries to find a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which the generous criticism of Mackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, unquestion- ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the Play ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger, at least since " Dunbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had never indeed been silent ; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, faithful images of the peculiar tenderness, and jjeculiar humour, of the na- tional fancy and character — precious representations, which Burns himself never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of them, at least of the seri- ous kind, were very ancient. Among the numberless effusions of the Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations had passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of his countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," said Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic their antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc- tions." And although 1 cannot well guess what the doctor considered as the irregular constructions of Milton, there can be no doubt of the general justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson w?re both men of hum- ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who themselves did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who M'as en- tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun- ter's Tryste, tlian to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge anc sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neithei write English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- traying a laraen':able want of skill in tlie use of his instruments. It was re- D LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the SvXJttish peasant in all its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly mascuhne genius. This is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The ew poeis * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were all men of high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- tacter and feelings of the men of the west. As Burns himself has said, — " It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, &c. there is scarcely an old song cr tune, which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of, those counties." The history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that of the kingdoms, has not yet been made the subject of any separate work at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the learned labours of Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the country was affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- tronage it had, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union,, appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- parate literature of our own ; nay, for a time, to have all but extinguished the flame of intellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 and 1745 revealed the full extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- ciless advantage of the fallen. Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions, in the only departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and a success which will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- tory. Deprived of every national honour and distinction which it M^as pos- sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — gunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take law v/ith passive submission, in letters as well as polity, from her powerful sister — the old kingdom revived suddenly from her stupor, and once more asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only to hear, but to applaud, and " wherewith all Europe rung from side to side," at the moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na« tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. • Such as Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of tJilbertfield. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. » It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters, who, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere witb their -eception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They were men, generally speaking, of very social habits ; living together in a small capital ; nay, almost all of llieff', in o ' about one street, maintaining friendly intercourse continually ; not a few of them considerably addicted to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, convivial. Burns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles ; but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the splen- dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings «vere stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these practised masters of the arts of talk. There were several of them who probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with Burns's gigantic understanding ; and every one of them whose impressions on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polished scho- lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer- tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald Stewart, in which he describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essmj on Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the general principles of the association of ideas. Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- versation to the very feelings which formed the noblest inspirations of his poetry. His sensibility was a? tremblingly exquisite, as his sense was masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them in reality with something of the same feeling which may be supposed to attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious specimen of morbid ana- tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret olush that overspread his haughty countenance when such suggestions oc- cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " April 9, 1787. — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of life, as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spoU Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in general, but witli me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination. lii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. witli his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute- ncps and penetration. The workl are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while to make any observation on what passes around them, except where that observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, liis very inmost soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing part jf that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable Imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my confidant. I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. 1 will insert anecdotes, and take down rfemarks, in the old law phrase, loithout feud or favour. — Where I hit on any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity* and. begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se- curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " I know not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect." " Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free style of Dr. Currie) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em- ployments had placed and kept him in a situation far below that in which the writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is equal in erFect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- ingly. Judge then of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, when to a man like Dr. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so- cial condition of the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might be discarded wdth him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with- out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's weight."* It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currie, did not often find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its M'^ay into men's bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- quence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only in his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work : hahemus reiim et confitentem. " There are i(dw of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a " Mr. Wwdsworth's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12. 1 i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. \l\] mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile distinc. tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abihties, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some- thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- ties would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencaii n has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- pate, and myself/, that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I arrv so capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. With Dr.. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble veneration ; but Avhen he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either?" " It is net easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of anj'^ one ; but, in my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and a])plication can do.- Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is iustly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the first, the very first rank in prose ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- ing can only take the pass of him. He has a heart, not of the very finest water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy and most respectable character." A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — " Once we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its shadowiness, from the warm shozzos of Burns, when he began a diary of his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to project such a regular task, but quite impossible to get through it." This most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- ficiently the complexion of Burns's prevailing moods during his moments of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus .-eproached " Natujre, par- tial nature :" — " Thou givest the ass his hide, the snail his shell ; The invenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell : • D'Israeli on the Literary Charaiter, vol. i. p. 136. liv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Bui, Oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard. To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. . ' In naked feeling and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side.' No blast pierced this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde Bcension. One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinbu'gh, has been handed down to us by Cromek. — It was, " that between the men of rustic life and the polite world he observed little difference — that in the former, though unpolished by fashion aud unenlightened by science, he had found much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man, " v/hose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's. The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the season was over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no longer seemed to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. It is but too true, that ere this season was over, Burns had formed con- nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his debut had made so powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- lousy — how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; and it is also suf- ficiently apparent that there • were many points in Burns's conversational habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such a genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness, for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the table of Dr. Blair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow o) language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishments • Or. Robert Walker. * | i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. h for Jvhich Blair was lionoured in a most accomplished society, or to the polished elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such an escapade; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' labouring un- der that compulsory effort which was unavoidable, while the thoughts of all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns jihowed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bhmder ; but years afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the genus irritabile of authors, orators, and wits. A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Grays Elegy a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation ot Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- ral than specific. Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the remark afterwards made by ^Ir. Ramsay is, that in the game of society Ite did not knov/ when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times in doing) his Holy Fair, stopped him at the stanza — Now a' the conp;regation o'er Is silent expectation, For Russel speels the holy door AVi' tidings o' Salvation, — Nay, said the Doctor, read dariiyiation. Burns improved the wit of this verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another strange specimen of want of iact, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to acknowledge the obligation in a note. But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either clergymen or professors) must have been in the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having forced his waj' among thenr. from the plough-tail at a single stride, mani .vi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bon mots of the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — nay to tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indiiating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro- fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and, — last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. The lawyers of Edinburgh, in whose wider circles Burns figured at his outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, I take it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy, of the country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What their haughtiness, as a body, was, may be guessed, when we know that in- ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any man from the bar. In one remarkable instance, about this very time, a man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those whose brains and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in those tavern scenes of audacious hilai-ity, which then soothed, as a m.atter • Mr. John 'Wilcl, son of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh. He came to be Professor uf Civil law in that Ua fersity ; but, in th.j end, was also an instance of unhappv genius LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 1, ft cf course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern- life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was thtn in full vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have expressed, amusfingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in all his life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al- lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns weL , and himself mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in the following strong language : — " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and passionately embrace the enchantress. The bucks of Edinburgh accom- plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would be idle noiu to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this tvhifer. Burns con- tinued to lodge with John llichmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the poet, for the statement, that while he did so, " he kept good hours." He removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William Nicoll, one of the teachers of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of NicoU's letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of the society to which Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) suffered himself to be sur- rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as fx)lish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to their more sober charms" Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some- D2 Iviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed lo be, among liis favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, fhe cock ol the company, he could scarcely refi"ain from indulging in similar freedom and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rudest rhymes he sung, " to be great is charming ;" and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that which appear- ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes to convey regret ? But these, assuredly, v/ere not the only feelings that influenced Burns : In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, though his jealous pride might induce him to record his suspicions in lan- guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- mosphere of joy and hope. On the 15th of January J 787, we find him thus addressing his kind patroness, Mrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure you. Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at leas : " Heron p. 28. • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Fix tyx this time of day, has raised a partial tide of pubHc notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadecfuate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of truth. ... I mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear mp v.itness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in mv hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same time, to Dr. Moore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, April the 23d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. Moore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are ill of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles." One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, show and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- ing shared with him all that they possessed on his rirst arrival in the metro- polis, faitlifully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede ;" and, moreover, per- haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's poems was published early in i\Iarch, by Creech ; there were no less than 1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry nude it equal, on that score, to any other. — " The appellaticr of a Scottisb Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. bard is by fjir my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex- alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I could vdsh to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, and tc muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes 3f her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor. ainary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top ot Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots. The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when T was ad- m.iring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which had not been previously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to Ediriburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important additions were, Death and Doctor Hornbook, The Brigs of Ayr, The Ordi* nation, and the Address to the unco Guid. In this edition also, When Guild' ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. The evening before l;e quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- dition : " I have often felt the embai-rassment of my singular situation However the metor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- tract notice, I knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- prise me in my quarters." It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first fruits of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto • Letter to Mrs. Dunlop Edinburgh, 22d March 1787. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixi neglected remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the Canongatc churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address to Edinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of the feelings engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now about to quit it for a time. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. Ediva ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ai/r I stray 'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Ediita, social, kind, M'ith open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! day as the gilded summer's sky. Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Hoflv'n's beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of love on high. Aid own his work indeed divine { There, watching hi^h the least alaniis, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms. And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war. And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought and pitying tear^. I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotia''s kings of other years, Fame'd heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ; Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia''s bloody lion bote : E'en / who sing in rustic lore. Haply my sires have left their shed. And faced grim dangei's loudest roar. Bold following where your fathers led I Eutna ! Scoiia''f darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring houn, I sheliier in thy honour'u shad*. CHAPTER VI, Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia.— Lands from the first if fftew, after an absence of six months, umongit his friends in the " Auld Clay Higgin" — Findt honour in his 0W7i country — Falls in icith many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, hut nerer secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpots, winter 1187-6— Upset in a hackney coach,^ which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Ex- cise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mr*. Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him Icatet Edi'^burgh with £bOO — Steps towards a more regular life. " Ramsay and famous Ferguson, Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tunc Thro' Scotland rings, 'While Irvine, L\igar, Ayr, and Doon, >iaebody sings." On the 6t£L of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert Ainslie, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire. — Among other changes " which fleeting time procureth," this amiable gen- tleman, whose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former being mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean o' Edinburgh's head on the 23d of July 1637, when Jhe attempt was made tO introduce a Scottish Liturgy into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorou.s terms, in a letter to his friend NicoU Avhile on the road, and which will be found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as teuch and birnie as a vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a kirk, and lipper-laipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld poutherin girran for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the lightest," &c. &c. Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the ruins of Roxburgh Castle, nea** which a holly bush still marks the spot on LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii yvhics) James II. of Scotlandwas killed by the bursting of a cannon. Jedburgh where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- ' thedral (abbey);" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; Melrose, " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes of Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its £Cng," Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New- castle, Hexham, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr. Miller's property, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to return again in the course of the summer. The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of Dunglas, author of the well known Essay on Gothic Architecture, &c. ; Sir Alexander and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, &c. ; and, as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — " Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . The family-meeting M'ith my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- cularly the sister. " Sunday, Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. " Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — ^charming situation of the town — fine Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides ol the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a muitre d' hotel of the Duke's ! — CHmate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburglishire, su- perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- cence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return te Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed vith some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to iXiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. " Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- sations. " Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to .4'50 value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English tour. " Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, 13th May. In this he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence the name of Creech's Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- nery he had visited. " Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw." Burns returned to Mauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine the delight with which he must have been received by the family after the absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld day biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground- Work of his character ; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance ol condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had given him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ixv ever counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enjayment with which he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract : — ♦' I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance and friendship I have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune." Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the preceding summer ; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- ture establishment ; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- ings, and from the» flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossgiel. His appetite for wan dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary, and so back again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives an account of Jenny Geddes running a race after dinner with a Highlander's pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters. — " I have as yet," says he, " fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon." In the course of this tour. Burns visited the mother and sisters of his friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the Castk Ixvi LIFE 05 ROBERT BURNS of Gloom, is grandly situated in a gorge of the Ochills, commanding aa extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The Cauldron Linn and Rumbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one of the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but the respectfulness of admiration. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 3Iild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumphant display her proud rose ; ' A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the njost interesting se- ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to ]Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning family on the window of his inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his works hitheito published in Britain, we present them to our readers as a literary curiosity. Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd, And laws for Scotia well ordain 'd ; But now unroof 'd their palace stands ; Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills the throne ; — An idiot race, to honour lost, Who know them best, despise them most. The young ladies of Harvieston were, according t.c Dr. Currie, surprised with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on Devon water and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- ed anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for gr&:'.ted that Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, his companion teased him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; " Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" - " Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " I would not look ! look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : " Notwithstanding the various reports I heard during the preceding win- ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution." In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His host was among the last of those old Scottish Latinists who began with Bu- chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies anci translations of them. This amiable man (another INIonkbarns) was deeply read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, and proposed the Gentle Shepkerd as a model : he also urged him to write Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted that field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus M'rites of Burns : — " I have been in the com- pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, than with his company two days tete-a-tete; In a mixed company I should have nade little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always Vxiovr Ixviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. when to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether the Eduiburgh literati had menied his poems by their criticisms — ' Sir,' saio he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit fisr weft nor woof.' "• At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet'B jacobitism procured him a hearty welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as her toast after dinner, Hooki uncos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Brace ; but, passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the cuttystool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ot Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend NicoU on a more extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- trian. " August 25th, 1787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlithgow. — A fertile im- proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- vated like a garden." It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist ; or that with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely tak?n for a guide as the inductions of the political economist: — From scenes like these old Scotia''s grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of (loD !" And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied m arts of hell, in wickedness refined; O Scotia I my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent Long may thy hardy sons of rustic .oil. Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixii And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Tlien, howe'er crou-m and coronets be rent, A virtuout populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. Of Linhthgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the oldRoya. Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ot repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- ters " At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers ot their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued Hberty and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the battle of Bannockburn. At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhyme." This al- ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely English heroics — " Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell ; The sweeping tneatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taujjht lyre, And look through nature with creative hre .... Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointin^nt, in tnese lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, And injured Worth forget and pardon man." Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — '' Druids' temple, three cir- cles of stones, the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- east — say prayers on it." His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows : — " DunReld — Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays ; a short, stout-built, High- land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — ride up Tummel river to Diair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild grandeur of the pass 6f Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. ~-Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. — Satur- day. — Tisit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family of Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the Beat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar • rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view of their beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state of bis feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot imagination. It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank their healths as hojiest men and honnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, arid A'ith which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen pf his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a emark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a i'cw paces before us. Pie was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by coarseness of manners ; " in short," he added, " his mind is like his body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul."' — Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sen.sible, without being vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls oj Briiar, and in a ^ew days I received a letter from Inverness, with the versea enclosed." * At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Firitray, a gentleman to whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important " Extract of a letter from Mr. W^alker to I\Ir. Cunningham, dated Perth. 24th October 79r LIFt OF ROBERr BURNS. Ixx: occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain 9. day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was but little addicted to hterature ; still, had such an introduction taken place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- tish music), Badenoch, &c. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical bed in which, tradition says, King Duncan was murdered; lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to Fochabers, taking CuUoden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- day, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung two Gaelic songs — ^beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting, is still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, and affable — gay and kind. — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- sible — God bless them."* Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the * Extract from JnumaL Ixxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coast of the Murray Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visit at Gordon Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons of such influence, might hav!j begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively Nairn, Forres, Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him into the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native a^trict, never to Kevisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire kindi'ed, and afte. that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good people, and in a ietter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing their in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * " The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses ?" He arrived once more in Auld Reekie, on the 16th of September, having travelled about six hun- dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among the sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe riod avowed. Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — " Among the heathy hills and rugged woods, The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods," &c. When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — " Blythe, biythe, and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben," &c. And the verses On Scaring some Wildfoivl on Loch Turit, — " Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. were composed while under the same roof. These last, except perhaps Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find many traces a" the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these alpine regions • General Correspordence. LIFJi OF ROBERT BURNS. ixxiii The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decidea to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not, however, un- til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening months were spent in Edinburgh, M^'here Burns found, or fancied that his presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the amusement of a little rom.ance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful widow — the same to whom he addressed the song, " Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides. At this time the publication called Johnsons Museum of Scottish Song was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though Green grow the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the first volume, published in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. Theniel Mcnzies bonny Mary ; that grand lyric, " Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destiny, IMacpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree ;" both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland visit ; and, lastly, Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. Burns had been from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns composed very few pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his songs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to thia hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very like y to agree. Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which • '* riarinda,' and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devoi." txxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS he was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 31st of December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- ing rhapsody — far, far different indeed from the Chevalier s Lament, which the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. " Here I am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliatice to gua- rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got half way through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft." f — In another letter, which opens gaily enough, we find him reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. " I cant say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily withstood his bufFetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is I DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." J — One more specimen may be sufficient. || " These have been six horrible weeks. Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- mission ; for I would not fake in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country Mould ere long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and cor- finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side of his prospects ; and the letters which we have queued may teach those *rho envy the powers and the fame of genius, to paure for a moment over • General Correspondence, No. 46. + Reliques, p. 43. J Ibid, p. 44. II General Correspondence, No. 43. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IjLXf the annab of literature, and think what superior capabihties of misery have been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession oi those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from Mauchline that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exposed her to the reproaches of her family. The father sternly and at once turnei* her out of doors ; and Burns, unable to walk across his room, had to write to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for hei whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, written on hearing of this new misfortune, he says, " ' / icish I were dead, but I'm no like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for the best. You must not desert me. Your friendshii> I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * Jt seems to have been noiv that Burns at last screwed up his courage to solicit the active interference in his beiialf of the Earl of Glencairn. The letter is a brief one. Burns could id endure this novel attitude, and he rushed at once to his request. " I wish," says he, " to get into the excise. I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of ho7ne, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as ot the cold denial." f It would be hard to think that this letter was coldly or negligently received ; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's influence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fintray, one of the commissioners of excise, who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to INIrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing to do. I wanted iin but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them vay firm friends." X • Reliques, p. 48. + General Conespondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50 .xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his ctjn fiiiement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he :urns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was the nuptial gilt of Mi Ar- mour, his fatl«ndon. xxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to John O'Groats, A chield's amang ye takin' notes," &c. and, inter alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns had too much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- ledge of Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- quaintance that we owe Tarn o Shanter. Burns told the story as he had heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and was easily persuaded to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well re- members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her children. " He was busily engaged crooning to himsell, and Mrs. Burns perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered behind with her little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the strange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses which he had just conceived : — " Now Tarn ! O Tarn ! had they been queans, A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder *linen, — Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' good blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the borinie bardies !" -|- To the last Burns was of opinion that Tarn o Shanter was the best oi all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in question has been all but imanimously approved of. The admirable execu- tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. Burns lays the scene of this remarkable pei'formance almost on the spot where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- dition. " By this time he was cross the ford Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd, And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare iVIungo's mither hang'd hersell." None of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was Tam o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes of swaggering riot." The then occupier of Shanter, by name Douglaa • " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1/00 divisions."— CroTwcfr. •j- The above is quoted from a 31 S. journal of Cromek. Mr. M'Diarmid confirms the statement, and adds, that the poet, having committed the verses to writing on the top of his lud-hjkc over the water, came mto the house, and read them immediately in high triumph at ■.he fireside. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxix Grahame, was, by all accounts, equally what the Tam of the poet appears, —a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more interest in the contraband traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers by the name of Tam o' Shanter. A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Elliesland. Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 1790, met Burns riding rapidly near Closeburn. The poet was obliged to pursue his professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller to Elliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him, saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, slewed in haste." Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his uxor Sabitia qualis, *nd his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics." The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temperament, who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" say? Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, were told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search of him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose great-coat, fastened round him by a belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share nis humble dinner." These tra (tellers also classed the evening they spent at Elliesland with the brightest ^^f their lives. Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing of his farm, ae- termined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered easy of arrangement ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- sion, which raised his salary from the revenue to £70 per annum, removed his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, however, with a heavy heart. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of his farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of whisky, a very melancholy scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is pleasing to know, that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude, Burns had superintended the formation of a subscription library in the parish. His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much honour: his choice of authors (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now common, almost universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of southern Scotland ; but it should never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr. Riddel, " as to take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his public spirit, and exertions for their improvement and information." Once, and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin- burgh. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; that business ac xc LIFE OF ROBEllT BURNS. complished, he returnc^c immediately, and he never again saw the capital He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " T? a man who ^las a home, however humble and remote, if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic com- fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust — " Vain pomp and glor of tlie world, I hate you !" « When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaj> Sng blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaimy wliat merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state o{ pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itseli to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out hii bonis, or as we draw out a perspective " CHAPTER VIIT. C0TrrE>T5 Is mnre beset in tnwn than conntrif — His early biographers, (^Dr. Cttrrie not Rr» ceptcd), have coloured too darklij tnidcr that head — It is not correct to speak of the poet at having sunk into a toper, or a solitarg drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or oj their having intfrfend irith the jimictnal discharge of his official duties — He is shown to have been tlie a ffictioiiale and beloved Inishand, although passing follies imputed; and the constant a7id most assidiioiis instructor of his children — Impulses of the French Revolution — Sgwptoms of fraternizing — The atttntioii of his official superiors is called to them — Prac- tically 710 blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this period— Gives hiM whole sold to song making — Preference in that for his native diahct, with the other attend* ant facts, as to the portion if his immortal lays. " The King's most humbJe strrant, i Can scarcely spare a minivte; BiU I am yours at dinner-thrsfi, Or else the devil's in it" • The four principal biographers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, ana Irving, concur in the general statement, that his moral course from the fime when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of ihe matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : — f' In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- prentices, young surgeons, merchants' clerks, and his brother excise- men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept the invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a little corrupted, and though a husband and a father. Burns did not escape suffering by the gene- al contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- ^ah between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her own • *' The above answer to an invitation was written extempore on a leaf torn from his Ei« ciie-book. — CrortHk's MSS Kcii LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. particular causes, sometimes, for dissatisfaction. But that Burns ever sunk into a toper that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all ffitse. His intemperance was, as Heron says, mfits; his aberrations of all kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources of exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more temptations from without and from within, than the immense majority ol mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — • of one, iinally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could be found ; — ^and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which ihe passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at Elliesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and Paul \ and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric TI14 statement has no doubt been exaggerated, but \t has its foundation in truth ; and by the kindness of Mr. Tram, supervisor at Castle Douglas in GallO' way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw light on this business. Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of the place — much more so, to their honour be it said, than by any of the influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Ellies- land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour, Mr. Riddel of Friars- Carse, and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- ed to the same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the district, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was thrown, entertained sentiments of the same description. Burns, whenever in his letters he talks seriousl}'^ of political matters, uniformly describes his early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was jvell prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of the old elements of political disaffection in Scotland, put on a new shape at the outbreaking of the French Revolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- bhis, ere they were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism weie to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France with feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- bon despotism ; and there were few who more ardently participated in the general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feeling that look place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stale the course of the French ]\ evolution, and Burke Hfted his powerful voice; was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society was for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams ot the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than liated. The very name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had known and loved each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it had been some loathsome pestilence. There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town oi Dumfries, which was the favoui'ite winter retreat of many of the best gen- tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- dition, — a:jd to be shunned accordingly. The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions vvhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns as a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous period, a democrat. In that department, as then conducted, I am assured that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the exact termination of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood. Burns, i7tler alia, gave great of- fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the health of William Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- ciety rejected what he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a greater and a better man, George Washington." I suppose the warmest admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time when Burns, being a servant of Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc- currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at M'hose table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain ■ made use KCiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. of to me, had I had nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you kno^ that the report of certain political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of v/aiting on every gentleman who was pre- sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- ter alt, was the obnoxious toast ? Mai/ our success in the present tear be equal to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a man's loyalty to his King ? Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the whole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 27 th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Sol way Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewars, a brother exciseman, an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself on a similar errand to Ecclefechan, and Burns was left with some men un- der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. From LIFE OF ItOBERT BURXS. \o\ the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my handy), it appears that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being /eft for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them ttdr w«ll-known ditty : — " The de'il ciim' fiddlinjj thro' the town. And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' AuW JMahoun, ' We wish you luck o' the prize, man. Chorus ' We'll mak' ourmaut, and brew our drink, ' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; ' And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il ' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, ' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; ' But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', ' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " Lewars arrived shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to board her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to doubt, 9vas the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of hi? ^ealous superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most ibsurd ard presump- tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the Impression that had been created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to his pa- tron, Mr. Graliam of Fintray, the ioL'owing letter, dated December 1792: " Sir, — 1 Ivave been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- chell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person djsaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father. You know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- pected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist- ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot ? and from the damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- jtcvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung over my head. And I say that the allega- tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows hciw warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you Fortune, Sir, l:as made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- tronage, and mc dependence. I would not, lljr my single self, call on your humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse the tear that now swells in my eye ; 1 could brave misfortune ; I could face ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' Ihit, good God ! the tender concerns Ij.vt 1 have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how tliey unnerve courage and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To these, Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me ; and which, with my latest breath, 1 will say I have not deserved !" On the "2d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find him writing to Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — *' Mr. C. can be of little service to me at present ; at least, 1 should be shy of applying. I cannot probably be set- tled as a supervisor for several years. I must wait the rotation of lists, &c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I oifer my- self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal en my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my senti- ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " " The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " lias been torn away by some barbarous hand." — There can be little doubt that it was torn away by one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and fi'om the most praise-worth motive. The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has been said above, in obscurity; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, appears to have gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himseli considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future promo- tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one oi his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scotr has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The political predilections," says l>e, " for they could hardly be termed princi- ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At hjs first ap- pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and hipb ac):))evement. The inadequacy of the means by which that prince artempted to regs'Jn the I'rovvn forfeited bv his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcvn «Thich he underwent, — the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast ; for Burns him- self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), that ' to tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.' The same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- tical tenets, when the country was agitated by '"evolutionary principles. That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they might have spared themselves the disgrace of rendering desperate the pos- sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is hut too certain, that from the moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his life. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- est credit on that gentleman." In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, who can refuse to concur ? but I am bound to say, that after a careful examination of all the documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. I have great doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- ment. I have before me, for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's imme- diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per- son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do I believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated. That, bad he lived, would, 1 have every reason to think, have gone on in the usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on tlii account ? or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- ed m Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the coips. It is very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi* cess, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the great F xcvni LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. est possible favourite vvitli his brothers in arms. His commanding officer Colonel De Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor ana honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish thJ3 exquisite and useful song, with Scots ivha hae wi' Wallace bled, — the Song of Death, and Does haughty Gaul Invasion Threat, — all lyrics which enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much of Burns both as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- sociate of literary taste and taient, is the only person who gives any thing like an exact statement : and according to him. Burns was admonished " that it was his business to act, not to think") — in whatever language the censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had any cause to suppose that his hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. Eindlater, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, the year before he died, was permitted to act as a Supervisor ; a thing not likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. On *lie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted v'lth talents and necessarily with influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by illness and death. These Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- der them. That they did try the experiment of^ lenity to a certain extent, appears to be made out ; that they could have been justified in trying it to a farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcix af the country itself, T must say I think it is much more difficult to defend them. Mr. Pitt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of £200 a-year for writ- ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I know not ; but Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more — " I can think of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- ing sweetly from nature." * Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some- what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- lieves to be true. " Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in their debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused ct5U a- year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- " I am assured that Mr. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, Boon after Burns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation at that table, will be seen in the sequel. ■f Mr. Gray removed from the school of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. Hetlienbe- came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, and died a few years sirvce in the East Indies, as officiating chankin to the Cumi^ny in the presidency of Madras. c LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. comino- the hireling of a party ; and whatever may have been his opinion of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban doning. * Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- tron's family. There is much humour in it : — THE FIVE CARLINES. t. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame, Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there, And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 2. There was IMaggy by the banks o' Nith, -f- a dame w' pride eneugb. And 3Iarjorj o' the IMonylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ; And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near Solway-side, And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide ; j| And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, ^ o' gipsy kith and kin, — I'ive wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day. And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae, But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a ane but tway. 4. The first he was a belted knight, •• bred o' a border clan, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan'. And he wad do theii errands weeL and meikle he wad say, And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 6. The next came in a sodger youth, ■\-Y and spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was ; He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. But he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themseL. 7. Then out spak mim-mou'd ]Meg o' Nitb, and she spak up wi' pride. And she wad send the sodger youtn, whatever might betide ; For the auld guidman o' liunnun J J court she didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ • This is stated on the au'hority of Major Miller. •f- Dumfries. J Lachmaben. § Annan. |[ Kirkcudbhgfat % Sanquhar. •• Sir J. Johnstone. f f Blajor Miller. tt George II L P.8 The Prince of Wales. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cl 8. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen, That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane; For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again. 9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, The auld guidman, ant the yo\ing guidman, for me may sink or swim; For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken, kimmers a% The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight. But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 11. Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wham I like best at name. 12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can tell, God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. ITie above is far the best humoured of these productions. The ejection to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe contest, and at a very heavy expense. These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the chosen laureate, M-it, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by i Burns's venom, when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, And pours his vengeance in the burning line ;" •nd represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as leading a choral shout that He for his heresies in church and state, Might richly merit Muir's and Palmer's fate. But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew Avell Avhat he was doing whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was guilty of such excess. This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to expatiate. " Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer« tainly to be regretted." — " I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Grty, already more than once referred to, but I love the memory of Burns mora cfl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth- The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, who felt all tiie charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr Curries Nar- rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- ed of his species. As 1 knew him durmg that period of his life emphati- callv called his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my man observation. It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be- cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. I have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples o\ heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- torians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunkenness ? " It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted by all classes ot men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bawl, his wit flashed for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea- ven ; but even in the hour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, follow- ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night's intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From his paintings, virtue appeared iriore lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- lestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate, It would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading was his favourite amusement. I liave never known any man so intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the poets by heart. The prose authors he could quote either in their own ivords, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottars Saturday Night. The truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he could not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often [)rolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all -imes have listened to her voice .'' LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciii * The men with whom he generally associated, wert not cf the lowest order He numoered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at tached to him by ties that the hand of calumny, busy as it was, could ne ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his existence. He was endeai'ed to them even by his misfortunes, and they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue alone inspires." Part of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, as to which Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely sufficient, but the very highest authority. " My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, " commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of M'hich, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention ' I know, Sir, and re- gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle- man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler." — This of itself affords more than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he would have written in such a style to 7ne, but from the impulse of a consci- ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, it was not till near the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmities. 1 will further avow, that 1 never saw him, which was very fre- quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of business he wac; quite him- self, and capable of discharging the daties of his office; nor was he ever known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in hisconviviaJ moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family; indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see, after he became an Excise officer, and I never beheld any thing like the gross enormities with which he is now charged: That when set down in an evening with a feAv friends whom lie liked, he was apt to prolong the social hour beyond the bounds wliich prudence would dictate, is unqucs • Mr. Findlatcr watched ty Burns the night before he died. cir LIFE OF kOBERT BURNS. tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other> wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which they know to be untrue. To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicoll. . . " O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wietch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, so be it ! " For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, might not such a Tu quoque be addressed ! The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, Burns gave sa- tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- nue service ; he, moreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition than fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him, are often in the custom of so bestowing. — " He was a kind and attentive father, and took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he did not, like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public schooiS ; he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in keeping them pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in Dur language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in Uie study of Latin. This boy at. ended the Grammar School of Dumfries LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cv and soon attracted my notice by the strength of his talent, and the a; dour of his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- tions of that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able to translate to ^lim the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- tiior's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this imp rtant branch of parental duty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, after his removal t) Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable length, ( 7\im o Shanter), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. George Thomson, furnish undeniable proof that, in whatever ^/« of dissipation he unhappily indulg- ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in question have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. Of his letters written at Elliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great body of elaborate prose-writing. We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to Johnson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely^ and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Mr. Cromek saw among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into the collection, in Burns's handwriting. His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- ed in September 1792; and Mr. Ciray justly says, that whoever considers his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, for the most part embellished with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, and criticisms, Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that very many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions of that ovei-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- • Letter from the Ilev. James Gray to Mr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, vol. I Ajw pendix, >io. t. p^ cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fusions. Burns knew that lie was now engaged on a work destined for the eye and car of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- ing, " virginibus puerisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- py indeed for his own fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, of Scotland ; and, what is of far higher importance, the moral and national feelings of his countrymen. In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy — following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, Avhich Smollett might have achieved, had he pleased to inake the effort, was destined to be the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," says he, " gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- pamby. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There I am al- ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort ot national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his native land from her peculiar idiom. The " genius loci" was never wor- shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says he, " that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, Lochuber and the Braes of Ballenden excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer- tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, :}: " a naivete, a pas- toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to every ge- nuine Caledonian taste), with the simiile pathos or rustic sprightliness oi our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let me give you : — Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- tional music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," says he, 7th April 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- ments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- • Correspondence with ]\Ir. Thomson, p. 111. -j- Ibid. p. 80. J Ibid. p. 38. S It may amuse the reader to hear, that in spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native dialect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of \\'averley was sub- mitted, hesitated for some time about publishing it, on account of the Scots dialogue Literwo. ven in the novel. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii making are now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fcrtification wag Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been hap* py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be ' Good night, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * " Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider the poetic sentiit.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, — then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram- ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire- side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at in- tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- variably my way What cursed egotism !" f In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- ten. They are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per- sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- nion of his own individual life. A new flood of light has just been poured on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ; e.g. " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When- ever I want to be more than ordinary in sovg — to be in some degree equal to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- nation ? Tout au contrairc. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman." :j: " I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, " Where love is liberty, and nature law." Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness ot .he beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades nij " Correspondence with ]\lr. Thomson, p. oj. + Ibid. p. 119. cvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. sohI ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase." * Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which begins, " Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'." Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate ol the performance. There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto^ and Sco** has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." " Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted." There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- witching songs. I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. " Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet's character as a husband, but without the slightest proof* and I might pass from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a venera^'-ion for the memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the monientary overflowings of the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, agamst a thou- sand anonymous calumnies." f Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. •' Come, winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree — " " There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any earthly object gives me mere — I do not know if I should call it pleasure • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 191. ^ Letter in Gilbert Burns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. LIFE OF ROBERT JJURX.s. ci, —but something which exalts me, sometliing which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side vf a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, wJio, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was ':iioduced amidtt Bcene» of golemn desolation. CHAPTER IX. Cohi.t.vis.— The poet's mortal period approaches — His jecnliar temperament — Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminished by narrow circumstances, by chagrin from neglect, and by the death of a JDaiiahter — The pout ynisses public patronage : and even the fair fruitt (f Id's OIL t genius — the appropriation of which is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell — His magnanimity when death is at liand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 21 st July 1796 — Public funeral, at ivhich many at- tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of £Jngland, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public — Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings iy Scott, Campbell, Jiyron, and others. *' I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe. With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear.** We are drawing near the close of this great poet's mortal career ; and I would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde- based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- Berving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it? the tem- porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, to extract and circulate. A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad, — " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, Hisauld ane look'd better than mony ane's new; But now he lets't wear ony way it wiil hing, And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-binij. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi * O were we young, as we ance hae been, We sud hae been galloping doun on yon green, And linking it ower the lilywhite lea, — And xoerena my heart light I wad die.'' It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es« cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of some verses which he had recently composed. The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood hcd been a course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative M'ere sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- tation and suffocation" of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief. On a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of tliat exquisite sensibi- lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! " The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper tc his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man .iving for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." " Ijetter to Miss Chalmers in 1793. CXIl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Buri.s has traced his ofvn character far better tl.an any one else has done it since. — But with thiij lot what pleasures were not mingled ? — " To you. Madam," he proceeds, " I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse besto.vs to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels oi wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difllculties, baiting them with poverty, branding therH with infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material stimulants, that they live fast ; what wonder that the career of the poet's thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid too? That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," as Mr. Wordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, " through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of fjie real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false sometimes in tlie latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by hi.s own hand — in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — " One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Then gently scan your brother man, StiU gentlier sister woman — Though they may gang a kennin' wrang; To step aside is human," could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic torce by any poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice; unless it were felt that, like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors • and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering.' In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his esd, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, auong with other influences which it would be inhuman to characterise as LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxu: mere follies — such, for example, as that general depression of spirits which haurted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily op such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or even a casual expression of discouraging tendency from the persons on whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the species of so- ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during seme of the latter years of his life — All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, 1704, and addres- sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his family. — " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ah ori- gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these •**** times — losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to mysel-f, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; t\\o?,e senses of the iniml, [{' \ may he allowed the expression, which connect us Avith, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all-power- ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. <' I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick o'^the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer- tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which tl«ey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- sical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to cxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poh: t ot vieir. and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child oi mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet littlp fellow who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of" the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, ' These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. — The rolling year Is full of Thee ;' and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. — These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights ; and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- ing, judging, and approving God." They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those of "tlie opiate guilt applies to grief," will do well to pause over this noble letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined to sink, liad already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually with pecuniary difficulties, than Avhich nothing could have been more like- ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively imagination exaggerated to itself every i-eal evil ; and this among, and per- haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last consideration, however, was one which would have given slender relief to Burns. How he shrunk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- ready. The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated December 1793, will speak for itself: — " Sir, it is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to man, or woman cither. But for these damned dirty, dog's-eared little pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on vou long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has lai^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Cx^ me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man avi gentleman of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out hig beautiful songs for the INTuseum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. Carfrae, dated 1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu- niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- pears from a passage in Cromek's Reliques, that the poet asked a single copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour tc himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Burns with Mr. Thomson contains curious enough details concerning his connexion with that gentle- man's more important undertaking. At the outset, September 1792, we find Mr. Thomson saying, " We will esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are resolved to save neither pains oor expense on the publication." To which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, ^c. would be downright pros- titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude xpcca the work." The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, 1st July 1793, where he says, " I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- turn for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed £5) Burns thus replies : — " 1 assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with j'our pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. How- ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any 'more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, 1 will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com* mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- ment and independence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of his wants w hich the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that Buch a character he shall deserve." — In November 1794, we find Mr. Thom- son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 1793, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of 7^/ie Cottar s Saturday Night cxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. by Allan) ; " I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have enter ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfected, without you. So I beg you would not make a fojl of me again by speak ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledging a , " handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. Lastly, on the 12th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week Defore Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- count, taking it into his head that I am djang, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- rors of a jail have put me half distnacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously , for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To which Mr. Thomson replies — " Ever since I received your melancholy let- ter by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner 1 could en- deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 1 2th, and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of your labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel called Nubilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared in 1816, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — " I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec- tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the public testi- mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have enriched my cbllection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding with every amateur and poet by whose means I expected to make any va- luable additions to our national music and song ; — for the exertion and mo- ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- mony in Vienna; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music for every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing 1 can say; In August 1809, he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the very unwa rantable attack which has been made upon you by the author LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxvii of Niihilia ; nothing could be more unjust than to say y(»u had enriched yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it indudes thp labours of Haydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex- penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times beyond the reality ; the sale is greatly magnified, and the expenses are not in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the anonymous author calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written above fifty songs expressly for my v/ork ; they were in my possession un- published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold for the family's behoof to Messrs. Cadell and Davies. And I have the sa- tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun- ninghame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- dered my sacrifice of the prior right of publishing the songs, as no ungrate- ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever I come to Edinburgh, 1 will certainly call on a person whose handsome con- duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the harmony of the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts than to claim any merit for what I did. 1 never would have said a word on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been brought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which I have long suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- pearance." This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- tional remarks, (writes Professor Walker). When the public is satisfied; when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself in contemjilating his conduct, there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them.. So far, Mr. Walker : — Why Burns, who was of opinion, when he wrole his letter to Mr. Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those of the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence had sustained no shock in the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from Thom- son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do I profess to understand why Mr. Thomson took so little pains to argue the matter in liiuine w'llh the poet, and convince him, that the time which he himself considered as fairly en- titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book containing both songs and music. They order these things differently now: a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, has long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much mouty annually for an a7inu(d handful of songs, as was ever oaid to our ?ard *br the whole body of his writings. cxvlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Of the increasing irritability of our poet's temperament, amidst those trou bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d . melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." Towards the close cf 1795 Burns was, as has been previously mention- ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. Graham might elevate him yet farther. These hopes, however, were mingl- ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest child lingered through an illness of which every w^eek promised to be the last ; and she was finally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. This was a severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. " There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the conmiand of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while I — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on the subject." To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his supervisorship. and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " What a transient business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the few following extracts. " 31*^ January 179G. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afflic- tion. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover horn that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginnmg to crawl across my room, aK"5 once indeed have been before my own d:x in the street. ^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxU " When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. Affliction purifies the visual ray. Religion hails the drear, the untried night. That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." But a few day? after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent as to join H festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the morning. The weather was severe, and he, being much intoxicated, took no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- pointment. " 4i/i June 1796.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- tisms, I meet eveiy ^ace with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " " 7th July. — I fear the voice of the Bai"d will soon be heard among you no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- den of care. " The duce of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on 135?' He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poele — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." jMrs. lliddell of Cilcnriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his conveyance, the poet visited her on the 5th July; and she has, in a letter published by Dr. Currie, thus described his appearance and conversation on that occasion : — " I was struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any • The birth-dar of George III. cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. commantis for the other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no. thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of appro- bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his familj seemed .to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writings v/ould be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain thera, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- nom to blast his fame. He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !" I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns : — " Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- tice to deny that it has eased my pains, and 1 think has strengthened me out my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow . porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind- est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on Sundar Your affectionate husband, R. B." There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in M-hich the Doel sa}s, " I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better God keep LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi my wife and children." On the r2th, he wrote the letter to Mr. George Thomson, above quoted, requesting £5 ; and, on the same day, he penned also the following — the laat letter that ae ever wrote — to his friend Mrs, Dunlop. " Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer^ that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which T am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- ily send me beyond that bourne xohence no traveller retui-ns. Your friend- ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 1 use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarinid :* — " Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the minister of lluthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through the casement. Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- dow bhnds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long for me. On the 1 Sth, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came bacK to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned onl}', but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of his fame^-and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught uj) and reported from street to street, and from house to house." " His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unruffled, and his wit ne- ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes ot his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen iacreased. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means 1 had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His differences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- • I take the opportunity of once more acknowledj^rif; my great obligations to this ^ntle* floan, who Ls I understand, connected by his marriage witli die family of tlie poet- O cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. given ; they thought only of his genius — of the delight his compositions had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart* ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * " A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the auihority of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue wa? parched-, and his mind sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, July '2 1st 1796, Robert Burns died. " I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- ham ; " several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage ot the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely en the heart than ii his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- per was heard. This was several days after his death." On the '25th of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he had anticipated) with military honours. The chief persons of the town and neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a few tra- velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were lined by the Fennble Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque Ports, then quarted at Dumfries, whose commander, Lord Hawksbury, (af- terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. " The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says Cunningham, " witji the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- tic endearments, v/ith a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners displaj'ed — the mea- sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and had no connexion with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to • In the London Magarine, 1824. Article, " Robe Burns aif" Lord Byron." + So Mr. Syme has informed Mr. JM'Dia.rjud LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii c part witli his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho- velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears oi their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa- ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the ia- mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had n®t been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem." Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the benefit of his family; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the lists, and not a few from England, especially London and Liverpool. Seven hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Currie's Life and Edition of Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- fries, called Burns' Street. " Of the (four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 1S20, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the second, died in 1808; William Nicoll, the third, went to Madras in 1811 ; and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 1812, both as cadets in the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, (James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degi'aded by any ex- ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, and remember without a blush, that tiie author of such verses, the human being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere bread for his child: en by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid cxxiv • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ? The subscription for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- dignation iid not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger among the wilds of Niths'lale — and that, after he was so established, no interference from a highei quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memiory ot that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who tlien adminis- tered the public patronage of Scotland. In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar gmnents, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other having no foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly set up, and arrogantly as weil as ignorantly maintained. To the one, namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was Burns." The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius. This is indeed a can- did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- selves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either encounter or live in constant apprehension of " The thousand ills that rise where money fails, Debts, direats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails ?" To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submittec' to his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says /le, writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, and place them over against that **•• + * account of yours, which has gag- ged my mouth these five or six months ! 1 can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty ! thou half sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility in\y pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- able and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark neglected, ami LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxt his person despised, wliile shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, though, in common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner ol the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations." * In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and to other more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology oJ Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Aa- dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. The beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a like untimely grave. " In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," says Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uiu- form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de- lighted to con;'erse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." • Letter to l\Ir. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328. cxxvl LIFE OF nOBERT BURNS. Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. " His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great beyond his means ;" and I have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- ings of the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about with him." Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the fervour of a poet. " It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to be true;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot thinking, (I fear I nmst add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- dered " a hypochondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and depres- sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, to place many pages which breathe the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, and the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself ha« warned us, it well befits us " At the balance to be mute." Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally of levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, but let fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength to the enemies of truth. It must always be the condition of a great part of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- ligion of multitudes is necessarily founded." * In conclusion, let me adopj • Life of Sir Tliomas Browne. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii the beautiful sentiment of that illustrious moral poet of our own time whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the Ian guage lasts ; — " I>et no mean hope your souls enslave — Be independent, generous, brave ; Your" Poet " such example gave, And such revere. But be admonished by his grave, And think and fear." * It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 m^an when the grave had closed on him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burns's history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most men, to declaim against Burns's sensibiHty to the tangible cares and toils of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a • Wordswof til's address tc the sons of Burns, on visiting his grave in 1C03. cxxvlif LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Bpirit of pleasure wherever it can be found. — in the walks )f nature, and 111 the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among tlie fehcities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas eion of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasuie though intempe- -ate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narroAv- minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, Tarn o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. " Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious." " What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de- ceived." * That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce far different effects. The universal popularity which his writings have all along enjoy- ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the Solway, and there is not a cottage-hut so pooj" ruid wretched as to be with- out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption of this new manual ? lias their attachment to the Book of Bocks declined? Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most of the country wils " Wordsworth's Letter to Gray, p. 24. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxix be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius ana virtue would desire to hear them answered. On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national feelings of his countrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the okl minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that might lie smothered around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances of Scotland were, and had been, such as to starve the flame of patriotism ; the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be gim to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the founder, and, alas ! in his own person as the martyr, of this reformation. That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the toealth of the nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased dearly. " The spring fire," Allan Cunningham says beautifully somewhere, " which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand song-birds ; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautiful things, only for that they were old and our own. It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began v/ith a national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to make use of the dialect of his own country; and how Moore, another most enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But a still more striking sign of tlie times is to be found in the style adopted by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen. In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some traits of abetter kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it conveys is certainly a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — Time out of mind the Southrons' mirthmakers — the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur among their own countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- ment ; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us cxxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now, it will cost no effort to appreciate the nature and consequences of the victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind to be sur{ assed. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitae to his dialect ;" — he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," says a writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — " he was m many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest eminences, he had famil arly trodden from his childhood. All that world he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- vinces, an^ it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the ' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * Dr. Currie says, that " \^ fiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert, Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken fiction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but few of Burns's pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of ima- gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- tisfy every reader of HaUowe en, the Jolly Beggars, and Tarn o' Shanter, (to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- pherson's Lament, &c. ), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, varying, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe- tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attempts that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely imaginative character. Fight who will about words and forms, " Burns's rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, 1 believe, the world at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert that that is poetry of the highest order, which exerts influence of the most powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. Burns has been appreciated dul}-^, and he has had the fortune to be prais- ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after hiir. To accU' Blackwood's Magazine, February 1817« LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxi mulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, of the first order, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the materials in the world besides. " The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion. There is always enough of interest in life to cherish the fu'elings of genius ; but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- reign genius." * " Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in compiling and composing for musical collections. There is sifficient evi- dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- ous task of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste 0/ his power and fancy in sm.all and insignificant compositions, must neces- sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave or important task. Let no one suppose that we under\alue the songs of Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a piece totally unfit for the stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- racter of tlie gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns. It would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded , but this deficiency would have been more than supplied by a bard who could have drawn from his owij perceptions, the unbending energy of » " Soecimens, vol. vii. 241. cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies, and the utmost malice of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite paluoSj with which he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale oi Tarn d Shaiiter, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- oine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with ^he exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined with language and expression suited to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own fame, and to the honour of his country." The cantata of the JoUt/ Beggars, which was not printed at all until some time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of his works until within these k^w years, cannot be considered as it deserves, with- out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- cal forms. Heggars Bush, and Beggar s Opera, sink into tameness in the comparison ; and indeed, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy- awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumphantly under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — That remarkable perform- ance, by the way, was an early production of the Mauchline period. I know nothing but the Tarn d Shaiiter that is calculated to convey so high an impression of what Burns might have done. As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, Mr. Campbell may not have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three-and- twenty to eight-and-thirty, without having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- guring unfavourably on that score, of what he might have been expected to produce in tlie more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even Avhat other peo- ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur- gd, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxiiJ fii most of the new departments in which he made some trial of his strength, (such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire, &c.), he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one magnificent exception in Tarn o Shaiiter — a piece which no one can under- stand without believing, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- line wit and sense of another Dryden. This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided. — But let us not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is. — Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood ; which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;" * — a volume, in which, centuries hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest ccnsolation of his exile. — Already has Glory without end Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend The tears and praises of all time." -f- The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But a splendid mausoleum having been erected by public subscription on the most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- lemnly transferred thi'Jier on the 8th June 181.^; the original tombstone having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh. — The cut annexed to {>. cxxxvi, exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the monument la«» mentioned. See the Censura Litcraria of Sir Egerton Brydges, vol. ii. p. hb ■*• Lord Bvron's Child Harold, Canto iv. ofi. cxxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT HI DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. IN AETERNUM HONOREM ROBERTI BURNS TOETAKUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE FRIKCIPI8 CUJUS CARMINA EXIMIA PATRIO SERMONE SCRIPTA ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUC INGENII QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA FACETIIS JUCUNDITATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA OMNIBUS LITTERARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA CIVES SUI NECNON PLERIQUE OMNES MUSARUM AMANTISSIMI MEMORIAMQUK VIBI ARTE POeTICA TAJI PRAECLARI FOVENTEg HOC MAUSOLEUM SUPER RELIQUIAS POETAE M0RTAEE8 EXTRUENDUM CURAVERE PRIMUM HUJUS AEniFICn LAPIDEM GULIELMUS MILI-ER ARMIGER BEIfUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE AFUD SC0T08 IX BEGIONE AUSTRALI CURIO MAXIMUS PR0VINCIALI8 GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTF. GEORGIO WALLIARUM FRINCIPE 6UMMAM IMPERII PRO PATRE TENENTE JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECTO THOMA 5". HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO POSUIT KONIS JUNTIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCOCXV 8ALUTIS HUMANAE ItDOCCXV. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. cxxxv The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a n^ide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Iloscoe of Liverpool have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life OK THE DEATH OF BURNS. Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour tbv thousand rills. And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah ! what poet now shall tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! As green thy towering pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow. As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; But now, unheeded is the song. And dull and lifeless all around. For his wild harp lies all unstrung, And cold the hand that waked its sound. What though thy vigorous offspring rise, In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. And health in every feature dwell ? Yet who shall now their praises tell. In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell To lov-e, and liberty, and thee ? With step-dame eye and frown severe His hapless youth why didst thou view ? For all thy joys to him were dear. And all his vows to thee were due; Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, In opening youth's delightful prime. Than when thy favouring car he drew To listen to his chaunted rhyme. Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 'I'o him were all with rapture fraught ; He heard with joy the tempest rise That waked him to sublimer thought ; And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. Where wild-flowers pour'd theit rathe per- And with sincere devotion brought To thee the summei's earliest bloom. But ah ! no fond maternal smile His unprotected youth en joy 'd, His limbs inur'd to early toil. His days with early hardships tried) And more to mark the gloomy void, And bid him feel his misery. Before his infant eyes would glide Day-dreams of immortality. -et, not by cold neglect depress'd, With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 5wnk with the evening sun to rest. And met at morn his earliest smile. A'aked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile The powers of fancy came ;dong. And footh'd his lengthenec hours of toil, \Vith native wit and sprightly song. Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, When vigorous health from labour springs, And bland contentment smooths the bed, And sleep his ready opiate brings ; And hovering round on airy wings Float the light forms of young desire, That of unutterable things The soft and shadowy hope inspire. Now spells of mightier power prepare. Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, Unveil'd her eyes, anclasp'd her zone. Till, lost in love's delirious trance. He scorns the joys his youth has known. Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. Expanding all the bloom of soul; And iVlirth concentre all her rays. And point them from the sparkling bowi And let the careless moments roll In social pleasure unconfined. And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind : CXXXVI And lead his steps those bowers among, Where elegance with splendour vies, Or Science bids her favour'd throng To more refined sensations rise : Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, And freed from each laborious strife, There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits the sons of polish'd life. Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high With every impulse of delight, Dash from his lips the cup of joy, And shroud the scene in shades of night ; And let Despair, witn wizard light. Disclose the yawning gulf below. And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : And show beneath a cheerless shed. With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head, The partner of his early joys ; ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. And let his infants' tender crie« His fond parental succour clainij And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. *Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds j His high reluctant spirit bends ; In bitterness of soul he bleeds. Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot lau^h the welkin rends As genius thus degraded lies ; Till pitying Heaven the veil extends That shrouds the I'oet's ardent eyes. — Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red J But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. That ever breathed the sooUiiu|[ »trua> CHARACTER BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS, MRS. RroDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with ihe loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or ol anticipating on the province of a biographer. Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- nicate. It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, and considered, with reference to his poetical talents only : for the fact is, even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (1 appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person ally acquainted with him) was actually not his forte. Many others, per- haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of ParnassuSj but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I • Mm. Riddell knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for observation of what he said and di<<, m well as of what waj said of him and done towards him. Her beautifully written F.loee, — friendly yetoodid, —was well received and generally circulated at the time. It has betm inserted by Dr Currie in his sevcra' editions, as interesting from its elegance, and authoritative from the writei's accurate informatioD; we haw therefore most readily given it a place here. cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of bri.liant repar- tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the * vivida vis animV His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- ible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rovgh exercises of Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori- ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism, The keenness of sa- tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness of humour, that '• unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca- price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calendar of Saints ; if so, Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. " 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic," to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that " for every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;" but much allowance will be made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs im.posed by the way- wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper wa* indeed checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or ol decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity oi r ha- CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxix racter, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledg- ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- guished. It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good nater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said about his incon- stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoival was a reparation. His native^er/e never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri- bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the inte- rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and the Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the public as Boon as bis friends have collec^.ed and arranged them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the rank of society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a cxl CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRIDNGS. grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence they really sprung. To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the loom, f That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, might readily be convinced. I have indeed seldom observed him to be at a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas- ter of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- sic erudition extended little, if any, farther. The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to " chill the genial current of the soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? I will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never was free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had con- tinued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re- gard to the decorums of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- " The fate of this worthy man is noticed at p. 302, where will be found a deserved tribute to his memory, (for he, too, alas 1 is gone), from Uie pen of a friend. •f- The plan of breeding the poet's eldest son a manufacturer was given up. He has been placed in one of the public offices (the Stamp-Office) in London, where he continues to fill respectably a respectable situation. His striking likeness to the poet bas be»"n often le* marked. CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxl ocrity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; tlie pebble may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fota. to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginatio? which scorns the narrow limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Biirrs made his own artless apology in language more impressive than ali the argumentatory vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary muse," who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, with these lines : " I saw thy pulse's madd'ning j)lay Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray. Was light from heaven ■" • I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I haa proposed to my- self, on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and cha- racter : a literary critique 1 do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the plough, where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public. prints, ever since the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be perma- nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it vvil' oe found he has merited by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — " Where they alike in trembling hope repose^ — The bosom of his father and his God.'' Gray's Eleot. Annandale, August 7, 1796. " Vide tlie Vision — Duan 2d. TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEME.M OF THE CALEDONIAx\ HUNT. My Lords and Gentlemen, A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look for patron- age as to the ilhistrious names of his Native Land; those who bear the ho- nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whis- pered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and ay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. Though mucli indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that ho- nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours : I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the cow mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell .nd world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await ycwir return : When harassed in courts or camps clx DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAN HUNT with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consci- ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find an inexorable foe I I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, V^our most devoted humble servant, ROBERT BUKNS. Edinburgh, » AprU 4, 1787. ^ POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS: A TALE. TwAS ia that place o' Scotland's isle, That Dears the name o* Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Show'd him ths gentleman and scholar : But tho' he was o' high degree, The fient a pride na pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressin', Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke. As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his towzie back We«l clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hurg o'er his hurdles wi' a jwurl. * CuchulUn't dog ia Ossian'i FingaL Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; Wi* social noise whyles snuS^d and snowkit | Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion ; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression, About the lords o' the creation. I've often wonder'd honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you naTC * An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies lived ava. Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : He rises when he likes himsel' ; His flunkies answer at the bell ; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draw.s a bonnie silken purse. As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiluigt At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin'. Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the Ian' : An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch ia, I own its past my comprehension. Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugk A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like. Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them righ*: and tight in ttack an' rape. 2 BURNS WORKS. An' when they meet w'l sair disasters. Like loss o' health, or want of masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet. They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; An' buirflly ehiels, an' clever hizzies. Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ! L — d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd on our Laird's court day An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor teuant bodies, scant o' cash. How they maun thole a factor's snash ; He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustomed wi' the sight. The view o't gi'es them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided ; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; The pratthn things are just their pride That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy , They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs • They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, rantiu' kirns. When rural life, o' every station. Unite in common recreation : Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Carf upo' the earth. That merry Jry the year begins, They bar the aoor on frosty winds ; The nappy reeks wi' mantling refill, An' «heds a heart-inspiring steam % The luntin' pipe, aril sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will : The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantiu' thro' the house,- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften ])lay'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. Are riven out baith root and branch. Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha t'ftinks to knit himself the faster In favours wi' some gentle master, Wlia aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. For Britain's guid his saul indentin'— Haith, lad, ye little ken about it • P'or Britain's puid ! — guid faith, I doubt It Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him : At operas an' plays parading. Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, To learn ion ton and see the worl' There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails ! Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi' newt ; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtlefl i Then bouses drumly German water. To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows Love gifts of Carnival signoras. For liritain's gmd ! — for her destruction < Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate ! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last ! O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sports. It wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ; For thae frank, rantin', ramblin* billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; Except for breakin' o' their timmer. Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer. Or shootin* o' a hai-e or moor-cock. The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. But will ye tell mfc, Master Ctesar, Sure great folk's 'ife's a V?e o plewure ? S^". cauld uf hunger e'er can stet. ibem, The very tnought o't need na fear them. POEMS. CMSAK. L— d, man, were ye but whyks where I am, the gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'fim. It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. An' 'fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges an" schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themselves to vex them. An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them ; A country fellow at the pleugh. His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's \mco weel ; But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi" ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; An' ev'n their sports, their balls, .an' races, Their gallopin' through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches. Then sowther a' in deep debauches : Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters ; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie. They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard. An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman ; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this the sun was out o' sight : An' darker gloaming brought the night : The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : ^^'hen up they gat an shook their lugs, Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; And each took aflf his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. There let him bouse, and deep carouie Wr bumpers flowing o'er. Till he forgets his luvcs or debt^. An' minds his priefs no morn. Solomons Provcros, xxxi. 6, ^, SCOTCH DRINK Gie him strong drink, until he wmk. That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, Thai's nrest wi' XXIV, In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, An* sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knifi!^ The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother. Till some ane by his bonnet lays. An' gi'es them't hke a tether, Fu' lang that dajr. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae iu% Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing ! O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel* How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! XXVI. Now CUnkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, the best they doWf Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink. Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a* in famous tune. For crack that day, xxvn. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses I Their heai'ts o' stane, gin night, are gans As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy ; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither lUy • A street so called, which faces the ent in . * Shakespeare's Hamlet. POEMS. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- BOOK : A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd : Ev'n Miniiiters, they hae been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend. And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, la just as true's tlie De'iis in hell Or Dublin city : That e'cj' he nearer comes oursel' 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan ylll had made me canty, I was aae fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches ; An* hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; To count her horns, wi' a' ray power, I set mysel' ; But whether she had three or four, I couldna tell. I was come round about the hill. And todlin down on Willes mill, Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, To keep me sicker ; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I there wi' Something did forgathea, That put me in an eerie swither : An' awfu' scythe, out-owre at shouther. Clear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed leister on the ither, Lay, large and lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. The queerest sha|ie that e'er I saw, For fient a warae it had ava ; And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. ' Guid-een,'quo'I; ' Friend! haeyebeenmawin', When ither folk are busy sawin' V * It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', But naething spak : At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ?' It spak right howe, — ' My name is Death, But be na fleyM.' — Quoth I, ' Guid faith,' Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; But tent me, billie : I red ye weel, tak care e* skaith. See there's a guJy !* ' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittlst I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wadna mind it, no, that spittle Out owre my beard. ' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't • We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come gie's your news ; This while * ye hae been mony a gate. At mony a house. ' ' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, ' Its een a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread. An' choke the breath; Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death, ' Sax thousand years are nearhand fled Sin' I was to the hutching bred. An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me ; Till ane Hornbook 's f taen up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me * Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, Dei] mak his king's hood in a sjileuchan ! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan 1 An' ither chaps. The weans baud out their fingers laiighin' An' pouk my hips. ' See, here's a scythe, and tliere's a dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill. Has made them baith no worth a f — t, Damn'd haet they'll kilL ' *Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane ; Wi' less, I'm suj-e, I've hundreds slaic j But deil-ma-caie. It just play'd dirl on the bane. But did nae mair. ' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part. That when I looked to my dart, It Was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. • I drew my scythe in sic a fury. • Thi» rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. • An epidemical fever was then raginp in that eountrf t This gentlem.ui, Dr. Hcirnhnoh, is, profc&sionallf a brother of the Sovereipn Order of the FtTTUa; but by intuition and inspiration, is at one* an Ajiothecarf Surgeon, and Physician. % Buchan's Dconestiic Medicine. 112 lO BURNS' WORKS. I nearhanil coiipit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Af^thecory Withstood the shock ; I might as weel hae trieo a quarry O' hard whin rock. Ev'n there, he canna get attended, Altho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it, Just in a kail-blade, and send it, As scon's he smells't, Balth their disease, and what will meud it, At once he tells't. ' An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. He's sure to hae ; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. ' Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; True SaUmarinum o' the seas ; The Farina of beans and pease. He has't in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please. He can content ye. * Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; Distill'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, An* moiiy mae.* ' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole * now ;' Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, Sae white an' bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; They'll ruin Johnny /' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh la twa-three year. ' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. ' An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed. But ne'er spak mair. ♦ A couctra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some cu.murring in his guts, • Thegisve-digger. His only son for Hornbook sets. An' pays him well ; The lad, for tiva guid gimmer pets. Was laird himsel* ' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her Wftooe ; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame. In Hornbook's care ; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. To hide it there. ' That's just a swatch o* Hornbook's way { Thus goes he on from day to day. Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't ; Yet steps me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt. ' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; I'll nail the self- conceited sot. As dead's a herrin* ; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin' !' But just as he began to tell. The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which raJs'd us baith I took the way that pleased mysel', And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR: A POEM. Inscribed to J. B- -, Esq. Ayr. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plouglr.. Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greets thorn bush : The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'ef the hill ; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune' field- Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? No ! though his artless strains he rudely singe, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the string* He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; When B befriends his humble 'lame. And hands the rustic stranger up to tame. POEMS. II With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike fr) give alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : Fctatoe bings are snutjged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, Unnuniber'cl buds an' flciwers* delicious spoils. Seal' d up with frugal care in massive waxen pile*, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, chiklien, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) ! Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs : Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze. While thick the gossaniour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicitv s reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ai/r, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about : (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether rapt in meditation high, He v/ander'd out he knew not where nor why). The drowsy Dunpeon-dockjf had number'd two. And Wallace tower -f had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar. Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd as Nature's cioued e'e ; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, Ihe clanging sough of whistling wings he heard ; Tvo dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Pwift as the Gos ^ drives on the wheeling hare ; • > noted tavern at tlie Auli Brig end. * 1 he two stt epies. i T^ SOS-hawk, or falccn. Ane on th Auld Brig his airy shape uprear^ The ither flutters o'er the risinr; piers : Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside, (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken thein.'^. Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang Yet toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at LoiCon, frae ane Adams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi* virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxiotu search. Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien, He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en— AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day 1 doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddlet Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat stream, * Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIQ. Conceited gowk ! pufTd up wi' windy pride ! This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye bette.. When heavy, dark, continued, a' -day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the biawl- ing Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source, • A noted ford, just aboic the Auld Bng. I t The banks oC Garpal Mooter is one ol the fcwpiacei i2 BURNS' WORKS. Arous d by blust'iins; winds and spotting tbowes. In mony a torrent down his siia-broo rowcs ; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate.; And from (,'lenbiick* down to the Rattan hty,'^ Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the guralie jaups up to the pouring skies, A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; Windows aud doors, in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free. Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited Monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; Fancies t'nat our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with re- surrection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dcar-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! Ye worthy Pniveses, an' mony a £aiUe, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; Ye dainty Deacons, an ye louce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae yom hurdles to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the brao. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vex- ation. To see each melancholy alteration ; Jn the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring he- Jngs, known by the name of G/mists, still coutmue pertinaciously to inhabit. • Tlie source of the river Ayr. * A smail landing-place above the large key. And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend IMen, tleir coimtry'i glory, ^ In plain braid Scots hold forth a plam braid story ! Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, IMeet owre a pint, or in the Council house : But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d " d new Srigs and Harbours I NEW BRIG. Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can male to through, As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o' your langer beard. Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; To liken them to your auld warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down the street In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin' owie hops an' raisins. Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds aud Seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed them. Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. What farther clishmaclaver might been said. What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M'' Lauchlin,* thairm-inspiring sage. Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys tliey bor« with Highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobhr fir'd^ And even his matchless hand with finer touch iuspir'd ! • A well known performer of Scottish music on thu violin. POEMS. II No gu,?ss couLI tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable chief advanced in years; His hoarj' head with water-lilies crown'd. His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding com ; Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show. By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair; Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Cutrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- ling wrath. THE ORDINATION. For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge an* claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations. Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ajie an' a', An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to Serjhies in a raw. An' pour divine libations For joy this day. n. Curst Common- sense, tliat imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;• But O aft made her yell. An' R sair misca'd her ; This day, M' takes the flail, An' he's the boy will blaud her ! • Alluding to a scoffing baJbd which was made on fte admission of the late Itevercnd and worthy Mr. L. to tbe Laigh Kirk< He'll clap a shangan on her taiT, An* set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day in. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; O* double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kirks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her For heresy is in her power. And gloriously she'll whang her Wi* pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff w.'' vigour, How graceless Ham * leujh at his Dadt Which made Canaan a nige: : Or Phineasf drove the murdering b.ad*^ Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, ^ the scaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger r the inn that dax , There, try his mettle on the creed, An' bind him down wi' caution, That Stipend is a carnal weed, He taks but for the fiishion ; An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. An' punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them suflScient thrcshin', Spare them nae day. VI. Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-o'svTe the dale Because thy pasture's scanty ; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail ShaU fill thy crib in plenty. An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day. VIL Nae mair by Sabel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion ; An' hing our fiddles up to sleep. Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' ci.eep» An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, An' a like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day. VIIL Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aira, Has shored the Kirk's undoia', • Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 2?. f Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. I Exodus, ch. iv. ver Vo. 14 BURNS' WORKS. As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; An' like a godly elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, An' sound this day. IX. Now R harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever ; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever ; Or, nae reflection on your tear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Netherton repair, An' turn a carper weaver Aff hand this day. M- and vou were just a match, We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons : An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast, this day. XI. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, She's swingein' through the city ; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty : An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Seattle Her plaint this day. XII. But there's Morality himsel', Embracing a' opinions ; Hear, how be gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aif to hell, An' banish'd our dominions. Henceforth this day XIIL O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find qu'jter : M' > R > are the joys. That heresy ca-i .ortu:\ . They'll gie u»;" on a rape a hoyse, / £* cv'we licr measure shorter By the head sbme day. XIV. G)me bring the tither matchkin in, An' here's for a conclusion, To every New Light * mother's wii. From this time forth, Confusion : If mair they dcave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion. We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some d»» THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. ' And th*| shall go forth, anJ grow up, like calves of Jie stall. Right Sir ! your text I'll prove tA tr.ie, Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf J An' should some Patron be so kind. As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt nae. Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk, But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it., every heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Slot ! Tho*, when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns. The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte. Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank ainang the nowte. And when ye're numbered wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head— > ' Here lies a famous Sullock /' ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Power's, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. — Milton, O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yin cavern grim an' sootie, Clo. 'd Ui. det ' .tthvl^ Spairges abo-io +he ."•'•unstane cootie, To scaud poor wretchet • Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. An' let poor damned bodies be ; • New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- land, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. ^oEMs. : k I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. Is instant made no worth a louse, E'en to a deil, Just at the bit. ' To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. An' hear us squeel ! When thowes dissolve the snawy hoon^ An' float thejinglin' iey-boord. Great is tliy pow'r, an' great tby fame ; Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 'ar kend and noted is thy name ; By your direction, An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, An' nighted Trav'Uers are allured Thou travels far ; To their destruction. An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur An' aft your moss-traversing Sptinkiet Decoy the wight that late and drunk 'a ; Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeyi* For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; Delude his eyes. Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin", Till in some miry slough he sunk is. Tirling the kirks ; Ne'er mair to rise. Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. When 3Iasons' mystic word an' grip.. In storms an' tempests raise you up. I've heard my reverend Grannie say. Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, !n lanely glens you like to stray ; Or, strange to tell .' Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, The youngest Brother ye wad whip Nod to the moon, Aff straught to hefl ' .e fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. Lang syne, in Eden's bonuie yard, When ytiuthfu' lovers first were pair'd. When twilight did my Grannie summon. An' all the soul of love they shar'd. To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! The raptur'd hour, Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin* ! Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird Wi' eerie drone ; In shady bower : Or, rustlin', thro* the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan. Then you, ye auld, suic-drawing dog ! Ye came to Paradise i7icog, Ae dreary, windy, winter night. An' played on man a cursed brogue. The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, (Black be your fa* [j Wi' you, riiysel', I gat a fright. An' gied the infant world a shog. Ayont the lough ; 'JNIaist ruined a* Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight. Wi' waving sough. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizi, Wi* reekit duds, and reestit gizz. The cudgel in my nieve did shake. Ye did present your smoutie phiz Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 'JVIang better folk. When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick — An' sklented on the jnan of Uz Amang the springs, Your spitefu' joke? Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. On whistling wings. An* how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. While scabs and blotches did him gall. Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. Wi' bitter claw. They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags. An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scaw^ Wi' wicked speed ; Was warst ava ? And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain j Down to this time. For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, By witching skill ; In prose or rhyme. An* dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane As yell's the Bill. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken v,;*re thinlda • V certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin*. Thence mystic kict<< mak great abise. ootr^t >uc»i.;e88 i.our wili -wrd '-ai (""ViB' On yousp G_iaiu. n, fnna, keen, an' mouse ; T"}- ""•"I"' yiU": '\i >e8' vaik-lume i' the liouse, By cantrip wit, ' Vide Milton, book ▼». x9 BURNS' WORKS But, faith ' lie'll turn a corner, jinkin', And cheat you yet. But, fare ye weel, auld Nichk-henI wad ye tak a thought und men' ! J Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — 1 m wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake ! THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailii, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsled in the ditch ; There, groaning, dying, she did lie. When Hughoc* be came doytin by. Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! He gaped wide, but naething spak ! At length poor Mailie silence brak. • O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear, 4n' bear them to my Master dear. ' Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will : So may his flock inciease, an' gi-ow To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! ' Tell hitn, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine : An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. ' O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! But gie them guid cow milk their fill. Till they be fit to fend themsel ; An* tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi* teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. ' An' may they never learn the gaeti Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' 8t'>al, At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kaiL So may they, like their great forbear^ For mony a year come thro' the sheers: So wives will gie them bits o' bread. An' bairns greet for them when they V? dead ' My poor toop-lamh, my son an' heir, bid him breed him up wi' care I An' if he live to be a beast. To pit some havins in his breast ! An* warn him, what I winna name. To stay content wi' yowes at harae ; An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. * An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string ■ O, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit moorland toip : But aye keep mind to moop an' meU Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! ' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breato, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither. * Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him burn this cursed tether. An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amans: the dead. * A neebor herd-callan. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; Our bardie's fate is at a close. Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; Poor Maine's dead ! It's no the loss o' warl's gear. That could sae bitter draw the tear. Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He's lost a friend and neebor dear. In Mailis dead. Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi* kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel' wi' mense . I'll say't, she never brak a fence. Thro' tliiev" ih greed POEMS. 17 Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Hae ye a leisure moment's time" Sin' Mailie's dead. To hear what's comin' ? Or, if he wanders up the howe, Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; Her living image in her yowe. Some rhyme (vain thought \) for needfu' cash. Comes bleating to hira owre the knowe, Some rhyme to court the countra clash, For bits o' bread ; An' raise a din ; An* down the briny pearls rowe For me an aim I nerer fash ; For Mailie dead. I rhyme for fun. She was nae get o' moorland tips, The star that rules ray luckless lot. Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips: Has fated me the russet coat. For her forbears were brought in ships An' damned my fortune to the groat : Frae yont the Tweed I But in requit. A bonnier ^ecsA ne'er cross'd the clips Has bless'd me wi' a random shot Than Mailie dead. 0' countra wit. Wae worth the man wha first did shape This while my notion's taen a skl«it, That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! To try my fate in guid black prent ; It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, But still the mair I'm that way bent, Wi' chokin' dread ; Something cries ' Hooli* An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape. I red you, honest man, tak tent ! For Mailie dead. Ye'll shaw your folly. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! ' The»e's ither poets, much your betters, An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Come, join the melancholious croon Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, O' JRohin's reed ! A' future ages ; His heart will never get aboon Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, His Mailie dead. Their unknown pages. Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. TO J. S To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang. An teach the lanely heights au' howes My rustic sang. Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! Sweet' ner of life, and solder of society 1 I owe thee much ! Biair. 1*11 wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; That e'er attempted stealth or rief. Then, all unknown. Ye surely hae some warlock-breef I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. Owre human hearts; Forgot and gone ! For ne'ar a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. But why o' death begin a tale ? Just now we're living, sound an' hale. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, And every star that blinks aboon, Heave care o'er side ' Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, And 'arge, before enjoyment's gale, Just gaun to see you : Let's tak' the tide. And every ither pair that's done. Muir taen I'm wi' you. TV, is life, sae far's I understand. Is a' enchanted fairy land. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, Where pleasure is the magic wand. To mak amends for scrimpit stature, That, wielded right, She's tui n'd you aflf, a human creature Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand. On \icT first plan, Dance by fu' light. And in her freaks, on every feature. She's wrote, the Man, The magic-wand then let us wield ; For ance tliat five-an'-forty's speel'd. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, See crazy, weary, joyless eild, My barmie noddle's working prime, Wi' wrinkled face. My f&ncy yerkit up sublime Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, Wi' hasty summon ) Wi' creepin' pace. 18 BURNS' WORKS. WTien ance life's day Draws near the gloamin', Then faieweel vacant careless roamin' ; An' faieweel cheeifu' tankards foamin', An' social noise ; An' fareweel dear deluding woman. The joy of joyg ! O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swat, They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain ; And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; Keen hope does every sinew brace : Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, An seize the prey : Then cannie, in some cozie place. They close the day An' others, like your humble servan*. Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ; To right or left, eternal swervin'. They zig-zag on ; Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. They aften groan. Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— But truce with peevish poor complaining ! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? E'en let h»r gang ! Beneath what light she has remaining. Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, ' Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore, ' The' I should wander terra o'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more. Aye rowth o' rhymes. * Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards : Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, An' maids of honocr ; An' yill an whisky gie to cairds, [Jntil they sconner. • A title, Dempster merits it , A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit. In cent, per cent But give me real, sterling wit. An' I'm content, ' While ye are pleased to keep me baia) I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi* cheerfu' face. As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace.' An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose ; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows. As weel's I may t Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule. Grave, tldeless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi* you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool. Your lives, a dyke ! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces In your unlettcr'd nameless faces ; In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're unttp Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. The rattlin' squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road.— Whilst I — but I shall baud me there— Wi' you I'll scarce gang any where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames wttk reason ; But surely dreams were ne'er Indicted treason. [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 17S6, the authar was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him. self transported to the birth-day levee ; and in bJi dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] GuiD-MORNiN* to your Majesty ! May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My hardship here, at your levee, On sic a day as this is, POEMS. 19 It 8ure an uncouth sight to see, Amang the biith-dav dresses Sue fine this day. II. I see ye're complfmcnted thrang, By mony a lord an' lady, • God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye ; The poets, too, a venal gang, \Vi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready. Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang. But aye unerring steady. On sic a day. III. For me ! before a monarch's face, Ev'n t/iere I winna flatter ; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the race. An' aiblinis ane been better Than you this day. IV. Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Jly skill may weel be doubted : But facts are chiels that wiuna ding. An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing. Is e'en right reft an' clouted, A.n' now the third part o' tlie string, An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. To rule this mighty nation ! But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Site, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fiU'd their station Than courts yon day. VI, An' now ye've gien auld Uritain peace, Her broken shins to plaister ; Your sair taxation does her fleece. Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster. Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture r the craft some day VIl. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), hat be intends to nay your debt, An* lessen a' your charges *, But, God-sake ! A;t nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek Beneath your high protection ; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, An' gie her for dissection ! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day< IX. Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye acce])t a compliment A simple poet gies ye? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye, In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sa I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails. An' curse your folly sairly. That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. XL Yet aft a ragged cowte'a been known To mak a noble aiver : So, ye may doucely fill a throne. For a' their clish-ma-claver : There, him • at Agincimrt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,f He was an unco shaver For monie a day XII. For you, right rev rend Osnabrug, Naue sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown von paughty dog "That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. Or, trouth, ye'U stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. Yoiing royal Tarry lireeks, I learnt Ye've lately come athwart her ; • King Henrv V. t Sir John FalstafT, vide Shaketpeara^ 20 BURNS' WORKS A glorious galJeij* stem an stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; But first haag out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple aim, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty : But sneer nae Sritish hoys awa*, For kings are unco scant aye ; An' German gentles are but sma'. They're better just than want aye On onie day. XV. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro'. It may be bitter sautet ; An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow. The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day THE VISION. DUAN FIRST. f The sun had closed the winter day. The curlers quat their roaring play. An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards grear While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has bewt The thresher's wewcy flingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me : And whan the day had closed his e'e. Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggni" ^ An' beard the restless rations squeak About the riggin'. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime. An' done nae-thing. • Alluding to the newspaper account of a CMtain royal sailor's amour. f Duan, a term of Ossian's for the difTerent divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. li. of U'Pherson's translation. But stringin' blethei s up in rhyme For fooLs to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market. Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account : While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkr^ . Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! en/' And heav'd on high my waukit lorS, To swear by a' yon starry rcaf, Or sp-ne ra«'a *lcb. That I, henceforth, would je rhy.ne-proaf Till my la« breath— When click ! the string the sneck did dr«^ An* jee ! the doof g'.ed to the wa* ; An* by my ingli-' jVI'. I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight ou'.lat.df^h Hizzie braw. Come full in sight Ys nteA r>\ doubt, I held my whisht Tte inftnt aith half-form'd was crush't ; I g'oT'f'*'' as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen ; ^Ti«a sweat, like modest worth, she bla3h*t, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-houghs. Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token ; An* come to stop those reckless vows. Would soon been broken. A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' Was strongly mai-ked in her face ; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her ; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honour Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only pear it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else cam near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue. My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, thseif A lustre grand ; And seem'd to my astonish' d view, A well known -fend. Here, rivers in the sea were lost i There, mountains to the skies were tost ; Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast. With surging foam ; There, di»tant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. POEMS. 21 tlerc Dorm po ur'd dovm Lis far-fetcK'd floods ; rtere, well-fed Irwine stately tliuds : Auld hermit Ai/r staw thro' his woods. On to the shore ; And many a .tsser torrent scuds, Witir seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient horovgk reai'd her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read. She boasts a race, To every nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace. By stately tow'r or palace fair. Or riiins pendent in the air. Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With feature stern. My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race * heroic wheel. And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows ; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their suthron foes. His Country's SAviouR,t mark him well ! Bold Richardtoti s \ heroic swell ; The chief on Sark § who glorious fell, in high command ; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptred Pictisk shade || Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race pourtray'd In colours strong ; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along, Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, (Fit haunts for friendship or for love In musing mood), An aged Judge, I saw him rove. Dispensing good. With deep-struck reverential awe,** The learned sire and son I saw. To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, • The Wallaces. f William Wallace. i Adam Wallace, of Richard ton, cousin to the im- mortal preserver of Scottish inilcpenilence. } Wallace, Laird of Craisie, who was second in com- mand, under Doufjias Earl of Ormonri, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 141H. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigic, who lied of his wounds after the action. I! Coilus, King of the Picls, from whom the district of Kyle is sain to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- tion iiys, near the family-scat of the Montgomeries of CoilsTield, where his burial place is still shown. ^ Barskimming, the seat ot the late Lord Justice. Clerk. •• Catrine, the se»t of th late Doctor, and present Profrssor iitewart. This, all its source and end to draw, That, to adore. Brydon's brave ward * I well could ipy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; Who call'd on Fame, low standing by> To hand him on, Where ».:any a patriot-name on high, And hero shone. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the hcav'nly-seeming/n/;' ; A whisp'ring throb did witness hear, Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet. ' All hail ! my own inspired bard I In me thy native muse regard ; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. Thus poorly low, I come to give thee such reward As we bestow ' Know, the great genivs of this land Has many a light, aerial band. Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniouslv, As arts or arms they understand, ' Their labours ply ' They Scotia's race among them share j Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Some rou.se the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart : Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art. ' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gon, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore. And grace the hand. ' And when the bard, or hoary sage. Charm or instruct the future ao-e. They bind the wild poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the e/e. ' Hence FuUarton, the brave and young ; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His " Minstrel lays;" Or tore, with noble ardour stung. The sceptic's bays. ' To lower orders are assign 'd The humbler ranks of human-kind. * Colone' Fullartoo. 22 BURNS' WORKS The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, The Artii^an ; All choose, as various they're inclin'd, The various man, ' When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; Some teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage skill ; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blithe o'er the hill. ' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. For humble gains, And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Some bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic Sard ; And careful note each op'ning grace, A guide and guard. ' Of these am I — Coila my name ; And this district as mine I claim. Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling pow'r : I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. ' With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond on thy little early ways, Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase. In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lays Of other times. ' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ' Or when the deep-green mantled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. ' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. ' When youthful love, warm-blushing, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song. To soothe thy fiame. ' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. By Passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Wa-s light from heaveik ' I taught thy manners-painting strains The loves, the ways of simple swains Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the pride of Collars plains. Become thy friends. ' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show To paint with Thomsdn^s landscape glow ; Or wake the bosom-melting throe. With Shenstotte' s art ; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. ' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows : Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade. Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. • Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; And trust me, not Potos^s mine. Nor king's regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic Bard. ' To give my counsels all in one. Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect ; And trust the Universal plan Will all protect. • And wear thou this,' — she solemn s&Id And bound the Holly round my head ; The polish'd leaves, and berries red. Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THS RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these maxims make r ml*. And lump them aye tliej;itli cj The Rifs'id Jlig/iteous is a fool. The Rigid /fue anither j POEMS. 23 The cleanest com that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in ; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin.— Soiomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. YE wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious an' sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neet)nur's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like 4 weel gaun mill, Suppl;''d wi' store o' water, The heapit happer's ebbing still. And still the clap plays clatter. II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, 1 hat frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences. Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. III. Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, An' shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard. What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop. What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o* baith to sail, It maks an unco lee-way. V. See social life and glee sit dawn, All joyous and unthinking. Till, quite transmogrified, they're grow* Debauchery and drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences ; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses ' VI. Ve high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ve gie poor frailty name% Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ve're aiblins :ae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving wht/ they do it ; And just as lumely ran ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us. He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGIT An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pop0^ Has auld K seen the Deil ! Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? Or R \ again grown weel To preach an' read ? ' Na, waur than a* !' cries ilka chiel, ' Tarn Samson's dead ! K lang may grunt an' grane. An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead The brethren of the myotic level, May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel. Like ony bead ! Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson's dead ! When winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock ; When to the lochs the curler's flock, Wi' gleesome speed ; Wha will they station at the cock ? Tain Samson's dead ! He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. • When this worthy old sportsman went out iMt muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian't phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- dent wish to die and be burled in the muirs. On thil hint the author composed his elec;y anauk-en. Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin' To spear that night, XIII. Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, " Will ye go wi* me, grannie? I'W eat the apple f at the plass, I gat frae uncle Johnie :" She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt. In wrath she was sae vap'rin*, She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her bravv new worset apron Oat thro' that night. XIV. '* Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin'. As seek the foul Thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a s'ffht / Great cause ye hae to fear it; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret On sic a night. XV. " Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fyfteen : • Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these riireetions: Steal out, all alone, to the tiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the .Id one : and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread, demand wtui tiauds? i. e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the i-seed I saw thee; hemp-seed I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.' Look over voiir '.tfft shoulder, and you will se» the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, ' come after me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself: in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, ' come after me, and harrow thee.' POEMS. 27 He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or cioucliie Meiran Hiiniphie, Ti'.y stop ! she tiottf Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then, content could make us blest ; Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a* Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba'. Has aye some cause to smile ; And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' : Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. IV. What though, like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall ? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And bla'Abirds whistle clear. • David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems ia the Scottish diaJeeth t Ramsav. POEMS. 31 WitK lionest joy our hearts will bound, It warms me, it charms me. To see the coming year : To mention but her name ; On braes when we please, then, It heats me, it beets me. We'll sit and sowth a tune ; And sets me a* on flame ! Syne rktjme tiil't, we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done. IX. O all ye Powers who rule above ! V. Thou whose very self art lovt 1 It's no in titles nor in rank ; Thou knowest my words sincere ! It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, The life-blood streaming thro* my hear^ To purchase peace and rest ; Or my more dear immortal part. It's no in making muckle mair : Is not more fondly dear ! It's no in books ; it's no in lear. When heart-corroding care and grief To mak us truly blest ! Deprive my soul of lest, If happiness hae not her seat Her dear idea brings relief And centre in the breast, And solace to my breast. We may bt wise, or rich, or great, Thou Being, All-seeing, But never can be blest : hear my fejvent pray'r ; Nae treasures, no* pleasures, Still take her and make her Could make us sappy lang ; Thy most peculiar care ! The heart ay'es the part aye, X. That makes us right or wrang. All hail, ye tender feelings dear I VI. The smile of love, the friendly tear, Think ye that sic as you and I, The sympathetic glow ; Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry Long since, this world's thorny ways Wi' never-ceasing toil ; Had numbered out my weary days. Think ye, are we less blest than they, Had it not been for you ! ■NVTia scarcely tent us in their way, Fate still has blest me with a friend, As hardly worth their while ? In every care and ill ; Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, And oft a more endearing band, God's creatures they oppress ! A tie more tender sti!!. Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, It lightens, it brightens They riot in excess ? The tenebrific scene. Baith careless and fearless To meet with, and greet with Of either heav'n or hell ; My Davie or my Jean. Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale ! XI. 0, how that name inspires my style ! VII. The words come skelpin' rank and file, Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; Amaist before I ken ! Nor make our scanty pleasures less. The ready measure rins as fine, By pining at our state ; As Phoebus and the famous Nine And, even should misfortunes come. Were glowrin' owre my pen. I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, My spaviet Pegasus will limp. An's thankfu' for them yet. Till ance he's fairly het ; They gie the wit of age to youth ; And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp^ They let us ken oursel' ; An' rin an' unco fit : They make us see the nuked truth, But lest then, the beast then, The real guid and ill. Should rue his hasty ride, Tho' losses and crosses, I'll light now, and dight now Be lessons right severe, His sweaty wizen'd hide. There's wit there, ye'll get there. . Ye'll find nae other where. VIII. THE LAMENT, But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! OCCASIONED BV THEt/.VFORTUN ATE ISSUK '.T k (To say aught else wad wrang the cartes. friend's amour. And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I ; And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe U-ifcwM The lover an' the frien' ; I. Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, THOU pale orb, that silent shines, And I my darling Jean I While care-uutroubled mortals sleep ' S2 BURNS' WORKS. Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep ! With woe I nightly vigils keep. Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and luve are all a dream. II. I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly-marked distant hill : I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 4h ! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace ! III. No idly-feign'd poetic pains. My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; N> fabled tortures, quaint and tame : T be pligh;ed faith ; the mutual flame ; The oft-attested Powers above; The promised Father's teiider name ; These were the pledges of my love ! IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown ! How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone ! And must I think it ? is she gone. My secret heart's exulting boast ? And does she heedless hear my groan .' And is she ever, ever lost ! Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part. The plighted husband of her youth ! Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ? Her sorrows share and make them less ? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy 'd. Your dear remembrance in my breast, My foudly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy 'd. And not a wish to gild the gloom ! VII. The morn that warns th' approaching day. Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array. That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe. Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. Shall kiss the distant, westerr main. VIII. And wheu my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, ciief. Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : Ev'n day, al!-bitter, brings relief. From such a horror-breathing night. IX. O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly wandering, stray : The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. To mark the mutual-kindling eye. Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes, never, never, to return ' Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn ! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. DESPONDENCY I. Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with cat> A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh : O life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road. To wretches such as I ! Dim backward as I cast my view. What sick'ning scenes appear ! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', Too justly I may fear ! Still caring, despairing. Must be my bitter doom ^ ]My woes here shall close ne'er. But with the closing tomb ! II. Happy ye sons of busy life. Who, equal to the bustling strife. No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. Yet while the busy means are ply'd» They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abanJon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim. Meet ev'ry sad returning night. And joyless morn the same ; POEMS. 3S You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless, Find ev'ry prospect vain. III. Haw blest the solitary's lot, Wlio, all-forgetting, ail-forgot. Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well ! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. By unfrequented stream. The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream : While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high. As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky. IV. Than I, no lonely hermit placed Where never human footstep traced, Less fit to play the part ; The lucky moment to improve. And just to stop, a-nd just to move, With self-respecting art : But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The SoUtari/ can despise. Can want, and yet be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not. Or human love or hate. Whilst I here must cry here, At perfidy ingrate ! Oh ! enviable, early days. When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill-exchanged for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, WHien manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage ] The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age I WINTER I, Thi wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw ; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding slcct and snaw : WhiU> tumbling brown, the burn come* down. And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in coven reit. And pass the heartless day. IL " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ersatt," • The joyless winter-day. Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May : The tempest's howl, it soothes my soiK, My griefs it seems to join. The leafless trees my fancy please. Their fate resembles mine ! III. Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scaeBM These woes of mine fulfil. Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will ! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine ! ) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEK, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure , Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple anuab of tlie ^oot.— Gray. My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileles« ways ; [been ; What Aitken in a cottage would hav<> Ah ! tho bis worth unknown, far happier thert^ I weea ! IL November chill blaws loud wl' angry sough ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae hi? labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and bis hoes. Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 13 • Dr. Young. 34 BURNS' WORKS. III. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher thro' [an' glep. To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a" his weary carking cares beguile, A id makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. IV. 'Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out, amang the farmers roun', Some ca' the pleugh, some lierd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town ; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An* each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld ciaes look amaist as weel's the new ; t^Q father mixes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an' their mistress's command. The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And miud their labours wi' an ej'edent hand. And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 'An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting Hiight : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !' vn. But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; . Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny^s e'e, and flush her cheek ; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name. While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the motb.T hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. VIIL Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappin youth ; l.e taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. [joy The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel bohave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sa* grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. IX. O happy love I where love like this is found ! O heai-t-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've paced much this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare— • ' If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' X. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch ! a villain ! los: to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring arv. Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth } Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ! Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac* tion wild ? XL But now the supper crowns their simple board, Thehalesome pnrritch, chtefo' Scotia's food : The sowpe their only Hawkie does afford. That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in cimpamental mood^ To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell. An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ea's it guid ; The fnigal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. XIL The cheerfu' supper done, wf serious faco. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bihle, ance his father's pride , His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare t Those strains that once did sweet lit Zioa glide, POEMS. 3d He wales a portion with judicious care ; And ' Ltt us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. XUI. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : [rise ; Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; Or noble £lyin beets the heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest fir of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; ■ Nae unison hue they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page. How Ahram was the friend q/'GoD on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal hard did groaning lie [ire ; Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or Giber holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. XV. Perhaps the Christiaii volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; [name. How He, who bore in Heaven the second Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a How he, who lone in Patmos banished, [laud : Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And beard great Bablon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. XVI. Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, [prays : The saint, the father, and the husband Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,* That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. XVII. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art. When men display to c-^^grcgations wide. Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But hapiy, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleased, the language of the eoul ; Au'i la his book of life the iumates poor enrol. • lope's Windsor lorett XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secnt homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the Illy fair in flow'ry pride. Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad ; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work ot God !" And certes, it. ^r virtue's heav'nly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in acts of hell, in wickedness refined ' XX. O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven ii sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- vent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile . Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much> loved Isle. XXL O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide. That stream'd thro' Wallace's undauntt;* heart ; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward .) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN I. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare. One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, 36 BURNS' WORKS. I spy J a man, whjse aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. II. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? Began the rev'rend sage ; Does thirst of wealth thy step constraiBj Or youthful pleasure's rage ? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man ! III. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride ; I've seen yon weary winter-suu Twice forty times return ; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. IV. O man ! while in thy early years, Hew prodigal of time ! Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law. That man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, ' Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind. Supported is his right : But see him ou the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd pair Show man was made to mourn. VI. A few seem favourites of fate. In pleasure's lap carest j Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, Are wretched and forlorn ; Thro* weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. vn. Bfany and sharp the num'rous ills. Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Mak?s countless thousands mourn VIIL See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd vrigbti So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his \oTd\y fellow-worm The poor petftion spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slavOMM By Nature's law design'd. Why was an independent wish. E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? Yet, let not this too much, my soDf Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the lust ! The poor, oppressed, honest man. Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! XL O Death ! the poor man's dearest friei Vg The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, Oh ! a blest relief to those That, weary-laden, mourn ! A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. L O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear ! IL If I have wander'd in those patirt Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; IIL Thou know'st that Thou hast formed I With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. POEMS. y IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or J'railty stept aside, Do thou. All Good ! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. V. WTiere with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ' Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ' Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be^ tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed storms : Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry Gon, A»i justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' Fain promise never more to disobey ; But, should my Author health again dis- pense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; Thin how shoiiJd I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below ! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. Those headlong furious passions to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine I When for this scene of peace and ove, I make my prayer sincere. II. The hoary sire — the mortal stn ke, Long, long be pleased to spaiie, To bless his little filial flock. And show what good men are. III. She, who her lovely offspring eye» With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears ! IV. Their hope, their stay, their darling youtht In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! The beauteous, seraph sister-band. With earnest tears I pray. Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps ahvay ! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heav'n ! tTlNG AT A REVEREND FRIENd's HOUSE ONE MGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES, IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. I. THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever placed, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learr.s their guilty lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad. But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why? that God the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked meo I Shall ne'er be truly blest. S8 BURNS' WORKS. A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, «rBKB TOE FRBflSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. THOU Great Being ! what thou art Surpasses me to know : •t sure am I, that known to thee Are all thy works below. rhy creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest ; Y^ct sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! O, ft-ee my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place ! Before the nwuntains heav'd their heads Beneath thy forming hand. Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command ; That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time, Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years, Which seem to us so vast. Appear no more before thy sight, Than yesterday that's past. Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought : Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men. Return ye into nought !' Tbou layest them, with all their cares. In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array 'd ; But long ere night cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE FL*^Qa> Ol APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r. Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonny Lark, companion meet . Bending thee 'niang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckl'd breast. When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm. Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gai'dens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stape. Adorns the histie stibhle-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In huml)le guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed. And low thou Ilea ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, S'wt^i floweret ot the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd. And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Unskilful he to note the card Oi prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er • Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv a, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink. Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy s fate, That fate is thine — no distant date; POEMS. SS Stern Rur^'* f lough-share drives, elate, Full oa thy bloom. Till crush 1 beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! TO RUIN. I. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stein-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread ; Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing. Round my devoted head. JI. And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life ipleasure can afford. Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : No more I shrink appail'd, afraid ; I court, I beg thy friendly aid. To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign \\(ti'» jot/less day ; Mv weary heart its throbbings cease. Cold mouldering in the clay ? No fear more, no tear more. To stain my lifeless fdce ; Enclasped, and grasped Within mv cold embrace ! TO MISS L- WITH beaii.'.e's poems, as A new-year's gift, JAN. 1, 1787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime. Are so much nearer Heav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infai t year to hail ; I send you n ire than India boasts In Edwni i simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love I» charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 3ut may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin «till to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND MAY , 17S6. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friendt A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end Than just a kind memento ; But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon. IL Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, E'en when your end's attained ; An a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. III. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricted : But och, mankind are unco weak. An' little to be trusted ; If se{/*the wavering balance shake. Its rarely right adjusted ! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strifi) Their fate we should na censure^ For still th' important end of life They equally may answer ; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho* poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free aff han' your story tell, When wi' a bo^om ctony ; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection ; But keek thro' every other man, Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. VI. The sacred lowe o* weel-plac'd loTCt Luxuriantly indulge it ; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing ; But och ! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling ! vn. To catch dame Fortune's golden Assiduous wait upon her; 10 And gather gear by ev'rjr wfl» That's justified by honour ; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant ; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order ; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border : Its slightest touches, instant pause- Debar a' side pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere, IMust sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear. And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity ofifeuded ! Wlien ranting round in pleasure's ring, Beligion may be blinded ; Or, if she gie a random sling. It may be little minded: But when on life we're tempest-drN'n, A conscience bat a canker — A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor. XI. Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting ! In ploughman phrase, * God send you spe:^, Still daily to grow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede. Than ever did th' adviser ! BUIIN.'S' WORKS ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A* TE wha live by soups o' drin^c, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come mourn wi' me ! Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wlia dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key ; For DOW he^i te'en anither shorr. An* owre the «ea. The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him. And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ' Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumniei, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea But he was gleg as ony wumble. That's owre the seek Auld, cantie Kijle may weepers wear. An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee ; He was her laureat monie a year. That's owre the lea He saw misfortune's cauld nor-wast Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak' his heart at last, III may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea To tremble under Fortune's cummock. On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An* owre the sea. He ne er was gi'en to great misguidi&g Yet coin his p?uches wart na bide in ; Wi' hir. it ne'er was under hiding ; He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel. An' hap him in a cozie biel ; Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, And fu' o' glee : He wadna wrang'd the vera deii, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hillii i Your native soil was right ill-willie ; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie ; I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. I Fair fa' your honest, sonaie face. Great chieftain o' the puddin-race J POEMS. il Aboon them a* ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill. Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need. While thro* your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, An* eut you up wi* ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright. Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin*, rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. Till a* their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums ; Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, On sic a dinner ? Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. As feckless as a wither'd rash. His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nitj Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap In his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle ; An* legs, an' arms, an heads will sued. Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care^ And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis I A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fletli'rin dedication, To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, An* sprung o' great an' noble bluid. Because ye're surnamed like his grace^ Pwhaps relate^ to the race ; Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsoKie, sinfu' lie. Set up a face, hew . stop short. For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do. Sir, wl' them wti Maun please the great folk for a wamefu* ; For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig. Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin*, It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid «ngel help hiiu, Or e'se, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; He may do weel for a' he's done yet. But only he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me) On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant. He downa see a poor man want ; What's no his ain he winna tak it. What ance he says he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refuse Till aft his goodness is abused ; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; As master, landlord, husband, father He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a* that J Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : Ye'U get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed. It's no thro' terror of damnation ; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane. Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ; Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust ia la moral mercy, truth, and justice ' No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his bick ; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. But point the rake that taks the door .• Be to the poor like onie whunstane. And baud their uoses to the grunstane ; Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile grtee% Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. And damn a' parties but your own :. 12 BURNS* WORKS. rU wtfiant then, ye're nie deceiver, A. steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wba leave the springs of Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye sons of lieiesy and error, Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror ! When vengeance draws the sword ;n wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When ruin, with his sweeping esom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me. My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. But 1 maturely thought it proper. When a* my works 1 did review, To dedicate them. Sir, to You .• Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel*. Then patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said ever pray. But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead-s»eer, an' wretched ill o't ; But I'se repeat each poor man's prayr. That kens or hears about you. Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk I May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May K *s far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till H s, at least a dizen, Are frae her nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table. And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel. By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days ; Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances. By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him. Make you as poor a dog as I am. Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven [ While recollection's power is given. If, in the vale of humble life. The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognize my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand — ray friend and brother TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNET A.< CHURCH. Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho* faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle. In shoals and nations ; Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now baud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it. The vera tapmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your noM cja^ As plump and grey as ony grozet ; for some rank, mercurial rozet. Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. Wad dress your droA* im i 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyiiecoat ; But Miss's fine Ziunardie I fie. How dare ye do't I O, Jenny, dinna toss your head. An* set your beauties a' abroad ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin' | POEMS. 4S TLa^ winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takiu* ! O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oiirsels as others see us I It wad frae naonie a blunder free us. And foolish notion : What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH I. ( Edina ! Scotia's darlins; seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wil'lly-scittcr'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind^ Abcve the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fair Bcrnet strikes th' adoring eye. Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : I gee the sire of hive on hiyh. And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching high the least alarms. Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms. And raark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd the invader's shock. W. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tean^ I view that nol)le, stately di me. Where Scotia's kings of other years. Famed heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the times to come ' Their royal name low in the dust ! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! vn. Wild beats ray heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore ; E'en / who sing in rustic lore. Haply my sires have U'i \'n«r shed. And fticed grim danger's loudest roar. Bold-following where your fathers led 1 VIII. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feei Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL Ist, 1785 While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiildin seen. Inspire my rouse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin' , To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; And there was muckle fun and jokin'. Ye need ua doubt : At length we had a hearty yokin' At sany about. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased mebest. That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife ! It tliirl'd the heart-strings thro* the breut^ A to the life. I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, mauiy bosoms feel ; Thought I, ♦ Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirh. It pat me fidgin-fnin to hear't. And sae about him there I tpiert) 44 BURNS' WORKS. Then a* that keu't him round declared He had ingine. That nane excell'd it^ few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches Then np I gat, an' swoor an aith. The' I should pawn my pleugh an* graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rougli, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense. But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter ? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, ' How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse fiae prose, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang 'UTiat's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; If honest nature made you fools, What saii<8 your grammars? Ye'd better taeu up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek ! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart. My muse, though hamcly in attire, Way touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee. Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it ' That would be lear eneugh for nie J If I could get it. Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna bkw &.bout mysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me \ Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me. At dance or fair ; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, ' If we forgather. An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware Wi' ane anither The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. To cheer our heart ; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack I I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms. Whose hearts the tide of kindness warmst, Who hola your being on the terms, ' Each aid the others,* Come to my bowl, come to my i»rms, My friends, my brothers i But, to conclude my lang epistle. As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. Who am, most fervent. While I can either sing, or whissle. Your friend and servanb POEMS. a TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. Whiie new-ca'd ky« rout at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro* amang the naigs Their ten hours bite^ My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless rarafeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' sLis, ' Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' Her dowflf excuses pat me mad ; * Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowlesa jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. This vera night ; So dinna ye afifront your trade, But rhyme it right. ' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Ilcose yeu sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts, Au' thank him kindly !' Sae I gat paper in a blink. An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak' it clink, By Jove I'll prose it !' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp Tho' fortune use you hard an* sharp ; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesoroe touch ! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, Sin I could striddle owre a rig ; Bn/'i by the L — d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an* sing, an* shake my leg. As lang's I dow ' Now comes the sax and twentieth simmoi I've seen the bud upo* the timmer. Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kimroer, /, Mob, am here. Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or pwse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And niuckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A Sailies name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-sliank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks ? * O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift Thro' Scotland wide • Wi* cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a' their pride !' Were this the charter of our state, • On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate. Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gait We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, ' The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, *Tis he fulfils great Ifature's plan, Aa' none but he P O mandate glorious and divine ! The ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shint In glorious light. While sordid sons of Alammon's line' Aje dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' C^ow^ Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl Alay shun the light Then may Lapraik and Bums arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joy% In some mild sphere^ Still closer knit in friendship's ties. Each pas-sing year. i6 BURNS' WORKS. TO W. S N, We*U gar our streams ana burnies shine Up wi' the best. OCHILTREE. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, May 1785. He- moors red- brown wi' heather bells, I GAT your letter, winsome Willie: Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Where glorious Wallact The' I maun say't, I wad be silly, Aft bure the gree, as story tells, An' unco vain, Frae southern billies. Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. Your fiatterin' strain. At Wallace^ name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring- tide flood ! But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, Oft have our fearless fathers strode I sud be laith to think ye hinted By Wallace' side, Ironic satire, sidelins sklented Still pressing onward, red-wat shod. On my poor rausie ; Or glorious died. Tho* in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. sweet are Coila s haughs an' wooda, When lintwhites chant among the buds, My senses wad be ia a creel, An* jinkin hares, in amorous whids. Should I but dare a hope to speel, Their loves enjoy, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield, While thro' the braes the cushat crood« The braes of fame ; With wailfu' cry ! Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; (0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Ili suited law's dry, musty arts ! Are hoary grey ; My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee. Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! Dark'ning the day ! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry !) Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pen.sive hearts hae charms ! Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Whether the summer kindly warms Or lasses gie my heart a screed. Wi* life an' light, As whyles they're like to be my dead. Or winter howls, in gusty storms, (0 sad disease !) The lang, dark night ! .' kittle up my rustic reed ; It gies me ease. The Muse, nae poet ever fand her. Till by himsel he learn'd to wander. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain. Adown some trotting burn's meander, She's gotten poets o* her ain. An' no think lang ; Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder But tune their lays. A heartfelt sang I Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. The warly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. Nae poet thought her worth his while, Let me fair Natures face descrive. To set her name in measured style ; And I, wi' pleasure, She lay like some unkenned of isle Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Beside New- Holland, Bum o'er their treasureb Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Fareweel, * my rhyme-composing britherl We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : Hamsay an' famous Ferguson Now let us lay our heads thegither. Gied Forth an* Tag a lift aboon ; In love fraternal : Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune. May Envy wallop in a tether. Owre Scotland rings, Black fiend, infernal ! While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings. Whiie lughlandmen hate tolls and taxet ; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxiM { Th' Ilissut, Tiber, Thames, an* Seine, Vi'Tiile terra firma on her axis Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! Diurnal turns. But, Willie, set your fit to mine, Count on a friend, in faith and practice. An' cock your creit, Is Robert Burzu. POEMS. 47 POSTSCRIPT. Mr memory's no worth a preea j I had araaist forgotten clean, Ve bade me write you what they mean By this new-light,* Bout which our herds sae aft hae b«en Maist Hke to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an* sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gi'e, But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallant^ Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Tust like a sark, or pair o* shoon, Wore by degrees, til> her last roon, Gaed past their viewing. An* shortly after she was done, They gat a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed ; It na'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An* ca'd it wrang ; An muckle din there was about it, Baith toud an' lang. Some herds, weel leam'd upo* the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. An' out o' sight. An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew n;air bright This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aith» to clours an' nicks ; An' mouie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks. Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands. An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands, Wi' nimble shanks. Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowt. Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now ac&aist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd ; • See Note, p. 14. An* some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks art b!eata* | Their zealous herds aie vcx'd an' sweatin' ; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' Wi' giinin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an* write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-light herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak' a flight. An* stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gle them ; An* when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e theS) The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them^ Just i' their pouch. An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ;* But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS, O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. Your dreams * an* tricks Win send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'. Straight to auld Nick't, Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants And in your wicked, drucken rants. Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou ; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha afteu wear it, The lads in black I But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives' t off their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething "To ken them by, * A certain humorou* drttan ct hii was then nmi in; a noise in ttie countrv-f lUe. fS Frae ony unregenerate neathen Like you or I. Fve sent you here some rhyraitg ware, A that I bargain'd for an* mair ; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,* ye'Il sen't wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. An' danc'd my fill ! rd better gacn and sair'd the king At Bunker's Hill. *Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen. And, as the twilight wss begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was I'ttle hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport. Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; But, deii-ma care ! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot ; I was suspected for the plot ; I scorn'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat. An' pay't the fee. But, by my guu, o' guns the wale, An* by my pouther an' my hail. An' by my hen, an* by her tail, I vow an* swear ! The game shall pay o'er moor an* dale. For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin* time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. For my gowd guinea : Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. But twa-three draps about the wame. Scarce thro* the featijesB ; An* baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair. But pennyworths again is fair. When time's expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. BURNS WORKS WftlTTXN IN * A tone he '"'^ promiied the Author. FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE* ON NITH-SIDE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole. Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love with sprightly danot. Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day gfrows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming cigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate. Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. Soar around each clifly hold, Wliile cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose : As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, There ruminate with sober thought. On all thou*st seen, and heard, and wrougk ] And teach the sportive younker's round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate. The grand criterion of his fate. Is not. Art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? Tell them, and press it on their mind. As thou thyself must shortly find. The smile or frcwn of ■wwftil HeaT*L, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. Lead to the wretched, vije, and base. Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. Night, where dawn shall never breas^ Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before. POEMS. 49 8tranger, go ! Heav'n be thy g^iide \ Quod the beadsmaa of Nith-side. ODE, SACRED 10 THE JIE.MORY OF MRS. — OF — Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation ! mark Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhououred years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with mauy a deadly curse ! STROPHE. View the wlther'd lieldam's face — Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'ei-flows, Pity's flood there never rose See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took — but never gave. Keeper of IMammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A whih forl)ear, ye tort'ring fiends), Seesi; thou wno.^e step unwuling nirner oenJs ? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; Tis thy trusty quondam, mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail. Omnipotent as he is here ? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT HIS HONOirRS IMMED'ATELY FROM MIGHTV GOD ! But now his radiant course Is run. For Maltlicw's courjc was bright: His soul was like the glorious tun, A matchless, Hca\-'nly light I FOR AL- O Death ! tV.au tyrant fell and bloody; Tb» meikle devil wi a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides. And like stcck-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us tore. The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, I\latthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By wood and wild. Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye clitTs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers? Come join, ye Nature's sturiliest bairns. My wailing numbers; Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din. Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilic In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o* fJow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head. At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed r th' rustling gale. Ye maukins whiddin thro* the glade. Come join my waiL Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a chid ; Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; He's gane for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair fur his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o* ds^ 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far worlds, wha lies in clay. Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow r. Sets up her horOf &0 BURNS WORKS. Wail tliro* the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn ! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ; An' frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head. Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead . Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The wort'a we've lost ! IMourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! Mourn, empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! But by the honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief And truth I shall relate, man : I tell nae common tale o' grief. For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast. Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; \ look of pity hither cast, For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That passest by this grave, man ; There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and waySy Canst throw uncommon light, man , \ Here lies wha weel had Ton thy pmw, For Matthew was a bright man If thou at friendship's sacred ca'. Wad life itself resign, man ; Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a staiu« Like the unchanging blue, man ; This was a kinsman o' thy ain. For Matthew was a true man. If thon hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne er guid wine did fear, man I This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin sot. To blame poor Matthew dare, man j May dool and sorrow be his lot. For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEES OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING, Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree. And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry mom. Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild wi* many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland, May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o* bonnie Frano^ Where happy I hae been ; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn. As blithe lay down at e'en : And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor thene • Yet here I lie in foreign bands. And never ending care. POEMS. But as for thee, thru false woman. My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae : The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That neer wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meefst thy mother's friend, Remember him for me ! O ! soon, to me, may sammer-suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Blooifi on my peaceful grave. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRA. Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale). And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : rhou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, [snug. The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. To thy j)oor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! A thing unteachable in world's skill. And half an idiot too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the opening dun No claws to dig, his hated sight to shua ; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : No nerves olfactory, ftlammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, -He bears th' unbroken blast from every side : Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall 'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throit bandits in the paths of fame *, Bloody dissectors, worse than ten IMoni-oes ; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. Kis heart by causeless, wanton malice wrcng, By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig muil wear ; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife The hapless poei flounders on through life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage! So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- ceased, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; By toil and famine vvore to skin and bone. Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve, Conscious the bcmnteous meed they well de- They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. And j^ist conclude ' that fools are fortune's c;ire.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Noi"; so the idle muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear j Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears. And left us darkling in a world of tears) : O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ? f intra, my other stay, long blest and (pare ! 52 BURNS' WORKS. Thro' a long life bis hopes aid wishes crown, \nd bright in (•loudless skies his sun go down ! Uay bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the nills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craigy steep, a bard. Laden with years and meikle paiu, Id loud lament bewail'd his lord. Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; His locks were bleached white wi' time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang. The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. The relics of the vernal quire ! iTe woods that shed on a" the winds The honours of the a^red year ! A few short months, and giad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladuess bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree. That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast. And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. •' I've seen sac mony changefu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care, /""or silent, low, on beds of dust. Lie a' that would my sorrows shara •' And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' My noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amang our barons bold. His country's pride, his country's stay : lo weary being now I pine. For a' the life of life is dead, A.nd hope has left my aged ken. On forward wing for ever fled. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harj I The voice of woe and wild despair ! Awake, resound thy latest iay, Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom " In poverty's low barren vale. Thick mists, obscure, Involv'd me round ; Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me like the morning sua That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song, Became alike thy fostering care. " O ! why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen grey with time ! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! Why did I live to see that day ? A day to me so full of woe ! O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! " The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me !" LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITE^ORS^ BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st. To thee this votive offering I impart, " The tearful tribute of a broken heart." The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone. And tread the dreary path to that dark W9r>d unknown. TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE. Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Bukc. Gawin VcrugUu, When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, aeebors meet. POEMS. 5S A« marliet-dayg are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettia' fou and unco happy, We think na on the iang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did cinter, {Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses). O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober j That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as Iang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean tUl ^Monday. She prophesy 'd, that late or soon. Thou would be found deep diown'd in Doon , Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Altoway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. To think how mony counsels sweet, How mcny lengtlien'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, Tarn had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, V/i' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy cruny ; Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter j And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, \Vi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle. Tain did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious. O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment wh'.'.e — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-i^an^ That dreary hour he mounts his beast inr And sic a night he taks the road in. As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and Iang, the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-^ A better never lifted leg — 2am skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Wliiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry^ By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie hrak 's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Munpo^s mither hanged hersel.— Before him Doin pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-AUowny seem'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing- Inspiring bold John Barleyr.orn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippeiiny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' us(juebae we'll fice the devil The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddls. Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae Fiance, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reeli^ Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker iu the cast, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge : He screw'd his pipes and gart them skiri* Till roof and rafters a' did dirL— - 54 BURNS' WORKS. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd tlie (lead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairus : A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; Five scymitars wi* murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled^ Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu* Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammle glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. And coost her duddies to the wark. And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tam, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump an* strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' cieeshie flannen. Been snaw-white seventeen hunder lineu ' Thir breeks o* mine, my only pair. That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles ! For ae blink o* the bonnie burdi'Cs ! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a cruniraock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But 7am kenn'd what was what fu* brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot. And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. And shook baith meiklo corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear), Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. — Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi* twa pund Scots, ('twas a* her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! But here my muse her w'ng maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her pow*r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch*d. And thought his very een enrich'd • Even Satan glowr'd, and Wg'd fu* fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and maia • Till first ae caper, syne anitlier, Tam tint his reason a' thegither. And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sara ! And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd. When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud \ So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' inonie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy faJrU^ In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin j In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane * of the brig , There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tale she had to shake ' For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle , But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aflf her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. Ilk man and mothef's son take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shunter's mare. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains : • It is a well known fact, that witches, or any ev'C spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far- ther than the middle of the next runnins; streani. — It may be proper likewise to mentitm to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with tiifr/es, wl-atevei danger may be in his going forward, thete is mucil more hazard in turning back. ■ POEMS. 5d No more the thickening brakes and verdant ON A NOISY POLEMIC. plains, To thee shall home, or food, or pastinae yield. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : O Death, its my opinion. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch rest, Into thy dark dominion ! No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. ON WEE JOHNNY. Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn. Hicjacet wee Johnny. I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, Whoe'er thou art, reader, know. And cufse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy That death has murder'd Johnny ! An' here his body lies fu' low hapless fate. For saul, he ne'er had ony. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- VE whose cheek the tear of pity stains. BURGHSUIRE, WITH BAYS. Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. Unfolils her tender mantle green. Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; Or tunes Eoliin strains between : The dauntless heart that fear'd no humaa pride ; "While Summer, with a matron grace. The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, " For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue't Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace side."* The progress of the spiky blade : While Autumn, benefactor kind. FOR R. A. Esq. By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Know thou, stranger to the fame Each creature on his bounty feed: Of this much lov'd, much honaur'd naitje •. (For none that knew him need be told) While maniac WinKr rages o'er A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousin"' the turbid torrent's roar Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : FOR G. H. Esq. So long, sweet Poet of the year. Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; The poor man weeps — here G n sleepi^ While Scotia, with exulting tear. Wliom canting wretches blam'd : Proclaims that Thomson was her son. But with such Its he, where'er he be, Way I be saved or i d ! EPITAPHS. A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool. ON A CELEBRATED RULING Owre fast for thought, owre hot for ru'e, ELDER. Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; Here sokter John in death does deep; To hell, if he's gane thither. And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. Is there a bard of rustic song. He'll baud it weel thegither. Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, • Goldsmith. 56 BURNS' WORKS. TLat weekly ttis area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong. Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, Hfe's mad career. Wild as the wave ; Htre pause — and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below. Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, ^nd softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And staia'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control. Is wisdom's root. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THRO-UGH SCOTLAND, COL- LECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOnI. Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it : A chield's amang you, taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, mark weel— And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keeL By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its riggin. It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' At some black art. — Bk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer. Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor. And you deep -read in hell's black grammar. Warlocks and witches ; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight bitches. It's tauJd he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; Vide his Antiqiuitics of Scotland. Bat now he's quat the «part1e blade, And dog-skin wall«t^ And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* Wad had the Lothians three in tacketSj A towmont guid : And parritch pats, and auld saut-backeta^ Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' brsw. Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu* gleg. The cut of Adam's philibeg ; The knife that nicket Abel's craig. He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gullie.— But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he. Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him , And port, O port I Shine thou a wee. And then ye'll see him 1 Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ;— • Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose. Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VERY VOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANt LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BT THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; Never Boreas' hoary path. Never Eurus' pois'nous breath. Never baleful stellar lights, Taiut thee with untimely blighta I Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew • M'ay'st thou long, sweet crimson gero, Richly deck thy native stem ; • Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapooii, r 1 ' T POEMS. 67 Til] some ev*ning sober, caltn, Dry-withering, waste my foaming stream^ Dropping dews, and oreathing balm, And drink my crystal tide. While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings j The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, That thro' my watei-s play, Shed thy dying honours round, If, in their random, wanton spouts, And resign to parent earth They near the margin stray ; The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow. They're left the wliitening stanes amang^ In gasping death to wallow. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. As poet B came by. That, to a bard I should be seen, BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADV, A PARTICULAR Wi' half my channel dry : FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor'd me : Sad thy tale, thou idle page. But had I in my glory been. And rueful thy alarms : He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin ; Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew There, high my boiling torrent smokes, The morning rose may blow ; Wild-roaring o'er a linn : But, cold successive noontide blasts Enjoying large each spring and well May lay its beauties low. As nature gave them me, I am, although I say't mysel, Fair on Isabella's morn Worth gaun a mile to see. The sun propitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Would then my noble master please Succeeding hopes beguil'd. To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring tree* Fate oft tears the bosom chords And bonr.ie spreading bushes ; That nature finest strung: Delighted doubly then, my Lord, So Isabella's heart was form'd, You'll wander on my banks. And so that heart was rung. And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. Dread Omnipotence, alone. Can heal the wound he gave ; The sober laverock, warbling wild, Can point the bi imful griof-worn eyes Shall to the skies aspire ; To scenes beyond the grave. The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. The blackbird strong, the lintwhite dear, And fear no withering blast ; The mavis wild and mellow ; There Isabella's spotless worth The robin pensive autumn cheer. Shall happy be at last. In all her locks of yellow. This too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm ; THE HUMBLE PETITION OF And coward maukin sleep secure. BRUAR-WATER.* Low in her grassy form. Here shall the shepherd make his sest, To weave his crown of flowers ; TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat. My Lord, I know your noble ear From prune descending showers. Woe rie'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, riow saucy Phcjebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, And here, by sweet emlearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair. Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their chariM The hour of heav'n to grace. • Bruar Falls, ia Athole, are exceedingly picturesque ind beautiful ; bui iheir eflect ismuch impaired by Lhe And birks extend their fragrant arms want of trees and slirubs. To screen the dear embrace. J 2 1 kS BURNS' WORKS. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain, grey ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, MM chequering through the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool. Their shadows' watery bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, My craggy clitfs adorn ; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embovv'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band. Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land ! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be — " Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses !" ON SCARING SOME WATER. FOWL, IN LOCH-TURIT ; A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OP OCHTEltTYRE. Wht, ye tenants of the lake. For me your watery haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly ? Why disturb your social joys. Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave^ Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or, beneath the sheltering rock. Bide the surging billoiv's shock. Ck)nscious, blushing for our race. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe. Would be lord of all below ; Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels. But man, ta whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pity'ng heav'n. Glorious in his heart humane— . nd creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays ; Far from human haunts and ways ; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful ^pend. Or, if man's superior might. Dare invade your native right. On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave. Scorn at least to be his slave. nVritten with a pencil OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUS OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. These nwthern scenes with weary feet I trace • O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep. My savage journey, curious, I pursue. Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view — The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides. The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong th«> hills. The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side, The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! The arches striding o'er the new-born stream The village, glittering in the moontide beam- Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. And look through nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, j Misfortune'." lighten'd steps might wander I wild ; And disappointment, in ^hese lonely bounds. Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-wara stretch her scan. And injur'd worth forget ard oardoa num. POEMS. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BV THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAa LOCH-NESS. 59 Among the heathy hills and ragged wooda The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro" a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below. Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- scends, And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists,, and ceaseless showers. The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. StiL rnro tne gap the struggling river toils. And still below, the horrid caldron boils — THE WHISTLE A BALLAD. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY niSTRKSS. Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. And ward o' mony a prayer. What heart o' stane wad thou na move> Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! November hirples o'er the lea. Chill on thy lovely form ; And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower^ The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds. Protect and guard the miither plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer morn : Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and foiloru. Blest be thy blooin, thou lovely gea, Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land ! As tlie aiithenlir prow history of the Whistle ■:« ctl. rious, 1 shall here Rive it. — In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scothtnil with our Jamei the Sixth, thiTe came over also a Danish nentk-man o< gigantic stature ami great prowess, and a niatchlesa chaini)ion of liacchiis. He had a little ebony Whistle which at tlie commencement of the orgii s he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophv of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories without a single defeat, at the courts of CupcnhaKCn, Stock- holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenRed the .Scots Baccha- nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of aeknowledgmg their inferiority. After many over- throws on the part of the .Scots, the Dane was encoun. tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Slaxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet oP that name; who, after three days and three niplits' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table. And blttv on the Whittle hit rtquim atiritt. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af. tcrwards lost the Whistle to Waller Riddel, of Glen, riddel, who had married a sister of Sir VVa.'cr's.— Or Friday, the 16ih of October 171*0, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- ton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glennddel, lifteal de- scen, name for the Bat. Wlien hailstanes d.ive wi' bitter skjtCi And infmt frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies. In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted and they sang : Wi' jumping and thumpiug, The very girdle rang. First, niest the fire, in auJd red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order ; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- She bUnket on her sodger : An' aye he gies the tousie drab The tither skelpin' kiss. While she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Ilk smack did crack still. Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up— AIR. Tune — " Soldier's Joy. ' I AM a son of Mars who have been in manf wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. n. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd. And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. III. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, Fd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV. And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arnj and leg. And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum POEMS. 63 Pm ai happy with rey wallet, my bottle and my uallet, k» whea I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Lai de daud.e, &c. What tho' with hoary lucks, I must stand the Winter shocks, beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tether bottle tell, I could meet a trjop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudlc, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; Wbilc" frighted rattans backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore ; A fairy tiddler frae the neuk, He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar. AIR. Tune—" Soldier Laddie." t ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men ; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie. No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie, Siug, Lai de lal, &c, IL The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Iransported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. HL But the godly old chaplain left him in the irurch, The sword i forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the bodi/, Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoou to the fife I was ready, { asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, Sec. V. But the peace it reducM me to beg in despair, Till I met uiy old l)oy at Cunningham fair ; His rag regimental they flntter'd so gaudy. My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. VI. And now I have liv'a — I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold the gla« steady. Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. RECIIATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman. run*—" O an' ye were dead, Gudemaa." I. A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman i Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! There's not a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. n. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. in. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An* liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea. But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c. But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 04 BURNS WORKS. My curse upon them every one. They've hang'J my braw John Higlandman. Sing, hey, &c, VI. And now a witlnw, T must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can. When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappin limb and gausy middle He reach'd nae higher, 'flad ho'i'd his heartie hke a riddle. An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key. The wee Apollo Set oflF wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. Tunt—" WhisUs owre the lave o't." I. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, An' go wi me to be my dear. An' then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle owre the lave o't. H. At kirns and weddings we'se be there, An' O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care Sings wliistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. in. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. An' sun oursels about the dyke, An' at our leisure, when we like. We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. Bat bless me wi' your heaven o* charmi, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms, May whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &C. RECITATIVO, Her charms had struck 9 sturdj Cair^ As weel as poor Gutscraper: He taks the fiddler by the beard. And draws a rusty rapier — He swoor by a' was swearing worth. To speet him like a pliver. Unless he would from that time forth, Relinquish her for ever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. And sae the quarrel ended. But though his littlj hea:1, did griere, When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address'd her Tune—" Clout the Caldron." I. My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station ; I've traveli'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off I marchHi To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, if*, II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a his noise an' caprin'. An' tak' a share wi' those that bear The budget an' the apron. An' bi/ that stowp, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Keilbagie,* If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by tha* stowp^ fcc RECITATIVO. The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fur In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that nigliti But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie, The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's* craft, Tho' limping with the spavie, • A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour ite with Poosie-Nancie's clubs. * Homer is allowed to be the oldest balled-singer ol record. 63 «w hirplM up, and lip lil?e daft, They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd thrir dudi. An' shoi'd them Daintie Davie They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, boot that night. To queuch tuelr lowan diouth. He was a care-defying blade Then owre again, the jovial thrang. As ever Bacchus listed, The poet did request. Though Fortune sair upon him laid, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best : His heart ^lie ever niiss'd it. He had no wish but — to be glad, He rising, rtioicing, Nor want l)ut — when he thirsted ; Between his twa Deborahs, He hated nought hut — to be sad, Looks round bin;, an' found them And thus the Muse suggested, Impatient for the chorus. His sang that night. AIM. AIR. Tune—" For a' that, an* a' thaL* Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your GbttM,- I. See ! the smoking bowl before us. I. I AM a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, au' a' that ; ]Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus. And in raptures let us sing. But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. CHORUS. ciroRus. A fig for those by law protected' For a* that, an' a that ; Liberty's a glorious feast ! An' twice as meikle's a' that ; Courts for cowards were erected. I've lost but ane, I've twa behin", Churches built to please the priesfc I've wife enough for a* that. n. IT. What is title ? what is treasure ? I never drank the Muse's stank. What is reputation's care ? Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; If we lead a life of pleasure, But there it streams, and richly reams, 'Tis no matter how or where I My Helicon I ca' that. A fig, &c. For a' that, &c IIL HI. With the ready trick and fable. Great love I bear to a' the fair. Round we wander all the day ; Their huml)le slave, an' a* that ; And at night, in barn or stable. But lordly will, I hold it still Hug our doxies on the hav. A mortal sin to thraw that. A fig, &c. For a' that, &c. IV, IV. Does the train-attended carriage In raptures sweet, this hour we meet. Through the country lighter rove ? Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; Does the sober bed of marriage But for how lang the Jlie maf stang. Witness brighter scenes of love ? Let inclination law that. A fig, &c. For a' that, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, V. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, We regard not how it goes ; They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; Let them cant about decorum But clear your decks, and here's the sex 1 Who have characters to lose. I like the jads for a' that. A fig, &c. " For a' that, an* a* that, VI. • An' twice as meikle's a' that; Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ', My dearest bluid, to do them guid. Here's to all the wandering train ! They're welcome tiU't for a' that. Here's our ragged brats and callets 1 One and all cry out. Amen ! RECITATIVO. A fig for those by law protected ? So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Liberty's s glorious feast ! Shook with a thunder of applause. Courts for cowards were erected. Re-echo'd from each mouth ; Churches built to please the ^-^"tt. 6b BURNS' WORKS. THE KIRK'S ALARM:* A SATIRE. Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense. Dr. IVIac, f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief. And orator Bob \ is its ruin. D'rymple mild, § D'rymple mild, tho* your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Vet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye) For preaching that three's ane an* twa. Rumble John,^ Humble John, mount the steps wi' a groan. Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James, || Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chace in your view ; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'U soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- ing the penny. Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld.f f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye may bark. Davie Bluster, • Davie Bluster, if for a lainl ye do muster. The corps is no nice of recruits ; Yet to ^vorth lets be just, royal blood ye migbk boast. If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the Doctor's your mark, for the L— d'» haly ark ; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. Poet Willie, \ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor » volley, Wi* your liberty's chain and your wit ; O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. Andro Gouk, ^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie, || Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what mean ye ? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride. Of manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes wiR allow, And yo\ir friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jockj-j-f Muirland Jock, when tho L — d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will, 1^ Holy Will, there was wit i* your skull. When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for t saint, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough. And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. • This poem was written a short time after the pub- lication of Mr. M'Gill s Essay. i Mr. M'- — 11. ± R ^t A ^n. J Dr. D c. il Mr. R 11. Mr. M' y. •* Mr. M- — y. tl Mr. A d. • Mr. C , O-^-c. J Mr. P s, A-r. II Mr. S Y , B— r. ft Mr. S i.1. t Mr. V g, C k. U Dr. A. M II. »» Mr. S h, G n. a An E r m M— e. POEMS. s-* Poet Bums, Poet Bums, wi' ycur priest-skelp- ing turns. Why desert ye your auld native shire ; Y^our muse is a gipsie, e'en the* she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. THE TWA HERDS.* O a' ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox. Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five-and-twenty simmei's past, O ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel. O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, Au' think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I ha'e min'. O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide. What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, O sic a feast ! The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. And sell their skin. What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club. • This piece was among the first of our Author's pro- ductions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two olergymen, near lUlmainock. And new-li^ht herds could nicely drub. Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub. Or heave them in. Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet. An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en. While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite. Say neither's lieiw' ! A* ye wha tent the gospel fauld. There's D n, deep, and P — — s, shaul. But chiefly thou, apostle A — d We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. Till they agree* Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, There's scarce a new herd that we get. But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, I winna name, I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame. D e has been lang our fae, M' 11 has wraught us meikle wae. And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e. And baith the S ft That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief. We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats araang oursel, There S — h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, And that ye'll fin*. O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come join your counsel and your skills, To cow the lairds. And get the brutes the power themsels, To choose their berdt Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And learning in a woody dance. And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalrymple'g eloquence, M' ll's close nervous excellence, 68 M'Q- BURNS WORKS. e's pathetic manly sense, And guid M' ^h, Wj S — th, wha ihro' the heart can glance, May a* pack afil THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife. Who has no will but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. For lords or kings I dinna mourn. E'en let them die — for that they're born ! But, oh, prodigious to reflect, A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire's tint ahead, An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil ; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit. An* cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty-eight he wish'd you wee!, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses dight your een. For some o' you hae tint a frien' : In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'U ne'er hae to gi'e again. O^jserve the very nowt an' sheep. How dowff an' dowie now they creep : Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. « O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn. An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beai'dless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair. Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-stuckl'd RegaU^ But, like himsel', a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As meikle better as you can. January 1, 1789. VERSES , WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CAR RON. We cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise. But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise : But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us ! LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K K AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMB» DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. He who of R — ^k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! At a meeting of the Dumfries-suire Volunteers.. held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, April 12th 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered tlie follow, ing Lines: Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found. For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he Lis firtt triaL POEMS. 69 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. THr.:KEST night o'erhangs my dwelling ! Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Bu-y haunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress. Honour's war we strongly waged. But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend ! • CLARINDA. Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy. We part, — but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, His blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still. The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howliug on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. The stream adown its hazelly path. Was rushing by the ruin'd wi's. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes.f And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. The sacred posie — Liberty ! And frae his harp sic strains did &cw, Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hea?) But oh, it was a tale of woe. As ever met a Briton's ear ! He sang wi' joy his former day. He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I wlnna ventur't ia my rhyraes.J COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH Tire PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a tru* heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected : • fitrathallan, il is presumed, was one of the follow- ers of the young Chevalier, ami is supposed to be lyii:g eoncealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of CuUoden This song was written before the Vear 1 IHH • Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. t Variation. Now lookin" over firth ami fauld. Her horn the palcfactiT Cynlhia rcar'd ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. t This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print ed in Johnson's Mu-icum, is here Riven from the poet'f MS. with his last corrcctiivis. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to bo musing by night on the banks of the river Clu. den, and by the ruins of Limluden-Abbey, founded in the twelftli century, in the reign of Malcom IV. oi whose present situation the reader may find some ac- count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- quities rf that division of the island. Such a time and sueh a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though tliis poem has a political bi.Ts, yet it may be prcsumid that mi reader ot taste, what- ever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit. ted. Our poet's prudiMice siipiiresstd the song of U- berty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It m.iy be questioned whether, even in the resources of hit genius, a strain of iwetry could hi e been found wor- thy of the grandeur and sclemii^"" of this pre «tioa 70 BURNS' WORKS. Tho' something 'Kke moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Their title's avow'd by the country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground. Who knows how the fashions may alter, The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter. / send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. Sincere ns a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. And ushers the long dreary night : But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- ner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me •incere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me Vvfith since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be. Revered Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, R. BURNS. Elinburgh, 1787. To ken what French mistViief was brewin , Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph,- If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshankie works Atween the Russian and the Tuiks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt. Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades wese hiDgia How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were saying or takin ought amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game ; How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er Lim ' Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; The news o' princes, dulces, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin still at hizzies' tails. Or if he was growin oughtlins douser. And no a perfect kintra cooser. — A* this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair'd of. So gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a* guid things may attend you 2 Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SEKT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. Kind sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted POEM. ON PASTORAL POETRY. Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! In chase o* thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'ilang heaps o' clavers j And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours ! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While lc*d the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage ; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage' In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame POEMS. y\ But Aee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O* heathea tatters : I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit an lear. Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair B!aw sweetly in its native air And rural grace ; And wi* the far-famed Grecian share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel so clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever. Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. SKETCH. NEW YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS. DUNLOP. This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonths' length again , I see the old bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine. The absent lover, minor heir. In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf as my friend he sees them press. Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* Arid blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) ; * This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page 69. From housewife caies a minute borrow— * — That grandchild's cap will do to-morro »■- And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver ; " Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion * " The passing moment's all we rest on !" Rest Dn — for wkit ! What do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will tima, amus'd with provcrb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may — a few years must^ Repose us in the silent dust. Then, is it wise to damp oi.r bliss! Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight ; That future-life in worlds uuknowc Must take its hue from this alone : Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woeful night— Since then, my honour'd first of friends. On this poor being all depends : Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die. Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. Witness that filial circle round, (A sight life's sorrows to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse) Others now claim your chief regard.— Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPORE, ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,* A UTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATUR At HU TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUABIAl ANU ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. To Crochallan came The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shavin{( night. His uncombed grizzly locks wild -staring, thatch'd, A head for thought profound and clear, ua- match'd ; Yet,' tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent and good. • Mr. Smellie, and our poet, were both members oi » club in Edinburgh, under the name of Crochalla* Fencibles. 72 BURNS' WORKS. POETICAL INSCRIPTION AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. Tjiou of an independent mind. With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; Prepared power's proudest frown to brave. Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear. Approach this shrine, and worship here. SONNET, THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can- not bear ; More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- est roar. How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your dies ( Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.* Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And sootlie the Virtues weeping on this bier ; The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; Me, mem'ry of uty loss will only meet. MONODY A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold IS that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- ly glisten'd ; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affectiom re moved ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not t tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cc.i.1 bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued tha rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; Here Vanity strums on her idiot !yi'e ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly gay in life'e beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect. Want only of goodness deuied her esteem. • Robert Riddel, Eaq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor. thy character, and one to whom our bard thought himself under many obligations. ANSWER TO A MANDATE SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOW'S, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FARMER, ORDER- ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C, AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAK OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDRXW THEY HAD. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list. My horses, servants, carts, and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle. As ever drew before a pettie. My hand-afore, • a guid auld has been. And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; My ha7id-a-/iin,-f a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Kiiiie ; f • The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the {ilouRlb t The hindmost on the left-hand, in tlie plough. i. Kilniainock. POEMS. 73 4nd your a\ild borough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime : t^Iy fur-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, As e'er in tug or tnw was traced : The fourth, a Highlatrd Donald hasty, A d-mii'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastifr. For-bv a cowte, of covvtes the wule, As ever ran before a tail ; An' he be spared to be a beast, He'L draw nie fifteen pund at least. Wheel carriages I hae but few, Three carts, and twa are feckly new. An auld wheel-harrow, niair for token, 4e leg and haith the trams are broken ; I made a poker o' the spindle, \nd my au!d niither brunt the trundle. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; \ gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. ( rule their, as I ought, discreetly, ind often abour them complotely. And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 1 on the questions taiige them tightly, 'Till, faith; wee Davoc 's grown sae gkg, (Tho' scarcely lunger than my leg) He'll screed you aff effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station. Lord keep me aye fiue a' temptation ! I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; Foi weiins I'm niair than weel contented, Heaven sent ine ane mair than I wanted : My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She start's the daddie in her face. Enough (if ought ye like but grace. But hi'i , my Imnny, sweet, wee lady, I've said enough for her alrcaay. And if ye t.ix her or her mither. By the L — d ye'se get them a' theglther ! And now, remember, Jlr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm taking. Thro' dirt and dub for lite I'll paidle. Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, The day and date as under notct ; Then kncn' all ye whom it concerns, Suhscripsi huic, ROBERT BURNS. • Tlic hindmost on the right-liand, in the plough. IMPROMPTU^ ■ S BIRTH-DAY, 4 th November, 1793. Old Winter with his frosty beard. Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd } " What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe .' My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drownir^. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; To counterbalance all this evil ; Give me, and I've no more to say. Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me ! " 'Tis done !" says Jove ; su ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory. ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, oil yonder lea. My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. Thy bield should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare« The desert were a paradise, «If thou wert there, it' thiiu wert there. Or were I Tionarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen TO A YOUNG LADY, Miss JESSY L- -, OF DUMFRIES ; WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARC PRESENTED HXS Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame. And wakeful caution, still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felnn snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind^ These be thy guardian and reward , So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. u BURNS' WORKS. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25tH JANUARY, 1793 THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THR'JSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek content with light unanxious heart. Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. What wealth could never give nor take away ! Yet come, thou child of poverty and cai-e, The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S E; ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM- PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th DECEMBER, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first in the nation : Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. Is proof to all other temptation. TO MR. S— E. WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O HAD the malt thy strength of mind^ Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. JstusALEM Tavern, Dumfries POEM, Ai)DRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. Friend of the poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle deil, Wi* a* his witches Are at it, skelpiu' ! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I, modestly, fii' fain wad nint it, That one pound one, I sairly want it ; If wi' the liizzie down ye send it. It would be kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hail design. POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been lickel And by fell death was nearly nicket : Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. And sair me sheuk ; But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket. And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't A tentier way : Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. For ance and aye. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Wine was tli' insensate frenzied part. Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! *Tis thine to pity and forgive. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSXK** DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; I Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus piU, And potion glasses O what a canty world were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; And fortune, favour, worth, and merit. As they deserve ; (And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would starve")!' POEMS. U Dame life, tlio' fiction out may tnck her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her , Oh! flickering, feeble, and uof'^ker I've found her still. Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst oarraagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on \Vi* felon ire ; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on, ^ He's aff like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair. First showing us the tempting ware. Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, ° To put us daft ; Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare ^ O hell s damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi joy, ' And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy's eye, Aired y } /^^^ ^.^^^^^ treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on a tangs, Thv eirning laugh enjoys his pangs inygiru s o ^jjj njurdering wrestle, As dangling in the wind he hangs ^ ^ ° A gibbet's tassel But lest you think I am uncivil, ^ To plague you with this draunt.ng drive., Abiuring a' intentions evil, •• I quat my pen ; The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen ! amen ! 10' a' the num'rous hjman dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stool*. Or worthy friends raked i' the mools. Sad sight to see ! I The tricks o" knaves or fash o" fools, I Thou bear st the gree. Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell. Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell. In dreadfu' raw, Thou, TooTH-ACiiE, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel A towmond s Tooth-Acha TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esci OF FINTRY, ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that teigns , Friend of mv life ! my ardent spirit burns. And all the tribute of my heart returns. For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still deaier as the giver you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; If aught that giver from my mind efface , If 1 that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; T' -n roll to me, along your wandering 8phe^e^ Only to number out a villain's years . ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. Mt curse upon your venom'd stang. That shoots ray toitur'd gums alang ; And thro' my lugs gios mony a twang. Ana inro my & b^^., ^^^^yi^g vengeance ; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, iearmg y Like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes. Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Sur neighbour's sympathy may ease u . ^ Wi pitying moan ; But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, Uut inee ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ g^^^n I Adown my beard the slayers trickle ; fthrow the wee stools o'er the meikle, As round the fire the giglet* keckle, To see me loup , While raving mad, I wish a heckle wniiera 5 Were in their doup. EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. An honest man here lies at rest. As e'er God with his image blest. The friend of man, the fnend of truth ; The friend of age, and guide of youth : Few hearts like his, with virtue warm d, Few heads with knowledge so inform d : If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; If there is none, he made the best of this. A GRACE BEFORE DINNEE O Thou, who kindly dost provide For ev'ry creature's want . We bless thee, God of nature w.de, For all thy goodness lent ; 1 76 BURNS' WORKS. And if it please tliee, heavenly guide, May never worse be sent ; But Afhether granted, or denied, LorJ bless us with content ! Amen! Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless bird ! a prey the suresj, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure. Finer feelings can bestow : Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasuTa* Thrill the deepest notes of woe. TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, OK SENSIBILITY. A VERSE, Sensibility how charming, COMPOSED AND REPEAIEa BY BURNS, TO THK Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; MAST2R OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEATK But distress, with horrors arming. Thou hast also known too well ! AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERK BZ HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray ; Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. See it prostrate on the clay. When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; A time that surely shall come ; In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome. ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, From, the Reliques, Published in 1808, BY MR. CROMEK. . The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that 8ele:;tion became a duty, and aC put aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour to the Poet 8 memory : But besides these there were other pieces extant, which did not come under the Doctor's notice: All of them, both of the rejected and discovered description, have since been collected and published by Mr. Cromek, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additional pieces of poetry so collected and published by Cromek, are given here. The additional songs and correspondence, taken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot- tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.] ELEGY IL ON MR. "WILLIAM CREECH, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. I. AuLD chuckie Reekie's * sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel buruish't crest, Nae joy her bonie buikit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she loe's best, WiUie's awa ! Willie was a witty wight. And had o' things an unco' slight ; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, And trig an' brawj But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa ' III! The stifTest o' them a' he bow'd. The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; They durst nae mair than he allow'd. That was a law : We've lost • birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa ' * Edinburfih. ) POEMS. 77 IV. Now gawkit's, taw pies, gowks and fools, Frae colleges and boarding schools, May sprout like simmer puddock- stools In glen or shaw ; He.wlia could brush them down to mools Willie's awa ! The bretli'ren o' the Commerce-Chaumer * May mourn their loss wi' doolfu* clamour ; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a' ; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer Willie's awa ! VI. Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and Poets pour,+ And toothy critics by the score In bloody raw ! The adjutant o' a' the core Willie's awa ' VII. y's latin face, 's modest grace ; Now worthy G — T r's and G- M'K e, S 1, such a brace As Rome ne'er saw ; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa ! VIII. Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw ; Griers giea his heart an unco kickin', Willie's awa ! IX. Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinin' blelluni. And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their helium Willie's awa ! Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red While tempests blaw ; But every joy and pleasure's fled Willie's awa ! XL May I be slander's common speech ; A text for infamy to preach ; • TheChamberofCommcreeof Edinburgh ofwhlch Mr. C. was Secretary. f Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw ; When 1 forget thee I Vr'ii.LUi Ckekch, Thd' far awa • XII. May never wicked fortune touzle hinn ! May never wicked men bamboozle him ' Until a pow as auld's Methusalem ! He canty claw ! Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem Fleet wing awa 1 ELEG\ PEG NICHOLSON.* Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn ; But now she's floating down the Nithi And past the IMouth o' Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick and thin ; But now she's floating down the Nitb, And wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare> And ance she bore a priest ; But now she's floating down the Nith, For Sol way fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And t'ne priest he rode her sair : And much oppressed and bruised she wat i —As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. ODE TO LIBERTY. (Imperfect). [In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, the poet says:— The ma. ject is LiBKiiTV ; Yeu know, my honoured trend how dear the theme is to me. I dusipn it an iiicgu lar Oile for General Washington's birth-dav. Aiict liaving mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 1 come to Scotland thus] : Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immiugled with the mighty dead ! Beneath that hallowed turf where Wali.ac« lies ! • Marparct Nicholson, the maniac, whose visitationt very much alarmed CJcorge the Third for his life. In na-\!iiig their steeds, the poet and his friend Nicol seem Bt Mr. Creech's house at breakfa.st. Burns often met to have had .-» pr ference, in iho w.-iy of doing honour, with them there, when he caled, and hence the name ' of course, for the worthies who had used freedom with Cf Ltvee, I both priest and king f8 BURNS' WORKS. Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; Disturb not ye tlie hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath.-^ Is this the power in freedom's war That wont to bid the battle rage ? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. O THOU Great Being ! what thou art Surpasses me to know ; Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. Thy creature here before thee stands. All wretched and distrest ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ; O, free my weary eyes from tears. Or close tiiem fast in death ! TBut if I must jfflicted be. To suit some wise design ; rhen man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine ! A PRAYER, WHEN FAINTING FITS, AND OTHER ALARMING SYMPTOMS OF A PLEURISY OR SOME OTHER DANGEROUS DISORDER, WHICH INDEED STILL THREATENS ME, FIRST PUT NATURE ON THE ALARM. O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear. If I have wander'd in those paths Of life 1 ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside. Do Thou, All Good ! for such Thou art In shades of iarkness hide. Wliere with intention I haw^e err'd, No other plea I have. But, Thou art good ; and goodness stSl Delighteth to forgive. DESPONDENCY: A HYMN. Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ! Some drops of joy with draughts of ill l»« tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms : Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart neath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' Fain promise never more to disobey ; But, should my author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptatioo ran? O Thou, great governor of all below ! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me. Those headlong furious passions to confine ; For all unfit I feel my powers to be. To rule their torrent in th* allowed line, O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine f LINES ON RELIGION. " 'Tis this, my frieni, that streaks our morning bright ; 'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few ; Wlien friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart. Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies " >OEMS. 79 EPISTLES IN VERSE TO J. LAPRAIK. Sept. I3th, 1785. GuiE speed an' furder to you Johny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony ; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany To clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin' wrack ; But may the tapma.st grain that wags Come to the sack. I'm bizzie too, an' skelpln* at it, But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it \Vi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg * an' whatt it, Like ony dark. It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusia' me for harsh ill nature On holy men. While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. But mair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. Let's sing about our noble sels ; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives f an' whisky stills, Thet/ are the muses. Your friendship Sir, I winna quat it, An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it. An' witness take. An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break. But if the beast and branks he spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd, An' a' the vittel in the yard. An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to g^ard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vit£B Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty Ai ye were nine year less than thretty. Sweet ane-an'-twenty. But stooks are cowpet • wi' the blast, Ab' now the sinn keeks in the west Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter ; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Your's, Rab the Ranter. REV. JOHN M'MATH, INCLOSING A COPY OF HOI.Y WILHe's PRATE fc, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. Sept. \7th, 1785. While at the stock the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. Or in gulravage f rinnin scow'r To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour la idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they shou'd blame ho; An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple, countra bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie. Louse h-11 upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighaa, cantan, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces, Their rasaa conscience, Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gaun, \ miska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honor in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him See him, | the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleea By worthless skellums. An' not a muse erect her l»ad To cowe the blellums .' • Jocteleg— a knife. f Brottiicr i»hi«— Alehouse wivef. • Cowpet — Tumbled over. t Gulravage — Running in a confuted, di»orderl]r manner, like boys when leaving school. $ Gavin Hamilton, Esq. II The poet has introuiiced the two first lines of thii stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamil ton. 80 BURNS' WORKS. O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip t'lielr rotten, hollow 'nearts. An' tell aloud Their juggl in' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I cv'n the thing I cou'd be, But twenty times, I rather wuu'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass. But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth ; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. For what ? to gie their malace skoutb On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth. To ruin streight. All hail, religion ! maid divine ! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee ; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes : In spite o' crowds, in spite o* mobs, In spite of undermining jobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. But hellish spirit. O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too renown'd An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; An* some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honor) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. An' winuing-manner. Pardon this freedoit I have ta'en, An* if iaiDertinent I've been Impute it not, good Sir, in ana Whase heart ne'er wrang'd f» But to hts utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd y*. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa mauchline. (recommending a boy). MosgaviUe, May 3, 1786. I HOLU it, Sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird IM'Gaun,* Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. An' wad hae don't aff han' \ But lest he leain the callan tricks. As faith 1 muckle doubt him. Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them ; As lieve then I'd have then. Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altlio' 1 say't, he's gleg enough. An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, The boy might learn to tweaT) But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear. Ye'll catechise him every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk — Ay when ye gang yoursd. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this corain Friday, Then please Sir, to loa'e Sir, The orders wi' your lady. Jly word of honour I hae gien. In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. To meet the WarlcTs worm i To try to get the twa to gree. An' name the airles f an' the fee. In legal mode an' form ; I ken he weel a Snick can draw, When simple bodies let him ; An' if a Devil be at a', In faith he's suie to get hiir:. To phrase you an' praise you. Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful Minstrel Burns. • Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer in Cows. It was his common practice to cut tiie nicks or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise tiieir age. — He was an artful triok-coiitriving character; hence he is called a Snich-drnwcr. In the |)oet'i " Address to tltf DcU,'^ he styles that august personals an au/d, snick-drawing dog ! t The Airles— Kamesi money. TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, POEAIS Aly goose-quiU too rude is t d tell all your good* IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MT POETIC CAREER. Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud ; See wha taks notice o' the bard ! I lap and cry'd fu' loud. Now deil-ma care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million ; I'll cock my nose abocn them a', I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 'Twas noble, Sir , 'twas like yoursel. To grant your high protection : A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. Is ay a blest infection. Tho', by his • banes wha in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay. — And when those legs to gud:, warm kail> Wi' welcome canna bear me ; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tall, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' mony flow'ry simmers ! And bless your bonie lasses baith, I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! And God bles? young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry ! And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country. Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it 1 TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, glenriddel, (extempore lines on returing a newspaper). JSIl island, Monday Evening. Your news and review. Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming : The papers are barren of home-news or foreign. No murders or rapes worth the naming. Oar friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; But of meet, or unmeet, in & fabric completty I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. * Diogenes. TO TERRAUGHTY,« ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. Health to the Maxwells' vet'ra« Chiaf ! Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf. This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half wc*a>«« This day thou metes threescore eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this ble^t morrow, May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow. Nine miles an hour, Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure— • But for thy friends, and they arc mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonie. May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee. Farweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. And then the Deil he daurna steer ye Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye. For me, shame fa' me. If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they c« mtk THE VOWELS : A TALE. 'Twas where the birch and sounding thonf are ply'd. The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throw*, And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; • Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, rear Dum(Vie« Thl« is the J. P. who, at the Excise Coi'.rts, ealletl for Burns's reports : tliey shewed that he, while he arte* up to the law, could reconcile his duly wilh human* ty. ' Altho' an Exciieman he had a lieart' 82 BURNS' WORKS. Upon a time, Sir Abecf {he great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account- First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look'd backward on his way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted ai I Reluctant, R stalk'd in ; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face ! That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! The pedact stifles keen the Roman sound. Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; And next the title following close behind, lie to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! la rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert. Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! As trembling U stood staring all aghast. The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast. In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him e«, and kick'd him from his sight. A SKETCH. A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. And still his precious self his dear delight : Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets. Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. A man of fashion too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; So traveU'd monkies their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. Much specious lore but little understood ; Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : His solid sense — by inches you must tsll, But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend. TO THE OWL I BY JOHN M'CREDDIE. Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth. To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour •■ Is it some blast that gathers in the nort'Ji, Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r' Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn ? Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn .' Shut out, lone bird, from all the feither'd traiaj To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom No friend to pity when thou dost complain, Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home Sing on sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain, While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break ? Less happy lie who lists to pity's call ? Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet. That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat ; That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : Nor that the treble songsters of the day, Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from thee ; Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray. When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome. While the gray walls and desert solitudes Return each note, responsive to tne gloom Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; There hooting ; I will list more pleas'd to tbet. Than ever lover to the nightingale ; Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery. Lending his ear to some condoling tale. EXTEMPORE, IN THE COURT OF SESSIOK. Tune — " Gillicrankie." Lord Advocate, Robert Dukdai. He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. He quoted and he hinted. Till in a declamation-mist, His argument he tint it : He gaped for't, he graped for't. He fand it was awa, man ; But what his common sense came shorty He eked out wi' law, man. FOEMS. 89 Mr. Henry Erskink. Collected Hany stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man ; His lordship sat wi' ruefu' c'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man : Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, Or torrents owre a lin, man ; The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE REV. DR. B *S VERY LOOKS. That there is falsehood in his looks I must and will deny : They say their master is a knave — And sure they do not lie. ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. (a PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIr). You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — How does Dampiere do ? ^ye, and Bournonville too ? Why did they not come along with you, Du- mourier ? I will fiijht France with you, Dumourier, — I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — I will fight France with you, I will tike my chance with you ; By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumou- Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; Then let us fight about, 'Till freedom's s])ark is out. Then we'll be d-mncd no doubt — Dumountr • EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. [The Poet paid a visit on horsebaclt to Carlisle; whii he was at table his steed was turned out to graze in an enclosure, but wandered, probably in quest of better pasture, info an adjoininc; one: it was im. pounded by order of the Mayor— whose tcnn of of- fice expired next day: — The Muse thus delivered herself on the occasion"] : Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, ! The miister drunk — the horse committed ; Puir harmless beasc ! take thee nae care, Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair-(maycif"\ TO A FRIEND, WITH A POUND OF SNUFF. O could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send ; Why then the joy of both would be, To share it with a friend. But golden sands ne'er vet have graced The Heliconian stream ; Then take what gold can never buy. An honest Bard's esteem. • It is almost needless to observe that the ioog of Rjiin Adair, befjins thus : — You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair; You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair.-* How does Ji)hnny Mackerell do ? Ave, and Luke Gardener too ? ^Vhy did th«y not come along with yoa, Robin Adaii? ESSAY UPOIJ SCOTTISH POETRY, INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CURRIE That Buius had not the advantages of a clas- sical education, or of any degree of acquaintance with the Greek or Roman writers in their ori- ginal dress, has appeared in the history of his life. He acquired indeed some knowledge of the French language, but it does not appear that he was ever much conversant in French literature, nor is there any evidence of his having derived any of his poetical stories from that source. With the English classics he became well ac- quainted in the course of his life, and the eflfects of this acquaintance are observable in his latter productions ; but the character and style of his poetry were formed very early, and the model which he followed, in as far as he can be said to have had one, is to be sought for in the works of the poets who have written in the Scottish dialect — in the works of such of them more es- pecially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- land. Some observations on these may form a proper introduction to a more particular exami- nation of the poetry of Burns. The studies of the editor in this direction are indeed very re- cent and very imperfect. It would have been imprudent for him to have entered on this sub- ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom the reader must as- «ribe whatever is of any value in the following imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the Scottish idiom. It is a circumstance not a little curious, and which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- ed, that in the thirteenth century the languaga of the two British nations, if at all diflferent, differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welch and Arraoric in the ether, being confined to the mountainous districts.* The English under the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the same language. We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- tory ascends to a period nearly as remote as in England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv- • HittoHcal Essays on Scottisfi Scntg, p. 20, by Mr. OKson. ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteeath eea> turies, were coeval with the fathers of poetry u England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, not inferior to them in genius or in composition. Though the language of the two countries gra- dually deviated from each other during this pe- riod, yet the difference on the whole was not considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between the different dialects of the different parts oi England in our own time. At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the language of Scotland was in a flourishing condi- tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to those in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. The first was the passion of the Scots for composition in La- tin ; and the second, the accession of James the Sixth to the English throne. It may easily ba imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad- mirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters in Italy, he would have left compositions in that language which might have excited other men of genius to have followed his exaraple,f and give duration to the language itself. The union of the two crowns in the person of James, overthrew all reasonable expectation of this kind. That monarch, seated on the English throne, would no loTiger be addressed in the rude dia- lect in which the Scottish clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or English only, both of which he prided himself on writing with purity, though he himself never could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to the last. Scotsmen of talents declined writing in their native language, which they knew was not acceptable to their learned and pedantic mo- narch ; and at a time wliea national prejudice and enmity prevaiied to a great degree, they dis- dained to study the nicities of the English tongue, though of so much easier acquisition than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote t '■ ff- The Authors ot the Delicice Poetar urn Scoto rum, 4(s> ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 85 poetry in those times, were exceptions. They studied the language of England, and composed in it with precision and elegance. They were however the last of their countrymen who de- served to be considered as poets in th;jt century. The muses of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a period of eighty years. To what causes are we to attribute this ex- ti-eme depression among a people comparatively jearned, enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall ire impute it tu the fanaticism of the covenan- ters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- JcM these causes operated, but they seem un- equal to account for the eflfect. In England si- milar distractions and oppressions took place, yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable degree. During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden sung, and Blilton raised his strain of un- paralleled grandeur. To the causes already mentioned, another must be added, in account- ing for the torpor of Scottish literature — the want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to employ. The civil wai's had frightened away the Latin muses, and no standard had been es- tablished of the Scottish tongue, which was de- viating still farther from the pure English idiom. The revival of literature in Scotland may be dated from the establishment of the union, or rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally incorporated, it was cleaily seen that their tongues must iu the end incorporate also ; or rather indeed that the Scottish language must degenerate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the united legislature. Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- peared, who studied the English classics, and imitated their beauties in the same manner as they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. They had admirable models of composition late- ly presented to them by the writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical papers published by Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, which circulated widely through Scotland, and diifused every where a taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for c~itical disquisition. - At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in English composition, and a union was formed of the literary talents, as well as of the ]egi>latures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets took the lead. Wiiile Henry Home,* Dr. Wallace, and their learned associates, were only laying in their intellectual ttoreSj and studying to rlear themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamil- ton of Bangour, had made their appearance be- fore the ])uhlic, and been enrolled on the list of Eni;lish poefs. The writers in prose followed ■ — a numerous and powerful band, and poured their ample stores into the general stream of Bri- • Lord Kaimt tish literature. Scotland possessed her fou.- unv versities before the accession of James to the English throne. Immediately before the union, she acquired her parochial schools. These es- tablishments combining happily together, mad« the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition and presented a direct path, by which the ar- dent student might be carried along into the re- cesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider field was opened to literary ambi- tion, and the influence of the Scottish institu tions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became more and more apparent. It seems indeed probable, that the establish- ment of the parochial schools produced effect* on the rural muse of Scotland also, which hav« not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less splendid in their nature, are not however to be regai-ded as trivial, whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the peopJfe. There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of the British isles possessed a peculiar and interesting species of music, which being banished from the plains by the successive invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of Scotland and Wale^. The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, but the difference may be considered as in dialect only, and probablv produced by the influence of time, like the different dialects of their common language. If this conjecture be true, the Scottish music must be more imme- diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis- tinct, must have descended from the mountains in remote ages. Whatever ciedit may be given to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- tish peasantry have been long in possession of a nmiiber of songs and ballads composed in their native dialect, and sung to their native music. The subjects of these compositions were such as most interested the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of time varied probably as the conditi(m of society varied. During the sepa- ration and the hostility of the two nations, these songs and ballads, as f.ir as our imperfect docu- ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike; such as the Iliintis of Cheviot, and the Batth of llarlatv. After the union of the two crowns when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. '* In the want of real evi- dence respecting the history of our songs," says Rairlsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the unioc of the crowns. The inhabitants of the boiden*, who had formerly been warriors from cliiiii.e, and husbandmen from necessity, cither quitted the country, or were transformed into real sheiv 86 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. herds, easy in tbeir c.rcumstances, and satisfied with their lut. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois- fcart, remained suflicient to inspire elevation of sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which had long subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, could not all at once be obliterated, and this jonnexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music would still maintain its ground, though it would naturally assume a form congenial to the more peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and va- gabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox »nd his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- ment, but contended in vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri- butary streams, one or more original geniuses may have arisen who were destined to give a "*ew turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would see that the events and pursuits which chequer private life were the proper sub- jects for popular poetry. Love, which had for- merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am- bition, became now the master-passion of the soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate tie breast of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, aiford ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of which TibuUus himself would not have been ashamed, might be composed by an uneducated rustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- ed, the truth of character, and the language of nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes the sweetsst of the Highland luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine descriptions of the manners of an energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though in their portraits some objects are brought into open view, which more fasti- dious painters would have thrown into shade. " As those rural poets sung for amusement, ECt for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a loye-Bong, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like the words of the elder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, but trea- gured up in the memory of their friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronized by the great, these rustic bards lived »ad died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names hav« been forgotten. When proper models for pas. toral songs were produced, there would be ne want of imitators. To succeed in this speciet of composition, soundness of understanding aai sensibility of heart were more requisite that flights of imagination or pomp of numtet"*- Great changes have certainly taken place ia Scottish song- writing, though we cannot trace the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces admired in Queen INIary's time are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, that the music may have remained nearly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled." These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay took place among the Scottish peasantry imme- diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not til) after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent establishment of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that period that a great number of the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the peace and security derived from the Revolution, and the Union, produced a favourable change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruction was dif- fused universally among the peasantry, contri- buted to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengo- nar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the inquiring traveller. He was the son of a pea- sant, and probably received such instruction as his parish-scho(d bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admitted. Ramsay maile his ap- pearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the present century, in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his social disposition, and his talent for the composition of verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of a bookseller, he became intimate v/ith many of the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time. * Having published a * " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hii club of situiU wits, who, about 17 9. publislicd a very poor miscellany, to wliich Dr Voun;;, tb*' »utllDi ol ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 87 foTume of poems of liis own in 1721, which Was favourably received, he undertook to make a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards ■>ncouras;ed to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. " From what sources he procured them," savs Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether from tradition or manuscript, is un- certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some rash attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient poems, he probably used still greater freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more ancient thin the present century, shall be pro- duced, or access be obtained to his own papers, if they are still in existence. To several tunes which either wanted words, or had words that were improper or imperfect, he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the melodies tViey ac- companied, worthy indeed of the golden age. These verses were perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay had advai;^ages not possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could never be popular, because these dialects have never i)een spoken by persons of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the English moralists and poets were by this time read by every person of condition, and considered as the standards for polite composition. But, as na- tional prejudices were still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak their native dialect, and that with an elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just notion. I am old enough to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all the members of the Union Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pronunciation and phraseology differed as much from the common dialect, as the language of St. James's from that of Thames Street. Had we retained a court and parliament of our own, the tongues of the two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would have its own classics, not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of literature. " Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them at- tempted to write poetry in his maimer. Per- sons too idle or too dissipated to think of com- positions that required much exertion, succeeded very happily in making tender sonnets to fa- vourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and transforming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language ol .ne charactert they assimied. Thus, about the year HSl, Robert Crawfurd of Auchinanies, wrote the modern song of Tweedside," which has been so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, beginning. My sheep I neglected, I Inst my sheep-hook, on the marriage of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And about twelve years afterwards, tLt sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune oi the Flowers of the Forest,\ and supposed to al- lude to the battle of Flowden. In spite of tha double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sorrow. The more modern words to the same tune, beginning, I have seen the smiling offi)r~ tune leguiling, were written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group oi literati of the present cen- tury, all of whom were very fond of her. I was delighted with her company, tiiough wiien I saw her, she was very old. Mu.h did she know that is now lost." In addition to these instances of Scottish songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- sent century, may be mentioned the ballad or Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the song entitled the Jiiiks of Invermay, by Mallet ; the love- song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou prove, produced by the youthful muse of Thom- son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- vailed for the national songs and music. •' For many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing of songs was the great delight of the higher and middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceed- ngly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn ol youth, listened to them with delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Harry their liible, lie being their great favourite next the Scriptures. When, tlierefore, one in the vale of life felt the first emotion of genius, he wanted not models sui generis. But though the seeds oi poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand an:cng the Scottish peasantry, the product was probably like that of pears and ajiples — of a thousand that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are bo bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses." fa letter J 'om Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyn itor. * Beginning, Wliat beauties dees Flora disclose t Begii iiing, I have heard a Ulting at our eue» milking 68 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Barns are wildings of this last description. They had the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they were not without the aid of the best English writers ; and, what was of still more import- ance, they were no strangers to the book of na- ture, and to the book of God." From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems under the name of The Ever-green, his collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have in some degree super- seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all of these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have been produced in Bur own times, and of which it will be neces- sary to give a short account. Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their power to procure him a liberal education, a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, implies no very high rank in society. From a well written and apparently authentic account of his life, we learn that he spent six years at tne schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time destined for the Scottish church ; but as he advanced towards manhood, he renounced that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office of an attorney. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and ta- lents for society, of the most attractive kind. To such a man no situation could be more dan- gerous than that in which he was placed. The excesses into which he was led, impaired his feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in the month of October, l??*, in his 23d or 24th year. Burns was not acquainted with the poems of this youthful genius when he himself began to write poetry ; and when he first saw them, he had renounced the muses. But while he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergusson s Scottish Poems, he informs us that he " strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- gour." Touched by the sympathy originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- milar fortune, Burns regarded Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over his grave he erected a monument, as has al- ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has in several instances made the subjects of his imitation. From this acf.ount of the Scottish poems known to Burns, those who are acquainted with them will see they are chiefly humorous or pathetic ; and under one or other of these iescriptions most of his own poems will class. Let ui comoare him with his predecessors un- der each of th •se points of view, aod close om examination with a few general observations. It has frequently been observed, that Scot* laud has produced, comparatively speaking, few writers who have excelledin humour. But thia observation is true only when applied to those who have continued to reside in their own coun- try, and have confined themselves to composi- tion in pure English ; and in these circum- stances it admits of an easy explanation. Th« Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which indeed some of them have excelled. It would be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of the Grene was written by James the First of Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had received an English education under Henry the Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant successor, gave the model on which the greater part of the humorous productions of the rustic muse of Scotland had been formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was reprinted bv Ramsay, somewhat modernized in the orthography, and two cantos were added by hinj, in which he at- tempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- tion in archery, ending in an aftray. Ramsay relates the restoration of concord, and the re- newal of the rural sports with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of the poets describes the manners of his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a. very sufficient uni- formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- racter in the Scottish peasantry at the two pe- riods, distant from each other three hundred years. It is an honourable distinction to this body of men, that their character and manners, very little embellished, have been found to be susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- cies of poetry ; and it must appear not a little curious, that the single nation of modern Eu- rope which possesses an original poetry, should have received the model, followed by their rus- tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- jectionable in point of delicacy, ai-e among the happiest of his productions. II:s chief excel- lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any very high powers either of iraagina- tion or of understanding. He was well ac- quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives and opinions. The subject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject, and he has shown that it may le hap- pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are delineations from nature, the descriptive parts are in the genHtni ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. style of beautifiii simplicity, the passions and affeitiong of rural life are finely portrayed, and the heart is pleasingly interested in the happi. ness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue Throughout the whole there is an air of reality which the most careless reader cannot but per- eeive ; aad in fact no poem ever perhaps ac- quired so high a reputation, in v/hich truth re- ceived so little embellishment from the imagina- tion. In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but still with considerable attraction. The story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though some- vjiat licentious, may rank with the happiest productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure English composition, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- crity. ^Neither are his familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- ing, which was considerable, improve his ge- nius. His poems written in pure English, in which he often follows classical models, though superior to the English poems oiF Ramsay, sel- dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As he spent the greater part of his life in Edin- burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a town life, which, though they are not suscepti- ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so deno- minate them, are however faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a veiy happy vein of humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, The Kiny's liirth-day in Edinburgh, L,eith Races, and The Halhw Fair, will justify this character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the G'rene, as Ram- say had done before him. His Address to the Tron-hirk Sell is an exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appre- ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the careless eflFu- sions of an irregular though amiable young man, who wrote for the jjeriodical papers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life been prolonged under happjer circumstances of for- tune, he would probably have risen to much higher reputation. He might have excelled in rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals ou the established Sicilian model, are stale and Auictcrescmg, The Farmer's Ingle,* which • The fai mer's Bre-iide. may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is tbe happiest of all his productions, and certainjjr was the archetype of the Colter's Sntwdaf Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burnt, have shown, that the character and manners ot the peasantry of Scotland, of the present timet, are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, ax he himself informs us, he had " frequently in hil eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile imitation." His descrip- tive powers, whether the objects on which thejr are employed be comic or serious, animate, or inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- riority of this kind is essential to every species of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment on the lower classes of societv, by showing that their superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; and this he chooses to execute in the form 'of a dia- logue between two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons and cha- racters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named Cassar, is a dog of condition : — " His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar. Showed him the gentleman and scholar." High-bred though he is, he is however Aill si condescension : " At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks tvi him.' The other, Luath, is a " plougman's- collie," but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- standing. ' His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; His breast was white, his towsie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to moralize, are described with an equal degree of happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the different condition of the two speakers, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- count of their merriment on the first day of tht year ; " That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds. 90 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. The tjtppy reeks wi' mantling ream, And e'neds a heart-inspirin' steam ; The I'.mtin pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; The canty auld folks crackin' crouse. The young anes rantin' thro' the house — My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' tkem." Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- man affairs since the days of ^sop, the dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacity, as from his being, more than any other, the friend and associate of man. The dogs of Burns, excepting in their talent for moralizing, are downright dugs. The " twa dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast between their form and character as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the humour, and deepens the impres- sion of the poet's satire. Though in this poem the chief excellence may be considered^ as hu- mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- position ; the happiest powers of description and the deepest insight into the human heart. It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of his sensibility frequently impels him to intro- duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten- derness or of pity ;, and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes' carried on to exert the higher powers of imagination. In such instances he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and associates himself with the masters of Eng- lish poetry, whose language he frequently as- sumes. Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- amples may be found in The Death and Dying Words of poor Muilie, in The auld Farmer's New- Years Morning Salutation to his Mare Maggie, and in many other of his poems. The praise of whisky is a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering influence in a variety of situations, he describes, with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating effects on the blacksmith working at his forge : • Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong fore-hammer, Till block au' studdie ring and reel Wi' diusome clamour." Again, however, he sinks into humour, and toncludes the poem with the following most Ljighable, but most irreverent apostrophe : « Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! Though w'nyles ye moistify your leather, 'Tilt where you sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam Freedom and Whisky gang thegither, Tak aff your dram !" Of this union of humour, with the highe; powers of imagination, instances may be found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest of his productions. After reproaching this terrible being with all his "doings" and misdeeds, in the course of which he passes through a series of Scottish superstitions, and rises at times into a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, de- livered in a tone of great familiarity, not alto. gether unmixed with apprehension,- in the fol. lowing words : " But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ' O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ■ Ye aibli'ns might — I dinna ken^ Still ha'e a stake — I'm wae to think upo' j'on den Ev'n for your sake ! Humour and tenderness are here so happil-/ intermixed, that it is impossible to say which preponderates. Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the Causeway and the Plainstones,* of Edinburgh This probablv suggested to Burns his dialogue between the Old and New Bridge over the river Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires that they shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. Though the Causeway and the Plainstoncs talk to- gether, no attempt is made to personify the speakers. In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, the poet, " press'd by care," or " inspired by whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out alone in the darkness and so- litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the river, where the stillness was interrupted only by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. It was after midnight. The Dungeon-clock had struck two, and the sound had been re- peated by Wallace- Tower. All else was hushed. The moon shone brightly, and " The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream." In this situation, the listening bard hears the " clanging sugh" of wings moving through the air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, whose form and attire he describes, and whose conversation with each other he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of the re- spective edifices over which they preside, and af- terwards, as is usual between the old and young, compare modern characters and manners with those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- I Plains O'les— ide-pavement. ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 91 pected, and tasat and scold each other in broad Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly humorous, may be considered as a proper busi- ness of the poem. As the debate runs high, and threatens serious consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of wonders : -" all before their siij^ht A fuiiy train appear'd in order bright ; Adown the glitterina; stream they featly danced ; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung." '* The Genius of the Stream in front appears, A venerable chief, advanced in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound." Next follow a number of other allegorical be- ings, among v/hom are the four seasons. Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. " Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : Learning and Worth in equal measures trode. From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode : Last, white-robed Peace, crowu'd with a haael wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instrument of Death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- dling wrath." This .poem, irregular ami imperfect as it is, displays various and powerful talents, and may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In par- ticular, it affords a striking instance of his being carried beyond his original purpose by the pow- ers of imagination. In Fergusson's poem, the I^lainstnnes and Causetcay contrast the characters of the differ- ent persons who walked upon them. Burns probably conceived, that, by a dialogue between the Olil and New Bridge, he might form a hu- morous contrast between ancient and modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of night ; and this led our poet into a description of a midnight scene, which excited in a high degree the powers of his imagination. During the whole dialogue the scenery is present to his fancy, and at length it suggests to hira a fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the tnoon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is a|)peased. Incongruous as the different parts of this poem are, it is not an incongruity that displeases; and we have only to regret that the poet did not be- ttow a little pains in making the figures more correct, and in smoothing the versiticition. The ej)istle9 of Burns, in which may be in- cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esc discover like his other writings, the powers of i superior understanding. They display deep insight into human nature, a gay and happy strain of reflec« tion, great indepenifence of sentiment, and ge- nerosity of heart. The Hfilloween of Burna iM free from every objection. It is interesting not merely from its humorous description of manners, but as it records the sjjells and charms used on the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot- land, failing into neglect, but which w;is onca observed over the greater part of Britain and Ireland. These charms are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, especially on the sub- ject of marriage, the most interesting event of rural life. In the Halloiveen, a female, in per- forming^ one of the spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running towards the South. It was not ne- cessary for Burns to give a description of this stream. But it was the character of his ardent mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion required, but what it admitted ; and the temp- tation to describe so beautiful a natural object by moonlight, was not to be resisted — " Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round the rocky scar it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Beneath the spreading hazel. Unseen that night. Those who understand the Scottish dialect will allow this to be one of the finest instances of description which the records of poetry afford. In pastoral, or, to s|)eak more correctly, in rural jjoetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, using less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, he becomes more generally intelligible. It is dif- ficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse tvhose nest was turned up with the plough, should be considered as serious or comic. Be tlfls as it may, the poem is one of the happiest and most finished of his productions. If we smile at the " bickering brattle" of this little flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive ])art is admirable : the moral re- flections beautiful, and arising directly out of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, that arises to the sublime. The Address to a 3Iountain Daisy, turned down with the plough, is a poem of the same nature, though somewhat inferior in point of originality, as well as in the interest produced. To extract out of incident* so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so fine a train ot sentiment and imagery, is tha surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumphj of original genius. 77ie Vision, in two canto^ from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr 92 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. Mackenzicj ;n the 97tlt number of the JLounr/er, is a poem of great and various excellence. The opening, in which the poet describes his own state of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied, from the labours of the day, to moralize on his conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is an exquisite painting ; — *' There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, I sat and ey,ed the spewing reek, That fiUM wi' hoast-provoking smeek That auld clay biggin ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. " To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, required the powers of Burns — be, however, suc- ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, atti- tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual Deings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting on her mantle, on which is depicted the most striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished characters, of his native country, some exceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,* and the shield of Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, according to the principles of design. The ge- nerous temperament of Burns led him into these exuberances. In his second edition he enlarged the number of figures originally introduced, that he might include objects to which he was at- tached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or patriotism. The second Duan, or canto of this poem, in which Coila describes her own nature and occupations, particularly her superintendence of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles him to the character of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the harmony of numbers, with the higher productions of the English muse. The concluding stanza, compared with that already quoted, will show to what a height Bums rises in this poem, from the point at which he set out : — " ylnd tcear thou this — she solemn said, And bound the hoHi/ round my head ; The polish'd leaves, and berries red. Did rustling play ; And, like a passmg thougnt, she fled In light away." !n various poems Burns has exhibited the pic- ture of a mind under the deep impressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this character. In the first of these poems the eighth itanza, which describes a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns often indulge 1 in those melancholy views of the See the first IdijUium of Theocritus. nature and condition of man, which are so con, genial to the temperament of sensibility. Th« poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, a/Tords an instance of this kind, and The Winter Night is of the same description. The las t is highly characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and of the condition of Burns. It begins with a description of a dreadful storm on a night in winter. The poet represents himself as lying in bed, and listening to its howling. In this situ- ation, he naturally turns his thoughts to the otirie * Cattle, and the silly f Sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tempest. Having lament- ed their fate, he proceeds in the following :^ " Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! That in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An* close thy e'e ? Othei reflections of the same nature occur to his mind ; and as the midnight moon, *' muf- fled with clouds," casts her dreary light on his window, thoughts of a darker and more me- lancholy nature crowd upon him. In this stajte of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec- tion. The mourner compares the fury of the elements with that of man to his broths r man, and finds the former light in the balance. " See stern Oppression's iron grtp. Or mad Ambition's gory hand. Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip. Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." He pursues this train of reflection through a variety of particulars, in the course of which he introduces the following animated apostrophe :— " O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create. Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw be lays him down to sleep. While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." The strain of sentiment which runs through this poem is noble, though the execution is un- equal, and the versification is defective. Among the serious poems of Burns, Tks Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Fergu)- son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, as has been already mentioned ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his * Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle that are un. housed all winter. t Silly is in this, as in otner phces, a term of com passion and endearment. ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 98 own powers for the execution. Fergusson's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms which depend on rural characters and manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under circumstances highly grateful to the imagination. The Farmer's Ingle begins with describing the return of evening. The toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- side. The reception which he and his men-ser- vants receive from the careful house-wife, is pleasingly described. After their supper is over, they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. " 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; And there how Marion for a bastard son. Upon the cutty-stool was forced to ride. The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand- children, and while she spins from the rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," she is relating to the young ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, " O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn. Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return. And dim our dolcfi' di>ys wi' bairnly fear ; The mind's aye cradVd when the grave is near." In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- tends on cne side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions to his men-servants for the succeeding day The house-wife follows his example, and gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; Bleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move oflF to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestowing his blessing on the " husbandman and all his tribe." This is an original and truly interesting pas- toral. It possesses every thing required in this species of composition. We might have perhaps Baid, every thing that it admits, had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturdaij Night. The cottager returning from his labours, has no servants to accompany him, to partake of his fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle which l-.e joins, is composed of his wife and chil- dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af- fords an opportunity for representing scenes that more strongly interest the affections. The younger children running to meet him, and ;larabering round his knee ; the elder, returning from their weekly labours with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing their littie gains tvith their parents, and receiving theii father's blessing and instructions; the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughcei , " wo- 1 man grown," are circumstances of the most in, teresting kind, which are most happily delineat- ed ; and after their frugal supper, the represen- tation of these humbler cottagers forming a wider circle round their htarth, and uniting in the worship of God, is a picture the most deeply af- fecting of any .which the rural muse has ever presented to the view. Burns was admirably adapted to this delineation. Like all men of genius he was of the temperament of devotion, and the powers of memory co-operated in thii instance with the sensibility of his heart, and the fervour of his imagination. The Cotter's Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so- lemn and devotional, and rises at length in a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with which it concludes, corres- pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevited accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes and the characters it so exquisitely de- sciibcs. Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- fer a few observations on the lyric productions of Burns. His compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, and always after the model of the Scottish songs, on the general character and moral influence of which, some observations have already been of- fered. We may hazard a few more particular remarks. Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, since in this species of composition, from its ad- mitting the more terrible, as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser- ved as a model to Burns, are almost without exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship, or a country wedding ; or they de- scribe the differences of opinion which arise in married life. Burns has imitated this species, and surpassed his models. The song beginning " Husband, husband, cease your strife," may be cited in support of this observation.* His other • The dialogues between husbands and their wive« which form the subjects of the Scottish sonps, are al most all ludicrous and s.itirical, and in these contcsti the lady is generally victorious. From the collectioni of Mr. t'liikerton, we find that the comic muse of Soot- land delishted in such representations from very ejirly times, in her rude dramatic cflurts, as well as in he» rustic songs. 04. ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. comic sonsjs are of eqiml merit. In the rural songs of Scotland, whether humorous or ten- der, the sentiments are given to particular cha- racterp, and very generally, the incidents are referred to particular scenery. This last cir- cumstance may be considered as a distinguish- ing feature of the Scottish songs, and on it a considerable part of their attraction depends. On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of the per- son principa.ly interested, If love be descrii>ed, it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the passion is delineated under a particular as- pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; but those gentler emotions of tenderness and af- fection, which do not entirely absorb the lover ; but permit him to associate his emotions with the charms of external nature, and breathe the accents of purity and innocence, as well as of love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- land are honourably distinguished from the most admired classical compositions of the same kind ; and by such associations, a variety as well as Iivelines.s, is given to the representation of this passion, which are not to be found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be considered as invocations from •overs to their mistresses. On such occasions a degree of interest and realily is given to the sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy interviews being particularized. The lovers perhaps meet at the Bush ahoon Traquair, or on the SanJts of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- voked to wander among the wilds of Roslin or ihe Woods of Invcrmay. Nor is the spot mere- ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described as well as the character, so as to represent a complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the * One or two examples may illustrate this observa- tion. A Scottish song, wrllteii about a hundred years ago, begins thus: — " On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame I met my lassie, braw and tight. Come wading barefoot a' her lane. My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms .ibout her lily.iieck, And kissed and clasped there fu' lang— . My words they were na mony feck." The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the language he employed with his Lowland maid to win her heart, and to persuade !ier to fly with him to the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The gentiments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel them with double force, while we conceive tliac they were addressed by a lover to his mistress, wliom he wet all alone on a summer's evening, by the banks of a beautiful stream, which some of us have actually Been, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. Let us take another example. It is now a nymph that •peaks. Here how she expresses herself— '■ How blythe each mora was I to see Mv swaiu eorae o'er thp hill 1 maxim of Horace, nt pictura pdeats, is ftiithfUU ly observed by these rustic bards, who are guid- ed by the same impulse of nature and sensibility which influenced ihe father of epic poetry, on whose example the precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- gination is employed to interest the feelings. When we do not conceive distinctly, we do not sympathize deeply in any humari affection ; and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstr.'.c- tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in science, must be abandoned when the heart is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of society paint individual objects ; and hence, among other causes, the easy access they obtain to the heart. Generalization is the voice of poets, whose learning overpowers their genius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. The dramatic style which prevails so much in the Scottish songs, whne it contributes great- ly to the interest they excite, also shows that they have originated among a people in the ear- lier stages of society. Where this form of com- position appears in songs of a modern date, it indicates that they have been written after the ancient model.* The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe tical merit, and this inequality often extends to the different parts of the same song. Those that are humorous, or characteristic of manners, have in general the merit of copying nature ; those that are serious are tender and often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high powers of imagination, which indeed do not He skipt the burn, and flew to me, I met him with good will." Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a brook, watching her lover, as he descends the opposite hill. He bounds lightly along; he appro.ichrs nearer and nearer ; he leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fait mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama- tion : — " O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and his ewes;" Thus the individual spot of this happy interview it pointed out, and the picture is completed. * That the dramatic form of writing charactenzes productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a re- ference to the most ancient compositions that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the v;ritings of Homer. The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish ballads, even in narration, whenever the situations de. scribed become interesting. This sometimes produces a very striking effect, of which an instance may be given from the ballad oi Edom o' Gordon, a composi- tion apparently of the sixteenth century. The story of tlie ballad is shortly this: — The Castle of Rhodes in the absence of its lord, is attacked by the robber Edom Gordon. Tlie lady stands on her defence, beats olf the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are carried into ctteet, we learn from the expostulation ol the lady, wlxj is represi'iited as staudiiij; on the battle ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 95 easily find a placd in this species of composition. The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs with the music has in some instances given to the former a popularity, which otherwise they would never have obtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs with the more beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same effect. It has given them not merely popularity, but permanence ; it has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of the works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- rience of the past, we may judge with any con- fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- scription are of all others the least lUvely to die. Iq the changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the associated strain of sen- timent and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- row, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- Knowes. The first attempts of Burns in song-writing were not very successful. His habitual inatten- tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- mony of numbers, arising probably from the models on which his versification was formed, were faults likely to appear to more advantage ill this species of composition, than in any other ; and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and the exuberance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted by nature for following in such compo- sitions the model of the Grecian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice he how- ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this gradually disappears in his successive efforts; and some of his later compositions of this kind may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the finest songs in our language, while in the elo- quence of sensibility they surpass them all. The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of rural nature are every where associated with the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She Is in- terrupted — " O then bcspake her little son, Sate on his nourice knee ; Says ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. For tlic Tcvk it smithers me.' " I wad gie a' my (jowd, my childe, Sae wad I a' my tee, Fjr ae blast o" the westlin wind. To blaw the re>!k frae thee." The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, the general circulation of his poems in England, notwithstanding the dialect in whic i the great- er part are written, and which might be sup- posed to render them here uncouth or obscure. In some instances he has used this dialect on subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he confines it to sentiments or description of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where be rises into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer English style. The singular faculty he pos- sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to use this variety of dialect on some occasions with striking effect. His poera of Tarn o' Shunter affords an instance of this. There he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, to situations of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a musician that runs from the lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish dialect enables him to add two additional notes to the bottom of his sca'e. Great efforts have been made by the inhabi- tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- proximate in their speech to the pure English standard ; and this has made it difficult to write in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them some feelings of disgust, which in England are scarcely felt. An Englishman who undei-stands the meaning of the Scottish words, is not of- fended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perhaps pleased with the rustic dialect, as he Biay he with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. But a Scotchman inhabiting his own conn- try, if a man of education, and more especially if a literary character, has banished such words from his writings, and has attempted to banish them from his speech ; and being accustomed to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis- like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na- tural. It is of the species of disgust which we feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; which, if she be really young and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to over- come. A lady who assumes such a dress putt her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa- shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of ylegant and flowing drapery ; but her native charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, be- cause the less adorned ; and to these she trusta for fixing her empire on those affections over which fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new association arises. The dress of the beau- tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and estab- lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob- server shall view her picture in the galleiy thai contains the portraits of the beauties of succes- sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec- tive day, her drapery will not deviate, mora than that of her rivals, fri)m the standard of hu ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 97 tute, and he will give the palm to her who ex- oals in the lineaments of nature. Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of his coimtry, and by them their native dialect is universally relished. To a numerous class of the natives of Scotland of another description, it may also be considered as attractive in a dif- ferent point of view. Estranged from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their country unites with the senti- ments and the descriptions on which it is em- ployed, to recall to their minds the interesting scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, can- not judge on this point for one hundred and fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen. To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste of the public has been for some time reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as has already been observed, in the copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral Of rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which is very generally approved. Neither does the regret seem well founded which some persons of taste have expressed, that Burns used this dia- lect in so many other of his compositions. His declared purpose was to paint the manners of rustic life among his " humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive, that this could have been done with equal humour and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. There are some, indeed, who will think the subject too low for poetry. Pei-sons of this sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted in many a polite and learned author ; let them not seek for gratifica- tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the un- bridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- bility of this bard of nature. To determine the comparative merit of Burns would be no easy task. Many persons after- wards distinguished in literature, have been isom in as humble a situation of life ; but it WOUid be difficiLt to find any other who while earning his subsistence by daily .a>;ur, ha* written verses which have attracted and re- tained universal attention, and which are likely to give the author a permanent and distinguish- ed place among the followers of the muses. It he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well as energy ; and these are indica- tions of the higher order of genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as ex- celling in strength, another in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. Every species of intellectual supe- riority admits, perhaps, of a limilar arrange- ment. One writer excels in force — another in ease; he is superior to them both, in whom both these qualities are united. Of Homei himself it may be said, that like his own Achil- les, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as well as strength. The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding, and in the sensibility of his heart ; and these will be found to infuse the living principle into all the works of genius which seem destined to immortality. His sen- sibility had an uncommon range. He was a- live to every species of emotion.' He is one of the few poets that can be mentioned, who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the an- cients, and which in modern times is only dua to Ariosto, to Shakspcare, and perhaps to Vol- taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish peasant with the works of these giants in liter- ature, might appear presumjituous ; yet it may be asserted that he has displayed the foot oj Hercules. How near he might have approach- ed them by proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier aus|)iccs, it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of his mind, it ia easy to see, that out of such materials ha^e been reared the fairest and the m^st durable of Hm manument* cf genius 99 THE SONGS. The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning to be disfiontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral communication ; and an obvious consequence of that state jf the public taste was, that the Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of hia poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived the use of their native tongue in their own countrj', but gave it a cur- rency in the polite world generally ; an effect which was greatly assisted by Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the lyrical effusions of the olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon the several songs, are amusing and instructive ; and where there were blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this, and at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two distinct parts ; — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with the remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them — The second part is formed of his own songs, and wliich are now brought together, io place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto- fore. — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scottish Songs, such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and inno- cent amusement in every country. 100 SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. ?ZB poet ttus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — ' I cad aa old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died ; during which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man.'' The song, as here given, was taken down from the recitation of the uoet's mother, who had never seen a printed copy of it,- — and had learned it from her mother in early youth. ] THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN: oa, A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE MONTHS OF THE Y2AR. Tune—" Isle of Kell." Upon the sixteen hunder year, of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie ; « On January the sixteenth day, as I did ly alone, With many a sigh and sob did say. Ah ! I\lan is made to moan. Dame Natur, that excellent bride, did stand up me before, And said to me, thou must provide this life for to abhor : Thou seest what things are gone before, experience teaches thee ; Yet do not miss to remember this, that one day thou must die. Of all the creatures bearing life recall back to thy mind. Consider how they ebb and flow, each thing in their own kind ; yet few of them have such a strain, as God hath given to thee ; Therefore this lesson keep in mind,— lemember man to die. Man's course on earth will report* if I have time and space ; It may be long, it may be short, as God hath giv'n him grace. His natur to the herbs compare, that in the ground ly dead ; And to each month add five year, and so we will procede. The first five years then of man's life compare to Januar ; In all that tim.e but sturt and strife, he can but greet and roar. So is the fields of flowers all bai'e, by reason of the frost ; Kept in the ground both safe and sooad. not one of them is lost. So to years ten I shall speak then of Februar but lack ; The child is meek and weak of spir't, nothing can undertake : So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, no springing up can make, Yet birds do sing and praise their king, and each one choose their mate. Then in comes March, that noble area, with wholesome spring and air. The child doth spring to years fifteen, with visage fine and fair ; So do the flow'rs with softening show'r* ay spring up as .ve see ; Yet nevertheless remember this, that one day vi^e must die. Then brave April doth sweetly smL^ the flow'rs do fair appear. The child is then become a man, to the age of twenty year ; If he be kind and well inclin'd, and brought up at the school, Then men may know if he foreshow a wise man or a fool. Then cometh May, gallant and gay, when fi-a6'ant flow'rs do thrive. SONGS. 101 The child is then become a man, of age twenty and five : And for his life doth seek a wife, his life and yeais to spend ; Christ from above send peace and love, and grace unto the end ! Then Cometh June with pleasant tune, when fields with flow'rs are clad, And Phoebus bright is at his height, all creatures then are glad : Then he appears of thretty years, with courage bold and stout ; His nature so makes him to go, of death he hath no doubt. Then July comes with his hot climes, and constant in his kind, The man doth thrive to thirty-five, and sober grows in mind ; His children small do on him call, and breed him sturt and strife ; Then August old, both stout and bold, when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; So man appears to forty years, with wisdom and command ; And doth provide his house to guide, children and familie ; Yet do not miss t' remember this, that one day thou must die. September then comes with his train, and makes the flow'rs to fade ; Then man belyve is forty-five, grave, constant, wise, and staid. W'lien he looks on, how youth is gone, and shall it no more see ; Then may he say, both night and da ', have mercy. Lord, on me ! October's blast comes in with boast, and makes the flow'rs to fall ; Then man appears to fifty years, old age doth on him call : The almond tree doth flourish hie, and pale grows man we see ; Then it is time to use this line, remember, man, to die. November air maketh fields bare of flow'rs, of grass, and corn ; Then man arrives to fifty-five, and sick both e'en and morn : Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, makes him to sigh and say. Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, and learn me for to die ! December fell baith sharp and snell, makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, no soundness in him found. His cars and e'en, and teeth of bane, all these now do him fill ; Then may he say, both night and day, that death shall him assail. And if there be, thro' natur stout, some that live ten years more ; Or if he creepeth up and down, till he comes to fourscore ; \et all this time is but a line, no pleasure can he see : TTien may he say, both night and day, have mercy. Lord, on me ! Thus have I shown you as I can, the course of all mens' life ; We will return where we began, but either sturt or strife : Dame Memorie doth take her leave, she'll last no more, we see ; God grant that I may not you grieve, Ye'U get nae mair of me. BESS THE GAWKIE. This song shews that the Scottish Muses did not aJl leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- wald,* as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both ])osterior to the days of these two gentlemen. — It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We hava few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastom. of nature, that are equal to this. — Burxs. Bi.YTHE young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae. Where flocks do feed and herds do stray, And sport awhile wi' Jamie .' Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak nae care. Nor about Jamie tik nae care. For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! For hark, and I will tell you, lass. Did I not see your Jamie pass, Wi' raeikle gladness in his face, Out o'er the muir to Maggy. I wat he gae her mony a kiss, And Maggy took them ne'er amiss ; 'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this. That Bess was but a gawkie. For when a civil kiss I seek. She turns her head, and thraws her cheek. • Oswald was a music-seller in London, about th« year 1750. He published a large collection of Scottish lines, which he called The Caledonian Pocket Compa- tion. Ml. 'r\tler observes, that his genius in compo- sition, joined to his taste in the performance of .Scot- tish musie, was natural and pathetic. This song ha* been imputed to a clergyman — Mr. Moreliead of Urt im Galloway. 102 BURNS' WORKS. And for au hour she'll scarcely speak ; The gladsome waters sung below. Who'd not call her a gawkie ? And the sweet wind sung above—' But sure my Miiggie has mair sense, Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, She'll gie a score without offence ; She comes to seek her love. Now gie me ane unto the raense, And ye shall be my dawtie. A gentle wind came with a sweep, And stretched her silken sail, O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, Wlien up there came a reaver rude, But I will never stand for ane, With many a shout and hail : Or twa, when we do meet again ; touch her not, my mariners a*. Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. Such lovehness goes free ; Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be, Make way foi- Annie of Lochroyan, Sic thoughts as these are far from oe, She seeks Lord Gregorie. Or ony that sweet face that see. E'er to think thee a gawkie. The moon looked out with all her star»i The ship moved merrily on. But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, Until she came to a castle high, For yonder Jamie does us meet ; That all as diamonds shone : Instead of IMeg he kiss'd sae sweet. On every tower there streamed a light. I trow he likes the gawkie. On the middle tower shone three— dear bess, I hardly knew, Jlove for that tower my mariners a'. When I came by, your gown sae new, IMy love keeps watch for me. I think you've got it wat wi' dew ; Quoth she, that's like a gawkie : She took her young son in her arms, And on the deck she stood — It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain. The wind rose with an angry gust. And I'll get gowns when it is gane. The sea wave wakened rude. Sae you may gang the gate you came. Oh open the door. Lord Gregory, love : And tell it to yoiir dawtie. Oh open and let me in ; The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair. He cry'd, cruel maid, but sweet, The surge dreeps down my chin. If I should gang anither gate. I ne'er could meet my dawtie. All for thy sake. Lord Gregory, love. I have sailed the perilous way. The lasses fast frae him they flew, And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts, And left poor Jamie sair to rue, And he'll be dead ere day. That ever ftlaggy's face he knew, The foam hangs on the topmost cliff. Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. The fires run on the sky. As they went o'er the muir they sang ; And hear you not your true love's voicb The hills and dales with echoes rang. And her sweet baby's cry ? The hills and dales with echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggy ' Fair Annie turned her round about. And tears began to flow — May never a baby suck a breast Wi' a heart sae fou of woe. Take down, take down that silver maw- FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. Set up a mast of tree, (original song of OH OPEN THE DOOR, LORD Gregory). It does nae become a forsaken dame To sail sae royallie. It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Oh read my dream, ray mother, deal Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and I heard a sweet babe greet. Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues- Lie cauld dead at my feet. sed to belong to, or be the production of these And loud and loud his mother laugned— ■ counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these Oh sights mair sure than sleep. very few ; as the ballad, which is a long one, I saw fair Annie, and heard hea- voice, is called both by tradition and in printed collec- And her baby waU and weep. tions. The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway. — Burns. he went down to yon sea side As fast as he could fare, Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship, He saw fair Annie and her sweet babt. And set her on the sea ; But the wild wind tossed them sair ; The sails were a' of the damask silk. And hey Annie, and how Annie, The masts oT silver free. And Annie winna ye bide ? SONGS 103 But aye the mair he called A»jnie, The broader grew the tide. And hey Annie, and how Antiie, Dear Annie speak to me, But aye the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea. The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, The ship sunk nigh the shore, Fair Annie floated through the foam, But the baby rose no more. O first he kissed her cherry cheek, And then he kissed her chin, And syne he kissed her rosy lips, But chere was nae broath within. O my love's love was true as light, As meek and sweet was she — My mother's hate was strong as death, And fiercer than the sea. ROSLIN CASTLE. These beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- dote, kept for some )'ears as an amanuensis. I do not know who was the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- f' ry of Scots music, gives the^ air to Oswald ; fut in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune — Burns. 'TwAS in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin, with the morning ray, Arose and sung his rural lay. Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung. The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; While Roslin Castle heard the swain, And echoed back the cheerful strain. Awake, sweet IVIuse ! the breathing spring, With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! Awake and join the vocal throng, Who hail the morning with a song; To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, O ! bid her haste and come away ; In sweetest smiles herself adorn. And add new graces to the morn ! O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray, liach feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. And love inspires the melting song : Then let ray raptur'd notes arise, Tor beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; And love my rising bosom warms, 4nd fills my soul with sweet alarmsi, O ! com*, my love ! thy Colin's lay With rapture calls, O come away ! Come, while the IMuse this wreath shall tw-la4 Around that modest brow of thine ; O ! hither haste, and with thee bring That beauty blooming like the spring ; Those graces that divinely shine. And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO' SHE. This song for genuine humour in the versei, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled I take it to be very old Burns. Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she. Saw ye Johnnie cummin, saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ■ Saw ye Johnnie cummin, Wi' his blue bonnet on his head. And his doggie runnin, quo' she And his doggie runnin ? Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she* Fee him, father, fee him ; For he is a gallant lad, And a weel doin' ; And a' the wark about the house Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' ihe Wi' me when I see him. What will I do wi' him, hussy ? \\Tiat will I do wi' him ? He's ne'er a sark upon his back. And I hae nane to gie him. 1 hae twa sarks into my kist. And ane o' them I'll gie hina. And for a mark of mair fee, Dinna stand wi' him, quo' Boe ; Dinna stand wi' him. For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; Weel do I lo'e him : O fee him, father, fee him, quo* she ; Fee him, father, fee him ; He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i* the btrn And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ; Lie wi' me at e'en. CLOUT THE CALDRON, A TRADITION is mentioned in t)je Bee , that the second Bishop Cliisholm, of Di/.nblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, no- thing would soothe his mind so much by tha way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played. 104 BURNS' WORKS. T tave met witt another tnul.tion, that the old song to this tune, Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or onie broken chanlers, was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the Cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of The Blacksmith and his Apron, which from the rythym, seems to have been a line of some old song to the tune. — Burns. Have you any pots or pans, Or any broken chandlers ? I am a tinkler to my trade, And newly come frae Flanders, As scant of siller as of grace, Disbanded, we've a bad run ; Gar tell the lady of the place, I'm come to clout her caldron. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Madam, if you have wark for me, I'll do't to your contentment, And dinna care a single flie For any man's resentment ; For, lady fair, though I appear To ev'ry ane a tinkler. Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, I am a gentle jinker. Fa adrie, didle, didle, fee. Love Jupiter into a swan Turn'd for his lovely Leda ; lie like a bull o'er meadows ran, To carry aff Europa. Then may not I, as well as he, To cheat your Argos blinker, And win your love, like mighty Jove^ Thus hide me in a tinkler ? Fa adrie, didle, didle, kc. Sir, ye appear a cunning man. But this fine plot you'll fail in, For there is neither pot nor pan Of mine you'll drive a nail in. Then bind your budget on your back, And nails up in your apron, For I've a tinkler under tack That's us'd to clout my caldron. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? This charming song is much older, and in- deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very grtat deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading — Burns. Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Coming o'er the lea ? Sure a finer creature Ne'er was forni'd by nature, * So complete each feature, So divine is she. O ! how Peggy charms me ; Every look still warms me ; Every thought alarms me, Lest she love nae me. Peggy doth discover Nought but charms all over j Nature bids me love her, That's a law to me. Wlio would leave a lover, To become a rover ? No, I'll ne'er give over, 'Till I happy be. For since luve inspires me, As her beauty fires me. And her absence tires me, Nought can please but she. When I hope to gain her, Fate seems to detain her, Cou'd I but obtain her, Happy wou'd I be ! I'll ly down before her. Bless, sigh, and adore her. With faint looks implore her, 'Till she pity me. The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my ]\Iaggie, Linkin o'er the lea ? High kilted was she, High kilted was she, High kilted was she. Her coat aboon her knee. What mark has your Maggie, ^Vhat mark has your Jlaggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken hei ve ? {bt/) Though it by no means follows that the Btl- liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song ; yet I take this ballad, o! which I have quoted part, to be the old verse*. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evi- dently hi* own, are never to be met with in tha SONGS. fire-side circle of our peasantry ; while that which I take to be the old sonij, is ia every 'shepherd's mouth. Ram&ii/, I suppose, had thought the old ve.'ses unworthy of a place in his collection.^BuRNs. FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE. It is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature ; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, ihis is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name, sr phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, iJnd all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. Gin ye meei a bonnie lassie, Gie her a s.ss and let her gae ; But giu ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. Look up to Pentland's tow'rlng tap, Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, As high as ony Roman wa.' Driving their baws frae whins or tee, There's no nae gowfers to be seen ; Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee The byass-bouls on Tamson's green. Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. And beek the house baith butt and ben ; That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon ; It makes a man baith gasV ind bauld, And heaves his saul beyond the moon. Leave to the gods your ilka care. If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashions fears beguile. For what they h.ive a mind to do. That will theV io. should we gang wood ; 105 move, If they command the storms to blaw, Then upo' sight the hailstains thud But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,' The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair But cour into their caves, and wait The high command of supreme Jovi. Let neist day come as it thinks fit, The present minute's only ours ; On pleasure let's employ our wit, And laugh at fortune's fickle powen. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young. Before auld age your vitals nip. And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsoiue time ; Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, Gae pou the gowan in its prime. Before it witlier and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delyte. When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a' the wyte On you, if she kepp ony skaith. " Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling sajr ; " Ye'U worry me, ye greedy rook ;" Syne frae your arms she'll rin away. And hide hersell in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want. And plainly tells you to your face. Nineteen nay-says are hafF a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whop a ring, As taiken of a future bless. These bennisons, I'm very sure. Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant. THE LASS O* LIVISTON. The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, ii well known, and has merit as to wit and hu- mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion.— It* begins. The bonnie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken. And she has written in her contract) To lie her lane, to lie her line. &c &c. L2 i06 BURNS' WORKS. THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MUIR. Ramsav found the first liae of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air Burns. The last time I came o'er the muir, I left my love behind me : Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me. Soon as the ruddy morn display 'd The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for \vooing. Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting ; We kiss'd and promis'd time away, Till night spread her black curtain : I pitied all beneath the skies, Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; In raptures I beheld her eyes. Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call'd where cannons roar. Where mortal steel may wound me ; Or cast upon some foreign shore. Where dangers may surround me ; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there s not one place To let a rival enter ; Since she excels in ev'ry grace. In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. Their waves the Alps shall cover ; On Greenland's ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her The next time I gang o'er the muir, She shall a lover find me ; And that my faith is firm and pure. Though I left her behind me. Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom ; There, while my being does remain. My love more fresh shall blossom. JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. Though this has certainly every evidence of f bg a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known •ne and song in the North cf Ireland, called, The Weaver and ^?« Shittle, O, yfyat though sung much quicker, is evt y nets tht very tune. When I was in my se'nteen ytar, I was baith blythe and bonny, O the lads loo'd me baith far and near, Brj I loo'd nane but Johnny : He gain'd ray heart in twa three weekS; He spake sae blythe and kindJy ; And I made him new gray breeks. That fitted him most finely. He was a handsome fellow ; His humour was baith frank and fire^ His bonny locks sae yellow, Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee j- His dimpl'd chin aud rosy cheeks. And face sae fair and ruddy ; And then a-days his gray breeks. Was neither auld nor duddy. But now they're threadbare worn. They're wider than they wont to be f They're tashed-like,* and sair torn. And clouted sair on ilka knee. But gin I had a simmer's day. As I have had right mony, I'd make a web o' new gray. To be breeks to my Johnny. For he's weel wordy o them. And better gin I had to gie. And I'll tak pains upo' them, Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them £r«& To dead him ^\'eel shall be my care. And please him a' my study ; But he maun wear the auld pair Awes, tho' they be duddy. For when the lad was in his primes Like liim there was nae mony He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, And gin we live anither year, We'll keep them hale between us yet, Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee ; Here's luck kj a' the gray steeks, That show themsells upo' the knee i And if wi' health I'm spared, A' wee while as I may, I shall hae them prepared. As wee' as ony that's o' gray Stained. SONGS. 107 MAY EVF OR KATE OF ilBERDEEN. Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player ; of whom the fol- lowing anecdote, thojgh told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church comin past Cunningham one Sitnduy as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, re{»lied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgivs his seeming profanity of that sacred day, " as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool .'" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him m jch, assured me was true. — Burns. ilver moon's enaraour'd beam, Steals softly through the night. To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go balmy sleep, ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep • With Kate of Aberdeen ! Upon the gi-etvv Ae virgms want. In rosy chaplets gay. Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promis'd May. Methiuks I hear the maids declare The promis'd May, when seen. Not half so fragrant, half so fair. As Kate of Aberdeen ! Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove ; The nested birds shall raise their throats. And hail the maid I love : And see — the matin lark mistakes. He quits the tufted green ; Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! Now lightsome o'er the level mead. Where midnight fairies rove. Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love : For see the rosy May draws nigh. She claims a virgin queen ; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, ■ •' 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- land, who had it from the last John, liarl vl Loudon. — The then Earl of Loudon, father to Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place yet called Patie's I\Iill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed, that she would be a fine theme for a song Allan lagged behind in re- turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner prodac- ed this identical song. — Burns. The lass of Patie s mill. So bonny, biythe, and gav, In spite of all my skill. She stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay. Bare-headed on the green, Love 'midst her locks did play, And wanton'd in her een. Her arms white, round, and Rraooth, Breasts rising in their dawD, To age it would give youth, To press 'era with his hand : Thro' all my spirits rac An ecstasy of bliss. When I such sweetness fanu Wrapt in a balmy kiss. Without the help of art. Like flowers which grace the wild. She did her sweets impart, Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride. She me to love beguil'd ; I wish'd her for my bride. O had I all that wealth, Hopeton's high mountains • Insur'd lang life and health. And pleasure at my wUl ; I'd promise and fulfil, That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie's mill Shou'd share the same wi' n» fill, THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, fnia sor.g is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the North 0^ Scotland, and likewise is claimed by THE TURNIMSPIKE. There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set, — where I hay* placed the asterisms.j- Herseix pe highlank iheAleman, Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man j • Thirty- three miles south-west of £dint>urgli, where the Earl of Hopeton's mints arc. t Burns had placed the asterjsms between the 9Qk and 10th verses. The verse is here restored. 108 BURNS' WORKS. And mony alterations set-a HIGHLAND LADDIE. Amang te lawlatd whig, man. Fal, §-c , As this was a favourite theme with our late? Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs First when her to the lawlands came, of that name. That which I take to be the Narnsel was driving cows, man ; oldest, is to be found in the Musical Museumt There was nae laws about him's nerse, beginning, / hae been at Crookie-den.-— About the preeks or trews, man. I HAE been at Crookie-den,* Nainsell did wear the philabeg, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Tl.e plaid prick't on her shouder ; Viewing Willie and his men. The guid claymore hung pe her pelt. My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. There our faes that burnt and slew. But for whereas these cursed preeks, My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; Wherewith man's nerse be locket, There, at last, they gat their due, hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. For a' her houghs be prokit. Satan sits in his black neuk. Every ting in de highlands now My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Pe turn'd to alteration ; Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie : And tat's te great vexation. The bluidy monster gae a yell. Scotland be turn't a Ningland now, My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; An' laws pring on de eager ; And loud the laugh gaed round a' hell ! Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds. My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. But oh ! she fear te sodger. One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in his Anither law came after dat. collection by the name of The auld Highland Me never saw de like, man ; Laddie. — It is also known by the name of They mak a lang road on de crund. Ji7i(jlan Johnie, which is a well known son* of And ca' liim Turnimspike, man. four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it An' wow ! she pe a ponny road, is little known to the peasantry by the name of Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; Highland Laddie ; while every body know* Where twa carts may gang on her. Jinglan Johnie. The song begins, An' no preak ithers legs, man. Jinglan John, the meickle man. They sharge a penny for ilka horse. He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. (In troth, tney'U no pe sheaper^ ; For nought but gaen upo' the crund. Another Higland Laddie is also in the Mu- And they gie me a paper. seum, vol. V. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " my They tak the horse then py fehead, bonnie Highland lad, ^c." It consists of three And tere tey mak her stan, man; stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in Me tell tern, me hue seen te day. its composition — it is an excellent but somewhat Tey had na sic comman, man. licentious song. — It begins, Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse. As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, Ajid pay tem what him likes, man ; And down amang the blooming heather, &c. I'll see a shudgment on his toor ; Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. This air, and the common Highland Laddie^ seem only to be different sets. But I'll awa to the Highland hills, Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu' Where te'il a ane dare turn her. seum, vol. v. is the tune of several Jacobite frag /nd no come near your Turnimspike, raents.-.-One of these old songs to it, only existai Unleaa it \e to purn her. as far as I know, in these four lines — , Fal.S;c. Whare hae ye been a' day, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ? Down the back o' Bell's brae. Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. * A cant name for Hell SONGS. 108 Amotter of this name is Dr. Arne's beatttiful air, ealled, the new Highland Laddie.* THE BLAITHRIE O'T. The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a chil.i, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing. WiLLr weel I mind, I lent you my hand. To sing you a song which you did me command ; But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride, I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; For virtue is aa ornament that time will never rot. And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne ; 1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock, Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command, We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; Hae we less, hae we raair, we will aye be content ; For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but a groat. Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' tlie kirk or the queen ; They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink let them swim, On your kirk I'il ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still remote, 6ae tak tlds for the gear and the blaithrie o't. And how the lass that wants it is by tLe ladi forgot. May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !• Jockie was the laddie that he'd the pleugh. But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaidea coat ; May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't J Jenny was the lassie that mucked the bfre. But now she is clad in her silken attire. And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he'i me forgot ; May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! But all this shall never daunton rae. Sac lang's I keep my fancy free : For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not wcrth a groat ; May the shame fa' the gear an.l the blaithrie o't ' THE BLAITHRIE O'T. When I think on this warld's pelf, And the little wee share I have o't to myself. • The following observation was found tn a memo- -andum book belonging to Burns: The Hig'nlanderf Prayer at Sheriff-Muir. " O L — d \ye thou with us ; but, if thou be not with *s, be not against us ; but leave it between the red eoatt TWEEDSIDE. In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- cation were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked with the letters D. C, &c Old I\Ir. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, the .worthy aud able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of Achinames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay., I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Twerdside is Mr. Crawford's, and indeed docs great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Ro'iert Craw- ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married tc a Mr. John Belches. What beauties does Flora disclose ! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ; Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ; Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose. Not all the gay flowers of the field. Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird and sweet-cooing dove. With music enchant ev'ry bush. • Shame fall the gear and the bhifry o't, h the tiiTB of an old Scottish sun;;, spoken when a \oung haniu some girl marries an old man, upuu the acoouiil of tu* wealth.— Kelly's Scots Proverbt. 110 BURNS' WORKS. Come, let us go fortli to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring, We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does IVIavy not 'tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray. While happily she lies asleep ? Tweed's murn^urs should luH her to rest ; Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell ; She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Sav, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweedside, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanaas, of which I still recollect the first. When Maggy and I was acquaint, I carried ray noddle fu' hie ; Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain. Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; So now I maun wander abroad. And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. The last stanza runs thus : — Ed. To Meiggy my love I did tell, Saut tears did my passion express, Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, An' the women loo sic a man less. Her heart it was frozen and cauld. Her pride had my ruin decreed ; Therefore I will wander abroad, And lay my baues far frae the Tweed. THE nOATIE ROWS. The author of the Boatie Rows, was a Mr. Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of womanly aifectiou mingling with the concerns and occupations of life. It is nearly eqi^ual to There's nae luck about the house. O WKEL may the boa';ie row. And better may she speed ; And leesonie may the boatie re That wins my bairu3 bread : The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And weel may the boatie row That wins the bairns bread. I cust • my line in Largo bay, And fishes I catch'd nine ; There was three to boil, and three to ttf And three to bait the line : The boatie rows, the boatie row% The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a* Who wishes her to speed. O weel may the boatie row. That fills a heavy creel,f And cleads us a' frae head to feet, And buys our porridge meal : The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a* That wish the boatie speed. When Jamie vow'd he would be mme^ And wan frae me my heart, muckle lighter grew my creel, He swore we'd never part : The boatie rows, the boatie Tovn, The boatie rows fu' weel ; And muckle lighter is the load. When love bears up the creel. ]My kurtch I put upo' my head. And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 1 true my heart was douf an' wae. When Jamie gaed awa : But weel may the boatie row. And lucky be her part ; And lightsome be the lassie's care. That yields an honest heart. When Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, Are up and gotten lear, They'll help to gar the boatie row. And lighten a' our care : The boatie rows, the boatie rows. The boatie rows fu' weel ; And lightsome be her heart that bears The murlain, and the creel. And when wl' age we'i'e worn dpwn, And hirpling round the door. They'll row to keep us dry and warm, As we did them before : — Then weel may the boatie row. She wins the bairns bread ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boat to speed ! THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. Another, out very pretty Anglo-Soot tisk piece. • Cast.— The Aberdeenshire dialeoU t An oaier basket. SONGS. 112 How blest has my time been, what joys have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasLog tbeir sport is ! the wanton ones see And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she be- guiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What tho' on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humour bloom all the year thro' ; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair ; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. THE POSIE. It appears evident to me that Oswald com posed his liosUn Castle on the modulation of this air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either bit on a wonder- ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- ed the three first bars of the old air ; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl's voice, had no great merit. — The following is a speci- men : Theue was a pretty May,* and a milkin she went ; Wi* her red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black hair : And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent. With a double and adieu to thee fair May. O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, Wi thy red rosy cheeks, snd thy coal-black hair ? Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee fair Alay. What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ; Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she says. With a double and adieu to thee fair May. &c. &c. THE POSIE O LUVK will venture in, There it daut na wee' be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been, But I will down yon river rove, araang the wood sae green. And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o* the year, And I will pu" the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' woman kind, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Alay. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- ing blue. And a' to be a posie to ray ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May ; The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller grey. Wliere, like an aged man, it stands at break o day. But the songster's nest vi ithin the bush I winni tak away ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear JVIay The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ning sta. is near. And the diamond djaps o' dew shall be he e'ei sae clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's te wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear iVIay. I'U tie the posie round wi' the silken band o luve. And I'll plaee it in her breast, and I'll swear b^ a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shal ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my aix c'<>ar Mst lu BURNS' WORKS. MARY'S DREAM. The Mary here alluded to is generally sup- per to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the ^dird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompei/s Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.— By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love disappointment. The moon had climb'd the highest hill, W^hicli rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summet shed Her silver light on tow'r and tree : When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low a voice was heard. Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head to ask, who there might be ; She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand. With visage pale and hollow eye ; ' O Mary, dear, cold is my clay, ' It lies beneath a stormy sea ; ' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; ' So, Mary, weep no more for me. ' Three stormy nights and stormy days ' We toss'd upon the raging main ; * And long we strove our bark to save, ' But all our striving was in vain. ' E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, * ]My heart was fiU'd with love for thee : ' The storm is past, and I at rest ; ' So, Mary, weep no more for me. O maiden deaiy thyself prepare, ' We soon shall meet upon that shore, ' Where love is free from doubt and care, ' And thou and I shall part no more !' Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled, No more of Sandy could _ghe see ; But soft the passing spirit said, " Sweet Mary, weep no more forme !" THE JOLLY BEGGAR. He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre, But in ahint the ha* door, or else afore the fire, And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean straw and hay, And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay. And we'll gang nae mair, jfc. Up raise the good man's dochter, and for to ba^ the door. And there she saw the beg^ir standin i' th» floor. And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc He took the Ia.ssie in his arms, and to the bed he ran, O hooly, hooly wi' me, sir, ye'll waken out goodman, And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc. The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a word he spake. Until he got his turn done, syne he began te crack. And ive'll gang nae mair, §•«. Is there ony flogs into this town ? maiden, tell me true. And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and my dow ? And we'll gang nae mair, §*c. They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikk wrang, dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir man J And we'll gang nae mair, §-c. Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them o'er the wa', The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhea* and a', And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc. 1 took ye for some gentleman, at least the laird of Brodie ; O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie ? And we'll gang nae mair, S^c. Said to have been composed oy King James He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kissc» v., on a frolic of his own There was a jolly beggar, and a begging h« was boun', And he took up his quarters into a land'art town, And we'll gang nae mair a roving, Sae late into the night, .And we'll gang nae mair a roving, boys, Let the moon shine ne'er sae bright I three, And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice-fee. And we'll gang nae mair, SfC. He took a horn frae his side, and blew haith loud and shrill, And four-and-twenty belted knights came ikip- ping o'er the hill. And we'll gang nae mair, jrc SONGS. And he took out Lis little knife, loot a' his dud- dies fa*. And he was the brawest gentleman that was aniang them a'. And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc, 1 he begcrar was a diver loon, and he lap shoul- der height, O ay for sicken quarters as I gat yesternight ! And we'll gang nae mair, SfC. THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. BY MR. DUDGEON. This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in Berwickshire. Up amang yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats, Lilting o'er her native notes. Hark ! she sings, " Young Sandy's kind An' he's promised ay to Ice me ; Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine Till he's fairly married to rae : Drive away ye drone Time, , An' bring about our bridal day. " Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, Aften does he blaw the whistle, [n a strain sae saftly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. He's as fleet's the mountain roe, Hardy as the highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping ay his flock together ; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, He braves the bleakest norlin blast. " Brawly he can dance and sing Canty glee or highland cronach ; Nane can ever match his fling. At a reel, or round a ring ; Wightly can he wield a rung, In a brawl he's ay the bangster : A' his piaise can ne'er be sung By the langest-winded sangster. Sangs that sing o' Sandy Come short, though they were e'er sae lang." TARRY WOO. This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that the first half stanza, as well 83 the tune itself, are much older than the rest of tbj words. Tarry woo, tarry woo, Tarry woo is ill to spin ; Card it well, card it well, Card U well ere ye b^;ia. When 'tis carded, row'd and apOMt Then the work is haflens done ; But when woven, drest and clean, It may be cleading for a queen. Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, That feed upon the mountain s steep, Bleating sweetly as ye go, Thro' the winter's frost and snow ; Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer. No be haflF so useful are : Frae kings to him that hads the plovf. Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip, O'er the hills and vallies trip, Sing up the praise of tarry woo, Sing the flocks that bear it too ; Harmless creatures without blame. That dead the back, and cram the wam^ Keep us warm and hearty fou ; Leese me on the *-arry woo. How happy is the shepherd's life. Far frae courts, and free of strife. While the gimmers bleat and bae. And the lambkins answer raae : No such music to his ear ; — Of thief or fox he has no fear ; Sturdy ICent and Collg true, Will defend the tarry woo. He lives content, and envies none j Not even a monarch on his throne, Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, Has not sweeter holidays. Who'd be a king, can ony tell. When a shepherd sings sae well ? Sings sae well, and pays his due, With honest heart and tarry woo. THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. The first half stanza is much older than the days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus :— The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wob> der bonnie ! A laird he was that sought her, rich baith i« lands and money. She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her dadditk The collier has a naughter. And O she's wonder bonny ; A laird he was that sought her, Rich baith in lands and money ; The tutors watch'd the motion Of this young honest lover ; But love is like the ocean ; Wha cais its depth discorer ? 114 BURNS' WORKS. He had f le^art to please ye, Anil was by a' respected ; His airs sat round him easy, Genteel, but unaffected. The collier's bonnie lassie, Fair as the new-blown lilie. Ay sweet, and never saucy, Secur'd the heart of WiHie. He lov'd beyond expression The charms that were about her^ And panted for posse-sion, His life was dull without her After mature resolving, Close to his breast he held her In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell'd her : My bonny collier's daughter. Let naething discompose ye, *Tis no your scanty tocher Shall evei- gar me lose ye : For I have gear in plenty. And love says, 'Tis my duty To ware what heav'n has lent me Upon your wit and beauty. MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. The old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these insert- ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Ffr- gusson, in one of his merry humours. — The <]d words began thus : — I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie, O, Altho* the night were ne'er sae wat. And I were ne'er sae weary, O, I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O.— Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie, O ? And cuddle there sae kindlie, My ain kind dearie, O ? At thorny dike and birken-tree, We'll daff and ne'er be weary, O ; They'll scug ill een frae you and me, My ain kind dearie, O ! Nae herds, wi* kent or colly, there. Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; But lavrocks, whistling in the air. Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. While others herd their lambs and yowes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo ; Upon the lea, my pleasure grows, Wi' thee my kind dearie, O. DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. I have been informed, that the tune of Down the Burn, Davie, was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, be- longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale, When trees did bud, and fields were green* And broom bloom d fair to see ; When Mary was complete fifteen. And love laugh'd in her e'e ; Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did rnore^ To speak her mind thus free, Gang down the litrn Davie, love. And I shall follow thee. Now Davie did each lad surpass, That dwalt on yon burn side. And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride ; Her cheeks were rosie, red and white) Her een were bonnie blue ; Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As down the burn they took their way. What tender tales they said I His cheek to her's he aft did lay, And with her bosom play'd ; What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, And naething sure unmeet ; For, ganging hame, I heard them say, They lik'd a walk sae sweet ; And that they aften should return, Sic pleasure to renew ; Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, And ay shall follow you. • BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY . The old words, all that I remember, arct— Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night ; It rains, it hails, it thunders. The moon she gies nae light : It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, That cTer I tint my way ; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee. Until it be break o' day.— O, Betty will bake my bread. And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my love. When I come over the dale : • The last four lines of the third stanza, being somewhat objectionable in point of delicacy, are omit* ted. Burns altered these lines. Had Wa alteration t>een attended with his usual succes*, \t would have been adooteU. SONGS. 11a Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 31ink over the burn to me, Kud while I hae life, dear lassie. My aia sweet Betty thou's be.— THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. This is one of the most beautiful songs iu the Scots, or any other language. — The two lines, And will I see his face again ! Ana will I hear hiui speak ! as well as the two preceding ones, are unequall- ed almost by any thing I ever heard or read : and the lines, The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw- are worthy of the first poet. — It is long poste- rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year 1771, or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period.* And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to talk o' wark? Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! Is this a time to talk of wark. When Colin' s at the door? Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. Por there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava ; There's little pleasure in the house, When 02ir gudeman's awa. Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side. Put on the muckle pat ; Gie little Kate her cotton gowu, And Jock his Sunday's coat ; And mak their shoon as black as slaes. Their hose as white as snaw ; It's a to please my ain gudenian. He likes to see them braw. For there's nae luck, SfC, There is twa hens upon the bauk, 'Sbeen fed this month and mair ; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and ckan, Gar ilka thing look braw ; It's a for love of my gudeman,— For he's been long awa. For there's nae luck, §*c. * It is now ascertained that Muikle, the traiulattr •f Camoens, was the author of thia ton£. O gie me down ay bigooets. My bishop-satin gown ; For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town; My Sunday's shoon they maun gae 00, IMy hose o' pearl blue, It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leel and true. For there's nae luck, §-c. Sae true's his words, sae smoeth's his soeeeh His breath like caller air, His very foot has music in't. When he comes up the stair : And will I see his face again ! And will I hear him speak ! I'm dowright dizzy with the thought. In troth I'm like to greet ! For there's nae luck, §-c. The cauld blasts of the winter wiud, That thrilled thro' my hear<. They're a' blaun by ; I hae tun safe, 'Till death we'll never part ; But what puts parting in my head ? It may be far awa ; The present moment is our ain. The neist we never saw ! For there's nae luck, §"c. Since Colin's well, I'm well content, I hae nae mair to crave ; Could I but live to mak him bleOt, I'm blest aboon the lave ; And will I see his face again. I And will I hear him speak ! I'm downright dizzy with tng thp^ioi In troth 1 'm like to gn-et ! JOHN HAY'f. BONfaE LAirrn^ JOhn Hay's Bonnie Lassis wae merry as we twa hae been, Sae merry as we twa hae been, Ml/ heart it is like for to break. When I think on the days we hae seeru Our flocks feeding close by his side, He gently pressing my hand, I view'd the wide world in its pride, And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! My dear, he would oft to me say. What makes you hard-hearted to me ? Oh ! why do you thus turn away From him who is dying for thee? Sae merry, ^x. But now he is far fiom my sight, Perhaps a deceiver may prove. Which makes me lament day and nighty That ever I granted my love. At eve, when the rest of the folk Were merrily seated to spin, I set myself under an oak. And heavily sighed for him. Sae merry, S^c. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. This is another beautiful song of Mr. Cfsw • ford's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shews the old " Bush ;" which, when I saw it in the year 1787, wa« SONGS. 117 ''onipoee.l of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls " The New Bush." Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; Tho* thus I languish and complain, Alas ! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded never move her ; The bonnie bush aboon Traquair, Was where I first did love her. That day she smil'd and made me glad, No maid seeln'd ever kinder ; I though.' myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her. I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, In words that I thought tender ; If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, I meant not to oflfend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The fields we then frequented ; If e'er we meet, she shews disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonnie bush bloora'd fair in May, Its sweets I'll ay remember ; But now her frowns make it decay, It fades as in December. Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me? Oh ! make her partner in my pains. Then let her smiles relieve me : If not, my love will turn despair. My passion no more tender ; I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, To lonely wilds I'll wander. CROMLET'S LILT. " In the latter end of the 16th century, the Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlechs (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch. " At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now ; and the Scottish | ladies, far from ])riding tliemselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn- ed if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education : At that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom- lu«, when he went abroad to the war, was o- bliged to leave the management of his corres- pondence with his mistress to a lay brothw of the monastery of Dumhlain, in the imraeniata neighbourhood of Cronileck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunate! {, was deeply sensible t4 Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus ; and by misinterpreting or keeping up the let- ters and messages intrusted to his cure, lie en- tirely irritated both. All connection was broken off betwixt them : Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call- ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. " When the artful monk thought time had sufficietitly softene-2 Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate : but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probal)ly very well pleased to get her ofl" his hands, she submitted, rather than consented to the cere- mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that after three gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, He- len, mind me.* Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was dis- covered, — her marriage disannulled, — and He- len became lady Cromlecks." N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 years. Since all thy vows, false maid, Are blown to air, And my poor heart betray 'd To sad despair, Into some wilderness. My grief I will express, And thy hard-heartedness, O cruel fair. Have I not graven our loves On every tree In yonder spreading groves, Tho' faise thou he ! Was not a solemn oath Plighted betwixt us both. Thou thy faith, I my troth, Constant to be ? Some gloomy place I'll find, Some doleful shade, Where neither sun nor wind E'er entrance had : Into that hollow cave, There will 1 sigh and rave. Because thou dost behave So faithlessly. • He^embOT me. 1)8 BURNS WORKS. Wild fruit snafi be my meat, I'll drink the spring, Cold earth shall be my seat : For covering I'll have the starry sky My head to canopy. Until my soul on hy Shall spread its wing. I'll have no funeral fire, Nor tears for me : No grave do I desire, Nor obsequies : The courteous Red-breast he With leaves will cover me, And sing my elegy With doleful voice. And when a ghost I am, I'll visit thee, O thou deceitful dame, Wliose cruelty "Has kill'd the kindest heart That e'er felt Cupid's dart. And never can desert From loving thee. MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. ANOTHER beautiful song of Crawford's. Love never more shall give me pain. My fancy's fix'd on thee, Nor ever maid my heart shall gain. My Peggy, if thou die. Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, Thy love's so true to me. Without thee I cau never live. My dearie, if thou die. If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray ! In dreary dreams the night I'll waste. In sighs, the silent day. I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see ; Then I'll renounce all woman kind, ]\Iy Peggy, after thee. No new- blown beauty fires my heart. With Cupid's raving rage ; But thine, which can such sweets impart. Must all the world engage. 'Twas this, that like the morning sun, Gave joy and life to me ; And when its destin'd day is done. With Peggy let me die. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And m such pleasure share ; You who its faithful flames approve. With pity view the fair : Restore my Peggy's wonted charms, Those charms so dear to me ! Oh ! never rob them from these armi} I'm lost if Peggy die. SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. The old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collections, is much prettier than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- say, took it into his head to clear it of som4 seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull. The night her silent sable wore, And gloomy were the skies ; Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more Than those in Nelly's eyes. When at her father's yate I knock'd. Where I had often been, She, shrouded only with her smock, Arose and loot me in. Fast lock'd within her close embrace, She trembling stood asham'd ; Her swelling breast, and glowing face, And ev'ry touch inflam'd. My eager passion I obey'd, Resolv'd the fort to win ; And her fond heart was soon betray'd To yield and let me in. Then, then, beyond expressing, Transporting was the joy ; I knew no greater blessing. So bless'd a man was I. And she, all ravish'd with delight, Bid me oft come again ; And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night She'd rise and let me in. But ah ! at last she prov'd with bui% And sighing sat and dull. And I that was as much concern'd, Look'd e'en just like a fool. Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er, Repenting her rash sin : She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal hoar That e'er she loot me in. But who cou'd cruelly deceive, Or from such beauty part ? I lov'd her so, I could not leave The charmer of my heart ; But wedded, and conceal'd our crime Thus all was well again. And now she thanks the happy time That e'er she loot me in. SONGS. 119 00 TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. | have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed. I AM not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. — There is a song apparently as ancient as EweSughts, Marion, which «iags to the same tune, and is evidently of the North. — It begins thus '.^ The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, RJary, Marget, and Jean, They wad ua stay at bonnie Castle Gordon, But awa to Aberdeen. Vfiix. ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, And wear in the sheep wi' me ; Tlie sun shines sweet, my Marion, But nae half sae sweet as thee. O Marion's a bonny lass. And the blyth blinks in her e'c ; And fain wad I many JIarion, Gin Marion wad marry me. There's gowd in your garters, Marion, And silk on your white liause-bane ; Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, At e'en when I come hame. There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Jlarion, Wha gape, and glower with their e'e, At kirk when they see my Marion ; But nane of them lo'es like me. I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, A cow and a brawny quey, I'll gie them a' to my Marion, Just on her bridal-day : And ye's get a green sey apron, And waistcoat of the London brown, And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring. Whene'er ye gang to tie town. I'm young and stout, my Marion ; Nane dance like me on the green ; And giu ye forsake me, Marion, I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, And kyrtle of the cramasie ; And soon as my chin has nae hair on, I shall come west, and see ye. • Tune of Tarry Woo. — Of which tune, a different set has insensibly varied into a different air. — To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line, " Tho' his back be at the wa'," — must be very striking It needs not a Jaco- bite prejudice tr be affected with this yong. The supposed authoi sf " Lewis Gordon" was a Mr Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, And the lad I winna name ; Tho' his back be at the wa', Here's to him that's far awa ! Oh hon ! my Hif/hland man, Oh, my bonny Highland man ; Weel would I my true-love ken, Anianff ten thousand Highland me%. Oh ! to see his tartan-trews. Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes , Phiiabeg aboon his knee ; That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! Oh hon, §"c. The princely youth that I do mean, Is fitted for to be a king : On his breast he wears a star ; You'd tak him for the God of War Oh hon, Sfc. Oh to see this Princely One, Seated on a royal throne ! Disasters a' would disappear, Then begins the Jub'lee year ! Oh hon, ^c. LEWIS GORDON.f This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of another, I ♦ This is marked in the T(ja Table Miscellany as an old song Willi additions. — Ed. \ " Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the tlien Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment for the Chevalier, and acquitted himself with great gal- lantry and judgment. He died In 1754." OH ONO CHRIO. Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song was composed on the infamous massacre oi Glencoe. Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri— Maid, wife, and widow, in one night ! When in my soft and yielding arms, O ! when most I thought him free from harm*. Even at the dead time of the night, They broke my bower, and slew my knight. With ae lock of his jet-black hair, I'll tie my heart for evermair ; Nae sly-tongued youth, or flitt'ring swain, Shall e'er unt)-e this knot again ; Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be^ Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee. (The chorus repeated at the end of acfa kM^ 120 BURNS WORKS. THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. This song, as far as I know, for tl.e first time appears here in print. — When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- member to have heard those fanatics, the Buch- anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of lymns, to this air — Burns. As I was a walking One morning in May, The small birds sang sweetly, The flowers were bloomin' gay, Oh there I met ray true love, As fresh as dawnin' day, Down amoBg the beds of sweet rcses. Fu' white was her barefoot, New bathed in the dew ; Whiter was her white hand, Her een were bonnie blue ; And kind were her whispers, And sweet was her moo, Down among the beds o* sweet roses. My father and my mother, I wot they told me true, That I liked ill to thrash. And I like worse to plough ; But I vow the maidens like me, For I kend the way to woo, Down among the beds of sweet roses. CORN RIGS ARE BONNY. Mr Patie is a lover gay. His mind is never muddy, His breath is sweeter than new hay. His face is fair and ruddy. His shape is handsome, middle size j He's stately in his wawking ; The shining of his een surprise ; 'Tis heaven to hear him tawking. Last night I met him on a bawk, WTiere yellow corn was growing, There mony a kindly word he spake. That set my heart a-glowing. He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine. And loo'd me best of ony ; That gars me like to sing sinsjTie, O corn rigs are honny. jet maidens of a silly mind Refuse what maist they're wanting, Binoe we for yielding are design'd. We chastely should be granting ; Tlien I'll comply and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony He's free to touzle air or late, Wiere «orn rigs are bonny. All the old words that ever I could meet with to this air were the following, which seem t« have been an old chorus. O corn rigs and rye rigs, O corn rigs are bonnie ; And where'er you meet a bonnie lass. Preen up her cockern»ny. WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to be the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of th« nsjne in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins, will ye speak at our town, As ye come frae the fauld, &c. I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to iti wit and humour. My Peggy is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay. My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld. Yet well I like to meet her at The wauking of the fauld. My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. Whene'er we meet alane, 1 wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair of a' that's rai'e, ]My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. To a' the lave I'm cauld ; But she gars a' my spirits glow. At waukiug of the fauld. My Peggy smiles sae kindly. Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town. That I look 'lown upon a crown. My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blythe and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight. As wauking of the fauld. My Peggy sings sae saftly. When on my pipe 1 play ; By a' the rest it is confest, 3y a' the rest, that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly. And in her sangs are tald. With innocence, the wale of seoa^ At wauking of the faull. SONGS. 121 MAGGIE LAUDER. This olJ song, so pregnant with Scottish naivietj and energy, is much reHshed by all ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and pal- pable allusions. — Its language is a precious mo- del of imitation : sly, sprightly, and forcibly ex- pressive Maggie's tongue wags out the nick- names of Rob the Piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety. Wha wad na be in love Wi' bonny Maggie Lauder ? A piper met her gaun to Fife, And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ;-r- Right scornfully she answer'd him. Begone, you hallanshaker ! Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, My name is IMaggie Lauder. Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags, I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; Sit down by me, my bonny bird, In troth I winna steer thee : For I'm a jiiper to my trade, My name is Rob the Ranter ; The lasses loup as they were daft, When I biaw up my chanter. Piper, quj' Meg, hae ye your bags? Or is your drone in order ? If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you, Live you ujio' the border ? The lasses a', l)aith far and near. Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; I'll shake my foot wi' right glide will, Gif you'll l)!dw up your chanter. Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, About t];e drone he twisted ; Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green. For brawly could she fiisk it. Weel done ! quo' he — i)lay \\p ! quo' she ; Weel bobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play indeed, When I hae sic a dancer. Weel hae ye ])lay'd your part, quo' Meg, Your cheeks are like the crimson ; There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel, Since we lost Habbie Simpson. I've liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, These ten years and a quarter ; Gin' ye bIiouM come to Enster Fair, Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. TRANENT MUIR. Tu7ie — " Killicrankic." •• Tranent-Muih" was composed by a Mr. Skirvin, a very worthy respectable farmer, near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieutenant Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an- swer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back," said the honest farmer, " and tell Mr. Smith that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington ; but tell him to come here ; and I'll tak a look o' hiui ; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'l. fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — PH The Chevalier, being void of fear. Did march up Birsle brae, man, And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent. As fast as he could gae, man : While General Cope did taunt and mock, Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ; But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock. We heard another craw, man. The brave Iscniel, as I heard tell, Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; The morning fair, and clear the air, They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : Down guns they threw, and swords they drew And soon did chace them aff, man ; On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, And gart them rin like daft, man. The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons. They'd make the rebels run, man ; And yet they flee when them they see. And winna fire a gun, man : They turn'd their back, the foot they brake. Such terror seiz'd them a', man ; Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breekft And some for fear did fa', man. The volunteers prick'd up their ears. And vow gin they were crouse, man ; But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st. They were not worth a louse, man ; Maist feck gade hame ; O fy fur shame ! They'd better stay'd awa', man. Than wi' cockane to make parade. And do nae good at a', man. Menteith the great,* when hersell sb— t^ Un'wares did ding him o'er, man ; Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, But aff fou fast did scour, man ; O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still. Before he tasted meat, man : Troth he may brag of his swift nag, That bare him aff sae fleet, man. • The minister of Longfomnacun, 3 volunteer ; who, happening to come the nipht before thf battle, up Whan we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see ; SOxNCiS. \29 Mf lore was clad i' th' black velvet, And I niysell in cramasi2. But liad I wist before I kisst, That ove had been sae ill to win, I had lockt my heart in a ca«e of gowd, And [)inn d it wi' a siller pin. Oh, oh ! if my young babe were borne, And set upon the nurse's knee. And I myseli were dead and gone, For a maid again He never be ! TODLEN HAME. This is, perhaps, the first bottle song ever w;is composed. — Burns. that When I've a saxpence under my thumb. Then I'll get credit in ilka town : But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by ; O ! poverty parts good company. Todlen liame, todlen hame, Couclna my loove come todlen hame ? Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale. She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale. Syne if her tippony chance to be sma', Ws'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'. Todlen hame, todlen hame, As round as a neep, come todlen hame, 3Iy kimmer and I lay down to sleep. And twa pintstoups at our bed-feet ; And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? Todlen but, and todlen ben, Sae round as my loove comes todlen hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your niou ; When sober sae sour, ye'll fight wi* a flee, That 'tis a blyth sight to the bairns and me, When todlen hame, todlen hame, When round as a neep ye coif^e todlen hame. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. This tong is by the Duke of Gordtn — The There's cau'id kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie ; When ilka lad maun hae his lass. Then fye, gie me my cogie. My cogie. Sirs, my coyie. Sirs, I cannot want my coyie ; Jwadna gie my three-girr'd stoup For a' th^ quenes on Sogie. \ There s Johnie Smith has got a wife That scrimps him o' his cogie^ If she were mine, upon my life I'd douk her in a bogie. My cogie. Sirs, 8fc. — Burns. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Stra'bogie ; Gin I but hae a bonny lass, Ye're welcome to your cogie : And ye may sit up a' the night. And drink till it be braid day-light ; Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, To dance the Reel of Bogie. In cotillons the French excel ; John Bull loves countra-dances ; The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; Mynheer an allemande prances ; In foursome reels the Scotch delight. The threesome maist dance wond'rous }igBV} But twasome's ding a' out o' sight, Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. Come, lads, and view your partneri yrtlif Wale each a biythsome rogie; I'll tak this lassie to mysel, She seems sae keen and vogie ! Now piper lad bang up the spring ; The countra fashion is the thing. To prie their mou's e'er we begia To dance the Reel of Bogie. Now ilka lad has got a lass. Save yon auld doited fogie ; And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, As they do in Stra'bogie : But a' the lasses look sae fain. We canna think ourscl's to hain, For they maun hae their came again To dance the Reel of Bogie. Now a* the lads hae done their beet, Like true men of Stra'bogie ; We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. And tip|)le out a cogie ; Come now, my lads, and tak your glaM^ And try ilk other to surpass, In wishing health to every lass To dance the Reel of Bogie. WE RAN AND TIIEY RAN. The author of We ran and they ran, ui4 Ihey ran and tee ran, ifc, wa« the late Rer Murdoch MLeonan, minister at Crathie, D»»- side. — Burns. 130 BURNS' WORKS Theie's some sav that we wan, Some say that they wan, Some say that nane wan at a', man ; But one thing I'm sure. That at Sheriff Muir » A battle there was, which I saw, man ; And we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and we ran, and we ran, and they ran ait'a', man. Brave Argyle ■^ and Belhaven, \ Not like frighted Levea, § WTiich Rothes || and Haddington ^ sa', man ; For they all with Wightman ** Advanced on the right, man, ^^1liIe others took flight, being ra', man. And we ran, and they ran, ^c. Lord Roxburgh f f was there. In order to share VVith Douglas, \\ who stood not in awe, man, Volunteerly to ramble With lord Loudon Campbell. || || Brave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. And we ran, and they ran, §•& Sir John Schaw, \*^ that great knight, Wi' broid-sword most bright. On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; An hero that's bold. None could him with-hold, fie stoutly encounter'd the targemen. And we ran, and they ran, §"c. For the cowardly Whittam, * * * For fear they should cut him, Seeing glittering broad-swords wl' a pa', man, And that in such thrang. Made Baird edicang, j-f-f And from the brave clans ran avva', man. And we ran, and they ran, §•<;. • The battle of Dumblain or Sheriffmiiir was fought the 13th of November !715, between the Earl of Mar, for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Argyle for the go- vernment. Both sides claimed the victory, the left wing of either army being routed. The capture of Preston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same day. t John (Campbell) 2d Duke of Argyle, commander- in-chief of tile governnient forces ; a nobleman of great talents and integrity, much respected by all parties : died 1743. t John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven ; served as a vo- lunteer; and had the command of a troop of horse raised by the county of Haddington : perished at sea, 1721. 5 David (Lesly) Earl of Leven; for the government. II John (Leslyj Earl of Rothes; for the government. H Thomas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the government. ** Major-C^eneral Joseph Wightman. + f John (Ker) first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go- in en t. %% Archibald (Doogl.is) Duke of Douglas. nil Hugh (Campbell) Eail of Loudon. ^^ Archib.ild Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of Argyle. He was daiigerou.s'ly wounded. fU An officer in the troop of gentleman Tolunteers. »** Major-general Thomas Whitham. ttt -• e. Aid du camp. I Brave Mar • ajd Panmure •^ Were firm I am sure. The latter was kidnapt awa', man, With brisk men about, Brave Harry \ retook His brother, and laught at them a', man. And we ran, and they ran, 8jv. Grave Marshall |] and Lithgow, § And Glengary's*! pith too. Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, *• And Gordons the bright So boldly did fight, The redcoats took flight and awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. Strathmore f f and Clanronald|^ Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! Till both these heroes did fa', man ; [I || For there was such hashing, And broad-swords a clashing, Brave Forfar §§ himself got a cla', man. And we ran, and they ran, ^c. * John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander.in-chiel of the Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit, honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1732. t James (Maule) Earl of Panmure ; died at Parity 1723. 4; Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the EarL The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the Earl of Mar's printed account of the engagement:—. " The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used, and none of them stript. Some were allow'd to return to Stirling upon their parole, &c. . . The few prison- ers taken by the enemy on our left were most of them stript and wounded after taken. The Earl of Pan- mure being first of the prisoners wounded after taken. They having refused his parole, he was left in a vil- lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the approach of our army, was reseu'd by his brother and his servants." II George (Keith) Earl Marischall, then a youth at college. He died at his government of Nciifchatel in 1'771. His brother, thecelebrated Marshall Keith, was with him in this battle. 5 James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith. gow : attainted. II Alexander M'Donald of Glengary, lairdof a elan; a brave and spirited chief : attainted. ** Thomas Druramond of Logie-AImond ; eom- manded the two battalions of Drummonds. He was wounded. ft John (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; "a man of good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- ter." ft Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Ranald. N. B. The Captain of a elan was one who, being next or near in blood to the Chief, headed them in his iiifan cv or absence. ' II II " We have lost to our regret, the Earl of Strath- more and the Captain of Clan Ranald." Earl of Mar's Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- count: — " We cann't find above 60 of our men in all kill'd, among whom were the Earl of Strathmore [andj the Captain of Clan Ranald, both much lamented." The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish- ments, was look'd upon as the most gallant and gener- ous young gentleman among the clans. ... He wa« lamented by both parties that knew him." His servant, who lav on the field watching his dead body, being asked next day who that was, answered. He was a man yesterday. — Boswell's Journey/ to the He- brides, p. 359. ^ Archibald (Douglas) ^arl of Forfar, who com- manded a regiment in the Luke's army. He is said tc have been shot in tlie knee, and to have had ten ot twelve cuts in his head from the broad-swords. H« died a few days after of his wounds. SONGS, 13' Lord Perth * stood the storm, Seaforth f but lukewarm, Kilsyth t and Strathallan || not sla', Kian ; And Hamilton § pled The men were not bred, For he had no fancy to fa*, man. And we ran, and they ran, §•<■. Brave generous Southesk, ^ Tilebairn ** was brisk, Whose ither indeed would not dra', man, Into the same yoke, Which serv'd for a cloak. To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, Lord Rollo j-f not fear'd, Kiutore \\ and his beard, Pitsligo II li and Ogilvie §§ a', man, And brothers Balfours, ^^ They stood the first show'rs, Clackmannan and Burleigh •** did da', man. And we ran, and they ran, &[c. But Cleppan -ff f acted pretty. And Strowan the witty, \\\ A poet that pleases us a", man ; For mine is but rhinie. In respect of what's fine. Or what he is able to dra', man. And we ran, and they ran, Ifc. • James Marquis of Drummond, son of James (Drummond) Duke of Perth, was lieutenant-geneval of horse, and " behaved with great gallantry." rie was attainted, but escaped to France, where he soon after died. t William (Mackenzie) Earl of Seaforth. He was attainted, and died in IT'l". % William (Livingston) Viscount Kilsyth: attainted. II William (Drummond) Viscount .Strathallan ; ■whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta- ken iirisoner in this battle, which he survived to per- ish in the still more fatal one of CuUoden-muir. § Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, command- ing under the Karl of Mar. ^ James (Carnegie) Earl of Southesk ; was attaint- ed, and, eseapiuR to France, died there in 1729. ♦ * William (Murray) MarquLsof Tullibardin, eldest Bon to the Duke of Athole. Having been attainted, he was taken at sea ni ITlti, and died soon after, of a flux, in the Tower. tf Kobcrt (Uollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular merit and great integrity :" died in 1758. XX William (Keith) Earl of Kintore. nil Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo ; "a man of good pans, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved and esteemed." He was engaged again in the affair of 17'15, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- vancod age in I76i.'. ^ James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- vie) Earl of Airly. He was attainted, but afterwards pardoned. His father, not dra'ing into the same yoke, laved the estate. UK Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- leigh. »** Robert (R ilfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- tainted, and died in 1757. ttt Major William C.'lephane, adjutant-general to the Marquis of Drummond. ttt .\lexand. r Robertson of .Struan ; who, having experienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical firmness, died in peace 1749. He was an excellent Oct, anrf h»s left elegies worthy of TibuUus. Far Huntley ' and Sinclair -j They both play'd the tinclair, With consciences black like a era' man* Some Angus and Fifemen They ran for their life, man, And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', maa. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, Then Laurie the traytor, Who betray'd his master, His king and his country and a', man, Pretending Mar might Give order to fight, To the right of the army awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, Then Laurie, for fear Of %vhat he might hear. Took Drummond's be^t horse and awa', ou Instead o' going to Perth, He crossed the Firth, Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, SfC. To London he prcss'd, And there he address'd. That he behav'd best o' them a', man } And there without strife Got settled for life, An hundred a year to his fa', man. And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. In Burrowstounness He resides wi' disgrace. Till his neck stand in need of a dra', ms& And then in a tether He'll swing frae a ladder, [And] go afF the stage with a pa', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. Rob Roy stood watch On a hill for to catch The booty for ought that I sa*, man, For he ne'er advanc'd From the place he was stanc'd, Till nae mair to do there at a', man. And ice rati, and they ran, S^c. So we a' took the flight. And Rloubray the wright ; But Letham the smith was a bra' man. For he took the gout, M'hich truly was wit. By judging it time to withdra', man. And we ran, and they ran, ^c. And trumpet M'Lean, Whose bracks were not clean. • Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest son to the Duke of Gordon, who, according to tho usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet with several other insLinccs), remained neutral. t John Sinclair, Esq. commonly callei/»— Graiid-chilJren. In this house we first came together, Where we've long been a father and mither , And tho' not of stone and lime. It wii last us all our time ; And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither. And tho' nut of stone and lime, ^c. And when we leave this poor habitation, We'll depart with a good commeLdatioa ; We'll go hand in hand, I wiss. To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation. Then why should old age so much wound u«. There is nothing in it all to confound us : For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oys all around us. TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. A PART of this old song, according to ths English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. '•^ Burns. In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas, with his blasts gae bauid, Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill : Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strifis, She said to me right hastily, Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life, And tak your auld cloak about ye. Jly Cromie is an useful cow. And she is come of a good kyne ; Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, And I am laitli that she shou'd tyne. Get up, goodman, it is fou time, The sun shines in the lift sae hie j Sloth never made a gracious end, Go tak your auld cloak about ye. My cloak was anes a good grey cloak When it was fitting for my wear ; But now it's scantly worth a groat. For I have worn't this thirty yeir ; Let's spend the gear that we have won, We little ken tlie day we'll die : Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn To have a new cloak about me. * In the drinking scene in Othello: lago gingi,^ King Stephen was a worthy peer. His breeches cost him but a ciown i He held them sixpence all too dear. With that he called the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree : 'Tis pride that pulls the country down. Then take thine auld cloak about tlifc 1 he old song from which these sunias were takei was rccovereii by Dr. Perev, and preserved by him J hii Religues of Ancient Poetry. 136 BURNS' WORKS. In days when our king Robert rang, " Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed, His trews they cost but hafF a crown ; And my good lord beside me j He said tliey were a groat o'er dear. This uight I'll ly in a tenant's barn, And call'd the taylor thief and loun. Whatever shall»betide me." He was the king that wore a crown, And thou the man of laigh degree, Come to your bed, says Johny Faa, 'Tis pride puts a' the country down, Oh ! come to your bed, my deary ; Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sworf That your lord shall nae mair come near ye. Every land has its ain laugh, Ilk kind of corn it has its hool. " I'll go to bed to my Johny Faa, I think the warld is a' run wrang, And I'll go to bed t j my deary ; WTien ilka wife her man wad rule ; For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, That my lord shall nae mair come near me As they are girded gallantly, While I sit hurklen in the ase; " I'll mak a hap to my Johny Faa, I'll have a new cloak about me. And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; And he's get a' the coat gaes round. Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years. And my lord shall nae mair come near me. Since we did ane anither ken ; And we have had between us twa. And when our lord came home at e'en, Of lads and bonny lasses ten : And speir'd for his fair lady. Now they are women grown and men. The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd. I wish and pray well may they be ; She's away wi' the gypsie laddie. And if you prove a good husband, E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. " Gae saddle to me the black, black steed. Gae saddle and mak him ready ; Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; Before that I either eat or sleep. But she wad guide me, if she can, I'll gae seek my fair lady." And to maintain an easy life, I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodraan . And we were fifteen well-made men, Nought's to be won at woman's hand, Altho' we were nae bonny ; Unless ye give her a' the plea ; And we were a' put down for ane. Then I'll leave aff where I began. A fair young wanton lady. And tak my auld cloak about me. TO DAUNTON ME. JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. ■ The two following old stanzas to tiuM tune have some merit : — Burns. The people in Ayrshire begin this song — To daunton me, to daunton me. The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis* yett. O ken ye what it is that'll daunton me? — There's eighty eight and eighty nine, They have a great many more stanzas in this And a' that I hae born sinsyne. song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. There's cess and press and Presbytrie, The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where I think it will do meikle for to daunton me. his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life. — Burns. But to wanton me, to wanton me. ken ye what it is that wad wanton me ?— The gypsies came to our good lord's gate. To see gude corn upon the rigs, And wow but they sang sweetly ; And banishment amang the Whigs, They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete. And right restored where rigL. ouu oe, That down came the fair ladie. I tliiuk it would do meikle for to wanton DM. And she came tripping down the stair, And a' her maids before her ; As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face. TO DAUNTON ME. They coost the glamer o'er her. There is an old set of the song : not politi « Gar tak fra me this gay mantile. cal, but very independent. It runs thus ;— - And bring to me a plaid ie ; For if kith and kin and a' had sworn. The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, I'll follow the gypsie laddie. J The simmer lilies blume in snaw. SONGS. 1S7 The frost may freeze the deepe(t-llighlarids, where he feed himself to a Hii/hlund Laird, for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great-grand- ehild to our hero Burns. I HAD a horse, and I had nae mair, I gat him frae my daddy ; My purse was light, and my heart wa« uir But my wit it was fu' ready. And sae 1 thought me on a timej Outwittens of my da^ldy, To fee mysel to a lawland laird, Wija had a bonnie lady. I wrote a letter, and thus began, " Madam, be not oflended, I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you, And care not tho' ye kend it : For I get little frae he laird. And far less frae my daddy. And I would blythtly be the man Would strive to please my lady." She read my letter, and she leugh, " Ye needna been sae blate, man ; You might hae con\e to me yoursel. And tauld me o' your state, man : Ye might hae come to me yoursel, Outwittens o' ony body. And made John Goickston of the laird* And kisa'd his bonnie lady." Then she pat siller in my purse, We drank wine in a coggie ; She feed a man to rub my horse, And wow ! but I was vogie. But I gat ne'er sa sair a flcg. Since I came frae my daddy, The laird came, rap rap, to the yett. When I was wi' his lady. Then she pat me below a chair, And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ; But I was like to swarf wi' fear. And wish'd me wi' my daddy. The laird went out, he saw na me, I went when I was ready : I promis'd, but I ne'er gade back To kiss his bonnie Luly. AULD RODIN GRAY. This air was formerly called The Bride- groom greets xvlien the sun gatigs di)W?i. The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay. — Burns. WTien the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at hame. And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee, When my gudeman lyes sound by me. Young Jamie loo'd me wet.., and he sought me for his bride. But saving a crown he had naething beside ; To make that crown a pound, m) Jouiie gade to sea, And the crown and the pound were baith foi me 138 BURNS WORKS. He Lad nae been awa a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father biak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea. And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. RIy father coudna workj and ray mother coudna spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- na win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee, Said, " Jenny, for their sokes, O marry me." My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die. And why do I live to say, waes me? My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna speak, She look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ; So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea, And auld Robin Gray is guderaan to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he, 'Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry thee." sair did we greet, and mickle did we say. We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away, 1 wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die, And why do I live to say, waes me ! 4 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, I darna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gudewife to be, For auld Robin Grav is kind unto me. UP AND WARN A' WILLIE. The expression, " Up and warn a' WiJlie," all^udes to the Crantara, oi warning of a High- .and Clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up and waur them a', &c. This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel,* of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. Up and warn a\ Willie, Wain, warn a' ,■ To hear my canty Highland sang. Relate the thing I saw, TF;Z//e. --Burns. ♦ Tom md was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and lived thiefly dy making coffins. He was a so Precentor, or Clerk, in one of the churches. He had a good strong voice, and was greaOy distinguished by his powers of mimicry, and his humorous manner of singing the old Scottish ballads. When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, Wi' true design to serve the king. And banish whigs awa, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For lords and lairds came there bedeem. And won but they were braw, Willie But when the standard was set up, Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie ; The royal nit upon the tap Down to the ground did fa', Williet Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a* ; Then second-sighted Sandy said, We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. But when the army join'd at Perth, * The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, We didna doubt the rogues to rout, Restore our king and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; The pipers play'd frae right to left, O whirry whigs awa, Willie. But when we march'd to Sherra-muir, And there the rebels saw, Willie, Brave Argyle attack'd our right. Our flank and front and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Traitor Huntly soon gave way, Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie. But brave Glengary on our right, The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; He there the greatest slaughter made That ever Donald saw, Willie. Up and warn a' Wiilie, Warn, warn a' ; And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear, And fast did rin awa, Willie. For he ca'd us a Highland mob, And soon he'd slay us a' Willie, But we chas'd him back to Stilling Drig, Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; At length we rallied on a hill. And briskly up did draw, Willie. But when Argyle did view our line, And them in order saw, Willie, He streight gaed to Dumblane again, And back his left did draw, Willie Uj) and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Then we to Auchteraider march'd, To wait a better fa', Willie. Now if ye spear wha wan the day, I've tell'd you what I saw, W-'li», SONGS. H<1 We biith did fight and baith did beat, And baith did lin awa, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For second-sighted Sandie said, We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. I FIND the Blythsome Bridal in James Wat- ion's Collection of Scots Poems, printed at Edinburgh in 1706. Tliis song has bumou.- and a felicity of ex- pression worthy of Ramsay, with even more than his wonted broadness and sprightly lan- guage. Tbe Witty Catalogue of Names, with their Historical Epithets, are done in the true Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when every householder was nicknamed either from -ome prominent part of his character, person, 3r lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — " Skape-fitted Rob." " Tlirmun-mou'd Rah o' the Duba." " Rnariii Jock V the Swair.^' " Slaverin Simmie o' Tuds/iaw." " Souple Kate o' iTGngray" &c. &c. — Burns. Fy let us all to the bridal. For there will be lilting there ; For Jockie's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gauden hair. And there will be lang-kail and pottage. And bannocks of barley-meal, And there will be good sawt herring. To relish a cog of good ale. Fy let us all to the bridal, For there will be lilting there, For Jackie's to be marry'd to Maggie, The lass icith the gauden hair. And there will be Sandie the sutor, And ' Will' with the raeikle mow ; Antl there will be Tam the ' bluter,' With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. And there will be bow-legged Robbie, With thumbless Katie's goodman ; And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, And Lawrie the laird of the land. Fy let us all, §-c. And there will be sow-libber Patie, And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill, Capper-nos'd Fiancie, and Gibbie, That wons in the how of the hill ; And there will be Alaster Sibbie, Wha in with black Bessy did mool, With sneevling Lillie, and Tibbio, The lass that stands aft on the stool. Fy let us all, Sfc. And Madge that was buckled to Steenle, And coft him [grey] bieeks to his arse, Wha after was' haugit for stealing, Great mercy it happened na wanw ; And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, And Kiish wi' the lily-white leg, Wha ' gade' to the south for manners. And bang'd up her wame in Mods Meg Fy let us all, Sfc. And there will be Juiian ]\Liciawrie, And bllnkin daft Barbra ' Madeg,* Wi' flae-luggcd, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, And shangy-mou'd halucket INIeg. And there will be happer-ars'd Nansy, And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name. Muck IMadie, and fat-liipped Lizie, The lass with the gauden wame Fy let us all, &c. And there will be girn-again Gibbie, With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, And IMisle-shinn'd Mungo I\Iacapie, The lad that was skipper himsel. There lads and lasses in pearlings Will feast in the heart of the ha', Oa sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings, That are baith sodden and raw. Fy let us all, §-c. And there will be fadges and brachen, With fuuth of good gappoks of skate, Pow-sodie, and drammock, and crowdie. And callour nout-feet in a plate ; And there will be partans and buckles, Speldens and whytens enew. And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize, And scadlips to sup till ye spew. Fy let Its all, §t. And there will be lapper'd-mllk kebbucks, And sowcns, and farles, and baps. With swats, and well-scraped paunches. And brandy in stoups and in caps ; And there will Ijp meal-kail and castocks, With skiuk to sup till ye rive; And rests to rost on a brander. Of flouks that were taken alive. Fy let us all, Sfc. Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles. And a mill of good snishing to prie ; Wlien weary with eating and drinking. We'll rise up and dance till we die. Then fy let us all to the bridal, For there will be lilting there ; For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggy, The lass with the gauden hair. O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG MAN. This song has long been known among the inhabitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, wher« it is a great favourite. The first verse abould be restored to itn original state. 140 BURNS WORKS. I FEED a lad at Roodsniass, Wi' siller pennies three ; When he came home at Alartinmass, He could nae labour lea. canua ye labour lea, young lad, O canua ye labour lea ? Indeed, quo' he, my hand's out — An' up his graith packed he. This old way is the truest, for the tfcrms, Jtoodmass is the hiring fair, and Hallowmass the first of the half year. — Burns. 1 FEED a man at Mavtinmass, Wi' arle-pennies three ; But a' the faute I had to him, He could nae labour lea. O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea ? Gae back the gate ye came again, Ye'se never scorn me, O clappin's gude in Febarwar, An' kissins sweet in May; But what signifies a young man's ove An't dinna last for ay. O can ye, ^c. O kissin is the key of luve, An clappin is the lock. An' makin-of's the best thing That e'er a young thing got. O can ye, 8fc. IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. This tune was the composition of General Reid, and called by hira The Highland, or i2d Regiment s March. The words are by Sir Harry Erskine. — Burns. In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old Rome, From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come, Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain. But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. Such our love of liberty, OJtr country, and our laws. That like our ancestors of old, tee stand by Freedom's cause ; We'll bravely fight like heroes bold, for honour and applause, And defy the French, with all their art, to alter our laws. No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, No luxurious tables enervate our race, Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial strain, So do we the old Scottish valour retain. Such our love, jfc. We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale. As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail^ As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap pear, Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. Such our love, Sfc. As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foe« ; We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes. Such our love, Sfc. Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France, In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- vance ; But when our claymores they saw us produce. Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. Such our love, ^c. In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, May our councils be wise, and our commerce increase ; And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, That our friends still prove true, and our beau- ties prove kind. Then ive'll defend our liberty, our country and our laws. And teach our late posterity to fight in Freedom's cause. That they like our aiicestors bold, §■«. WOO'D AND MATIRIED AND A' TFi'o'rf and married and a', Woo'd and married and a'. Was she not very wetl aff. Was woo'd and married and a' / The bride came out o' the byre, And O as she dighted her cheeks, " Sirs, I'm to be married the night. And has nouther blanket nor sheets; Has nouther blankets nor sheets. Nor scarce a coverlet too ; The bride that has a' to borrow, Has e'en right meikle ado." Woo'd and married, SfC, Out spake the bride's father, As be came in frae the pleugh, " O had yere tongue, my daughter. And yese get gear enough ; The stirk that stands i' the tether. And our bra' basin'd yade, Will carry ye hame yere ccrn ; What v/ad ye be at ye jade ?" Woo'd and mamedy §»> Outspake the bride's mither, " What deil needs a' this pride ? SONGS UI I had nae a plack in my pouca That niyht I was a bride ; My gown \i'as ]insj'-woolsy, And ne'er a sark ava, And ye hae ribbons and buskins Mair than aoe or twa." Woo'd and married, §*c. " MTiat's the matter ?" quo' Willie, " Tho' we be scant o' claiths, We'll ciecp the nearer thegither, And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; Simmer is coming on, And we'll get teats o' woo ; And we'll get a lass o' our ain, And she'll spin claiths anew." Woo'd and married, ifc. Outspake the bride's brither, As he came in wi' the kye, '• Puir Willie bad ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I ; For you're baith proud and saucy, And no for a puir man's wife. Gin I canna get a better, I'se never take ane i* my life." Woo'd and married, Sfc, Outspake the bride's sister, As she cume in frae the byre, *' O gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire ; But we puir folk maun live single, And do the best we can ; I dinna care what I should want, If I could but get a man." Woo'd and married and a', Woo'd and married and a'. Was she 7wt very weel aff. Was woo'd and married and a'. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is really attended with less difficulty than to con- vince a blockhead that one oi thuse jeu d'esprits is a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more palpable imitation than Hardiknute. The manners indeed are old, but the language is of yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis- covered. — Burns. BY JANE ELLIOT. I've heard a lilting At the ewes milking, Lasses a' lilting before the break o' day, But now I hear moaning On ilka green loaning, Since our brave forrysters are a* wed away. At buchts in the morning Nae blythe lads are scorning j The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae < Nae daffin, nae gabbing. But sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. At e'en in the gloming Nae swankies are roaming, 'Jiang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ; For ilk ane sits drearie, Lamenting her dearie. The flow'rs o* the forest wh' are a' wed away. In har'st at the shearing Nae blythe lads are jeering, The Bansters are lyart, and runkled, and grey ; At fairs nor at preaching, Nae wooing, nae fleeching, Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. O dule for the order ! Sent our lads to the border ! The English for anes, by guile wan the day ; The flow'rs of the forest Wha aye shone the foremost. The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 8T MRS. COCKBURN. I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing. But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost. With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay : Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming. But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awa« I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a- dorning. And the red storm roaring, before the parting day ; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams. Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their way. O fickle fortune f why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? Thy frowns cannot fear mc, thy smiles cannot cheer me. Since the flowers of the forest are a* wt4m awae. 142 BURNS' WORKS. TIBBIE DUNBAR. Tun—" Johnny M'GiU." This tune is said to be the composition of John M'Gill, fidJIer, in Girvan. He called it after his own name Burns. 0, WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- bar ; Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? I carena thy daddie, bis lands and his money, I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : But say thou wilt hae me far better for waur, And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- bar ! THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- say's. The old words are : — Burns. O THIS is no mine ain house. My ain house, my ain house ; This is no mine ain house, I ken by the biggin o't. There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; And pan-cakes the riggin o't. This is no my ain wean, My ain wean, my ain wean ; This is no my ain wean, I ken by the greetie o't. ni tak the curchie afF my head, Aff my head, aiF my head ; I'll tak the curchie aff my head. And row't about the feetie o't. The tune is an old Highland air, called Shxian truish wilUghan. THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to som- memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. Callander of Craigforth, published some years ago, an edition of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and the Gaherlunzie-Man, with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady Parish, and that it was suspected by liis cotemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of the •ountry he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies. Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, (^one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- bourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following satirical advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon. Sow not your seed on Sandylands, Spend not your strength in Weir, And ride not on an Elephant, For spoiling o' your gear. — BuRMS. The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, Wi' many good e'ens and days to me. Saying, Goodwife, for your courtesie, Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! The night was cauld, the carle was wat, And down ayont the ingle he sat ; My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. O wow ! quo' he, were I as free, As first when I saw this country, How biyth and merry wad I be ! And I wad never think lang. He grew canty, and she grew fain ; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slee twa togither were say'n. When wooing they were sae thrang. And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black As e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang. And O ! quo' she, ann I were as white. As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, I'd dead me braw, and lady like, And awa' with thee I'd gang. Between the twa was made a plot ; They raise awee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock. And fast to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise. And at her leisure put on her claise ; Syne to the servant's bed she gaes. To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay. The strae was cauld, he was away. She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, For some of our gear will be gane. Some ran to coffers, and some to kists. But nought was stown that cou'd be mist. She danc'd her lane, cry'd. Praise be blest, I have lodg'd a leal poor man. Since nathing's awa', as vre can learn, The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bair% And bid her come quickly ben. SONGS. 148 The fcervat^t gade where the daughter lay, The rfheew wtis cauld, she was away, And fast to her goodwife gan say, She's aiF with the Gaberluciie-aian. O fy gar ride, an 1 fy gar rin, And haste ye find these traytors again ; For she's be burnt, and he's be slain. The wearifu' Gaberlunzie-man. Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit. The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, But ay she cuis'd and she ban'd. Mean time far hind out o'er the lea, Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, The twa, with kindly sport and glee, Cut frae a new cheese a whang : The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. O kend my minny I were wi* you, lllsardly wad she crook her mou. Sic a poor man she'd never trow, After the Gaberlunzie-man. My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young. And ha' nae lear'd the beggar's tongue, To follow me frae town to town. And carry the Gaberlunzie on. Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed. To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout o'er my eye, A cripple or blind they will ca' me, while we shall be merry and sing. When Charlie look'd the letter upon. He drew his sword the scabbard from. Come follow me, my merry merry men. And we'll meet wi' Coup i' the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, §*c. Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word, Come let us try both fire and sword. And dinna rin awa* like a frighted bird. That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning Hey Jonnie Coup, Sfc. When Jonnie Coup he heard of this. He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness. To flie awa' i' the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, Sfe Fy now Jonnie get up and rin. The Highland bagpipes makes a din, It's best to sleep in a hale skin, For 'twill be a bluddie morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, SfC. Wlien Jonnie Coup to Berwick came. They spear'd at him, where's a' your meO; The deil confound me gin I ken. For I left them a' i' the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, ^e. Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, To come wi' the news o' your ain de&at. And leave your men in sic a strait. So early in the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, ifc Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a fleg, With their claymores and philabegs. If I face them again, deil break my legs. So I wish you a good morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, j*c. ;.ONNIE COUP. This satirical song was composed to comme- inorate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans. in 1745, when he marched against the clans. The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remem- ber the title, which was. Will yc go to the coals in the morning. Burns. Coup sent a letter frae Dunbar, Charlie, meet me an ye dare. And I'll learn you the art of war, if you'll meet wi' me in the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, are ye waking yet f Or are your dtuinii a-beoting yet? If ye were wahitig I wou'd wait To gang to the coals i' the morning. A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. I PICKED up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale. — 1 never met with it elsewhere in Scotland. — Burns. Wha RE are you gaun, ray bonnie lass, Where are you gaun, my hiaaie, She answer 'd me right saucilie, An errand for my minnie. O whare live ye, my bonnie lisi, O whare live ye, my hinnie. By yen burn-side, gin ye maun ken» la a wee bouse wi' my mincie. But I foor up the glen at eea, To see my bonnie lassie ; And lang before the gray mom cwa, She was na bauf sae saucih 144) BURNS' WORKS. O weary fa' the waukrife code, And the foumart lay his crawin ! He wauken'd the auld wife frae her deep, A wee bhnk or the dawin. An angry wife I wat she raise. And o'er the bed she brought her j And wi' a mickle hazle rung She made her a weel pay'd dochter O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! O fare thee weel, ray hinnie ! Thou art a gay and a bonnie lass, But thou hast a waukrife minnie.* TULLOCHGORUM. This, first of songs, is the master-piece of my old triend Skinner. He was passing the day at' the town of Ellon, I think it was, in a friend's house whose name was INIontgomery. — Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochf/orum wanted words, Bhe begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. These particulars I had from the author's eon, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen — Burns. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, And lay your disputes all aside. What signifies't for folks to chide For what was done before them : Let Whig and Tory all agree, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory all agree. To drop their Whig-raig-morum. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, And cheerful sing alang wi' me, The Reel ©' TuUochgorum. O, Tullochgorum's my delight. It gars us a' in ane unite. And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him : For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, Blythe and cheerie we'll be a', And make a happy quorum. For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'. As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance till we be like to fa* The Reel o' TuUochgorum. What needs there be sae great a fraise, Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hunder score o' thenv They're dowf and dowie at the best, Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowiej Dowf and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum ; They're dowf and dowie at the best. Their allegros and a' the rest, They canna please a Scottish taste, Compar'd wi' TuUochgorum. Let warldly worms their minds opprew Wi' fears o' want and double cess, And sullen sots themsella distress Wi' keeping up decorum : Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Sour and sulky shall we sit Like old philosophorum ! Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever try to shake a fit To the Reel o' TuUochgorum > May choicest blessings ay attend Each honest, open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end. And a' that's good watch o'er him j May peace and plenty be his lot. Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. Peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o* them) May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot, And may he never want a groat, That's fond o' TuUochgorum' But for the sullen frumpish fool. That loves to be oppression's tool. May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him ; May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, Dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, wae's me for him ! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Wha e'er he be that winna dance The Reel o' TuUochgorum. • The peasantry have a verse superior to some of (those recovered by Burns, which ia worthy of notice. <• O though thy hair was gowden weft. An' thy lips o' drapping hinnie. Thou hast gotten the clog that winna cling For a' you're waukrife minnie." JOHN O* BADENYON. This exceUent song is also the compositioB of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart, — Burns. When first I cam to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth. And fain the world would know ; SONGS. 145 la best attire I sfept abroad, With spirits bri>k and gay, And here and there and every where Was lil« a morn in May ; No care I had nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a heuu I might have past In country or in town ; I still was pleas'd where'er I went, And when I was alone, T tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself Wi' John o' Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime A mistress I must find. For love, I heard, gave one an air, And ev'n improved the mind : On Phillis fair above the rest Kind fortune fixt my eyes, Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice ; To Cupid now with hearty prayer 1 ofier'd many a vow ; \nd danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, As other lovers do ; But, when at last I breath'd my flame, 1 found her cold as stone ; I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. ■WTien love had thus my heart beguil'd With foolish hopes and vain ; lo friendnhip's port 1 steer'd my course, And laugh 'd at lovers' pain ; A friend 1 got by lucky chance, 'Twas something like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift;, And such a gift was mine ; And now whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply ; A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. .Methought I should be wiser next, And would a patriot turn, Began to doat (;n Johnnv Wilkes, And cry up Paison home.* Their manly spirit I admir'd. And prais'd their noble zeal. Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain'd tlie public weal ; But e'er a month or two had past, I found myself betray 'd, 'Twas st/fand party after all. For a' the stir they made ; At last I saw thi; factious knaves Insult the very throne, I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. • This song was compos€?d when WUket, Home, fee, wero nntkiiig a noise about libertVt What next to do I mus'd a while. Still hoping to succeed, I pitch'd on books for company. And gravely try'd to read : I bought and borrow'd every whet 3. And study'd night and day. Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote That happen'd in my way : Philosophy I now esteem'd The ornament of youth. And carefully through many a page I hunted after truth. A thousand various schemes I try'd, And yet was pleas'd with none, I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. And now ye youngsters every where, That wish to make a show. Take heed in time, nor fondly hope For happiness below ; What you may fancy pleasure here. Is but an empty name. And girls, and friends, and hooks, and to, You'll find them all the same ; Then be advised and warning take From such a man as me ; I'm neither Pope nor Girdinal, Nor one of high degree ; You'll meet displeasure every where ; Then do as I have done, E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves W^ith John o' Badenyon. THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. Here is a verse of this lively old song tha used to be sung after these printed ones.-^ Burns. O, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen / O, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the sted, An' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, yes- treen ? COCKPEN. O, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fii* law, O, when she came ben she boI)bed fu' law. And when she came ben she kiss'd Cockpen, And syne deny'd she did it at a'. And was ua Cockpen right saucie with a*, And was na Cockpen right saucie with a*, In leaving the daughter of a Lord, And kissin a collier lassie, an' a' ? O never look down my lassie, at a , O never look down my Ixss'xe, at a'. Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure cotnpletik Aa the finest dame in castle or ha'. N 146 Tho' thou lias nae silk and holland sae sma', Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', Thy coat and thy sark are thy aia handy-wark, And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! BURNS' WORKS. CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWES. The following set of this song is now vary common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the Bovel of " Marriage ,' THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 'Pune—" The Laird of Cockpen." The Laird o' Cockpen, he is proud an' he's g.-eat ; His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state : He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; M'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha* Lee, A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — Aud wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine : . . . o» " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?' She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown. Her mutch wi' red ribbons, aud gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he booed fu' low ; And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird, when the lady said Na', And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa*. Dumbfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; He mounted his mare, and rade caunilie : And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen, She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made. Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : Oh for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'l get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. ) Nelst time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk on the green ; Now she sits in the Ila' like a weel-tappit hen ; ^nt as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen. This beautiful song is in the true old Scotcit 1 taste, yet I do not know that either air or word* were in print before. — Burns. Co' the ewes to the knowes, C a' them whare the heather grows Ca' them whare the burnie rowet, My bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad. He row'd me sweetly in his plaid. An' he ca'd me his dearie. Ca' the ewes, 8j'c. Will ye gang down the water-side, _ And see the waves sae sweetly glide, Beneath the hazels spreading wide. The moon it shines fu' clearly. Ca' the ewes, Sfc. I was bred up at nae sic school. My shepherd kd, to play the foo^ And a' the day to sit in dool, And aaebody to see me. Ca' the ewes, Sfc. Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep. And ye sail be my dearie. Ca' the ewes, Sfc. If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi* you my shepherd-lad, And ye may rowe me in your plaid, And I sail be your dearie. Ca' the ewes, 8fc. While waters wimple to the sea ; While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 'Till clay-cauld death sail blin my e'e, Ye sail be my dearie.* Ca' the ewes, 8fc. LADIE aiARY ANN. The starting verse should be restored ."— Burns. " Lady Mary Ann gaed out o' her bower, An' she found a bonnie rose new i' the flower J As she kiss'd its ruddy lips drapping wi* dew,^ Quo' she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie'i mou." • Mrs. Bums informed the Editor that the last vtrw of this song was written by Bums. SONGS. U7 LADIE MARY ANN. O Lauv ]\Iary Ann looks o'er the castle wa*, She saw three hnnnie boys playing at the ba', The youngest ne was the flower amang them a' ; My bonnie laddie's young, but le's growia' yet. " O father, O father, an' yt think it fit, We'll send him a year to the college yet ; We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue. And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; For the lily in tht bud will be bonnier yet. Young Charlie Cochian was the sprout of an aik, Bonnie, and bloomiag, and straight was its make, The sun took delight to shine for its sake. And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. The simmer is gane, when the leaves they were green ; And the days are awa that we hae seen ; But far better days, I trust, will come again. For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's grow- in' yet. KILLYCRANKY. The battle of Killycranky was the last stand made by the Clans for James, after his abdica- tion. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. — General Mackay, when he found the High- landers did not pursue his flying army, said, " Dundee must be killed, or he never "would have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell. — Burns. Clavers and his highland-men. Came down upo' the raw, man. Who being stout, gave mony a clout, The lads began to claw, then. With sword and terge into their hand, Wi' which they were nae slaw, man, Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh. The lads began to claw, then. O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, She flang amang them a', man ; The butter-box got mony knocks, Their riggings paid for a' then ; They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks. Which to their grief they saw, man ; Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, The lads began to fa' then. Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, And flang amaog them a', man ; The English blades got broken heads, Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then> The durk and door made their last hour. And prov'd their final fa, man ; They thought the devil had been there, That play'd them sic a paw then. The solemn league and covenant Came whigging up the hills, man. Thought highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then : In Willie's name * they thought nae ane Durst stop their course at a', man ; But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock, Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. Sir Evan Du, and his men true. Came linking up the brink, man ; The Hogan Dutch they feared such. They bred a horrid stink, then. The true Maclean, and his fierce men. Came in amang them a', man ; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, All fled and ran awa' then. OA' on a ri, oh' on a ri, Why should she lose king Shames, man ? Oh' riff in di, oh' rig in di, She shall break a' her banes then ; With furichinish, an* stay a while, And speak a word or twa, man, She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck. Before ye win awa' then. O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, Hur nane-sell's won the day, man ; King Shame's red-coats should be Lustg £*"» Because they ran awa' then : Had bent their brows, like liighUn^ tnv^ And made as lang a stay, m»n, They'd sav'd their king, that secnd *lu*./;. And Willie'd * run' awa' theR. THE EWIE Wr Tlin CEOOKiT HO** Another excelLeni eop^ of old Skinner'*. -« Burns. Were I but ab'e ta rehearse My Ewie's priii«e in proper verse, I'd sound it lor'ch m loud and fierce As e»er p'p'.r's drone could blaw ; The E^v^.e wi' thn ciookit h»rn, Wha h,i(* k'SDt her might hae sworn Sic a Bwt was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'. Sis n E»»e was never born. Hereabout nor far awa' I iitrer needed tar nor keil To nark her upo' hip or heel. * Prince of Orannw U8 BURNS* WORKS. Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' them a' ; She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit ay her ain jog trot, Baith to the fauld and to the coat, Was never sweir to lead nor caw, Baith to the fauld and to the coat, 8cc. Cauld nor hunger never dang her. Wind nor wet could never wrang her, Anes she lay an ouk and langer, Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw , Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, And eat the kail for a' the tyke, My Ewie never play'd the like. But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. A better or a thriftier beast, Nae honest man could weel hae wist, For silly thing she never mist, To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' ; The first she had I gae to Jock, To be to him a kind o' stock. And now the laddie has a flock O' mair nor thirty head ava' ; And now the laddie has a flock, &c. I lookit aye at even' for her. Lest raischanter shou'd come o'er her. Or the fowmart might devour her. Gin the beastie bade awa ; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, Sic a Ewe was never born, Here-about nor far awa. Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, (Wha can speak it without weeping ?) A villain cam when I was sleeping, Sta' my Ewie, horn and a' ; I sought her sair upo' the morn. And down aneath a. buss o' thorn I got my Ewie's crookit horn, But my Ewie was awa'. I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. ! gin I had the Iouti that did it, Sworn I have as well as said it, Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a thra' ; 1 never met wi' sic a turn, As this sin ever I was born, My Ewie wi' the crookit horn. Silly Ewie stown awa'. My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &/:. O ! had she died o' crook or cauld, As Ewies do when they grow auld. It wad nae been, by mony fauld, Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' : For a' the claith that we hae worn, Frae her and her's sae aften ehorn, The loss o' her \vt cou d hae born, Had fair strae-death ta'un l»ei awa*. The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, kc. But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I'm really fley't that our guidwife Will never win aboon't ava : O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call your muses up and mourn. Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. ANDRO WI" HIS CUTTIE GUN. This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu- mour and convivial merriment, is an intimsio favourite at Sridal Tnjstes, and House-heat- ings. It contains a spirited picture of a country ale-house touched ofif with all the lightsome gaiety so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, wlien at a fair. Instead ef the line, " Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," I have heard it sung, " Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown. * These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, and toasted over the red embers of wood on a gridiron. They are i-emarkably fine, and have a delicate relish when eaten warm with al^ On winter market nights the landlady heats them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm the ale : " Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken To gar the swats gae glibber down.' Burns,. BLYTH WAS SHE Blyth, blyth, bl)th was she, Blyth was she butt and ben ; And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill, And leugh to see a tappit hen. She took me in, and set me down, And heght to keep me lawing-free ; But, cunning carling that she was, She gart me birle my bawbie. We loo'd the liquor well enough ; But waes my heart my cash was done Before that I had quench'd my drowth. And laith I was to pawn ray shoon. ^Vhen we had three times toom'd our stoup^ And the niest chappin new begun, Wha started in to heeze our hope. But Andro' wi' bis cutty gun. [F SONGS. 149 He carling brougtl her kebbuck ben, With girdle-cakes weel-toasted brown, Well does the canny kimmer ken, They gar the swats gae glibber down. We caM the bicker aft about ; Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun, And ay the cleanest drinker out Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. He did like ony mavis sing. And as i in his oxter sat, He ca'd me ay his bonny thing, And mony a sappy kiss I gat : I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been far ayont the sun ; But the blythest lad that e'er I saw Was Andro wi' bis cutty gun ! HUGHIE GRAHAM. There are several editions of this ballad. — This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song. — It originally, had a sinnple old tune, which I have forgotten Burns. Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o' the fallow deer. And they have gripet Hughie Graham For stealing o' the bishop's mare. And they have tied him hand and foot. And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun. O lowse my right hand free, he says. And put my braid sword in the same ; He's no in Stirling town this day. Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. Up then bespake the brave Wliltefoord, As he sat by the bishop's knee, Five hundred white stots I'll gie you If ye'll let Hughie Graham free. O baud your tongue, the bishop says, And wi* your pleading let me be ; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die. Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop's knee ; Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. O baud your tongue now lady fair. And wi' your pleading let it be ; AJtho' ten Grahams were in his coat. Its for my honor he maun die.. They've ta'en him to the gallows knowO) He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek. Nor ever did he blink his ee. At length he looked round about. To see whatever he could spy : And there he saw his auld father, And he was weeping bitterly. O baud your tongue, my father dear. And wi' your weeping let it be ; Thy weeping's sairer on my heart. Than a* that they can do to me. And ye may gie my brrjther John, My sword that's bent in the middle cletf« And let him come at twelve o'clock. And see me pay the bishop's mare. And ye may gie my brother James My sword that's bent in the middle brown. And bid him come at four o'clock, A.nd see his brother Hugh cut down. Remember me to Maggy my wife. The niest time ye gang o'er the moor, Tell her she staw tne bishop's mare, Tell her she was the bishop's whore. And ye may tell my kith and kin, I never did disgrace their blood ; Aad when they meet the bishop's cloak, To mak it shorter by the hood. LORD RONALD, MY SON. This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshiie, is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- sical shepherd, composed the simple artless ori- ginal air, which being picked up by the more learned musician, took the improved for tim bears. — Burns. The name is commonly sounded Ronald, dr Randal. Where have ye been hunting, Lord Randal, my son ? Where have ye been hunting. My handsome young man ? In yon wild wood, Oh mother, So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weary, And fain would lie down. Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? Where gat ye your dinner, My handsome young man ? 150 BURNS' WORKS. O, 1 dined with my true love, So make my bed soon : For I'm vvae, and I'm weary, And fain would lie down. O, what was your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? O, what was your dinner, My handsome young man ? Eels boiled in broo, mother ; So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weary, And fain would lie down. O, where did she find them, Lord Randal, my son ? O, where did she catch them, My handsome young man ? 'Neath the bush of brown brekan, So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weaiy And fain would lie down. Now, where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my sou ? What cauje of your bloodhounds, My handsome young man ? They swelled and died, mother, And sae maun I soon : O, I am wae, and I'm weary, And fain would lie down. I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son ! I fear you are poisoned. My handsome young man ! yes I am poisoned, — So make my bed soon : 1 am sick, sick at heajt. And I now must lie down. LOGAN BRAES. There were two old songs to this time ; one ef them contained some striking lines, the other antered into the sweets of wooing rather too freely for modern poetry. — It began, " Ae simmer night on Logan braes, I helped a bonnie lasaie on wi' her claes. First wi' her stockins, an' syne wi' her shoon, But she gied me the glaiks when a' was done."- The other seems older, but it is not so charac- teristic of Scottish com'tship. " Logan Water's wide and deep, An' laith am I to weet my feet ; But gif ye'll consent to gang wi* me, I'll hire ahorse to carry thee." Burns. ANOTHER SET. LOGAN WATER, BT JOHN MAYNE. By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, I've herded sheep, or gather 'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : But, wae's my heart, thae days are gaiM; And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes, Far , far frae me and Logan Braes I Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, Atween the preachings, meet wi' me— Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk. Convoy me hanie frae Logan Kirk ! I Weil may sing, thae days are gane— Frae fvirk and Fair I come my lane, While my dear lad maun face his faes. Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a tliief ; and in one or other character has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West.— She was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took the song down from her singing as she waa strolling through the country, with a slight-of- hand blackguard. — Burns. Coiin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie blooming heather. There I met a bonnie lassie. Keeping a' her yowes thegither. O'er the moor amang the heather. O'er the moor amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie. Keeping a' her yowes thegither. Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ? She says, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the blooming heather, O'er the moor, tgc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather. She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie blooming heather. O'er the moor, SfC Wliile thus we lay she sang a sang. Till echo rang a mile and farther. And ay the burden o' the sang Was — o'er the moor amang the heather. O'er tke moor, J-c, SONGS. 151 SLi charm'd my heart, and aye ginsyiie, I could na think on any ither : By sea and sky she shall be mine ! The bonnie lass amang the heather. O'er the moor, Sfc BONNIE DUNDEE. WHARE gat ye that hauver-meal bannock, O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye see ! 1 got it frae a sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee : May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, And sen' him safe hame to his babie and me ! May blessins light on thy sweet, we lippie ! Jlay blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree ! Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplan by sae clear ; An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine. An' mak thee a man hke thy daddie dear ! OLD VERSE. Ye're like to the timmer o* yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye slip frae me like a knotless thread, An' ye'U crack your credit wi' mae than me. DONOCHT-HEAD. Tune*—" Gordon Castle." K?.EN blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,* The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. " Cauld is the night, O let me in, " And dinna let your minstrel fa', " And dinna let his windin-sheet " Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! " Full ninety winters hae I seen, " And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, * And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, " To lilts which frae my drone I blew." My Ejipie wak'd, and soon she ciy'd, " Get up, Guidman, and let him in j " For wcel ye ken the winter night " Was short when he began liis din." My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet E'en tho' she bans and scaulds awee ; But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, O liaith, it's doubly dear to me ! • A mountain in the North. Com.e in, aufl Carl ! I'll sttcr my fire, I'll mak it blcezc a bonnie flame ; Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate. Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. " Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, " Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha* ; " And, weeping at the eve o' life, " I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw.* THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. This song is one of the many attempts t.ial English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appel- lation of Anglo- Scottish productions. The mu- sic is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt. — Burns. BARNETT. I LEFT the sweet banks of the deep flowing Tweed, And my own little cot by the wild wood, When Fanny was sporting through valley and mead. In the beautifvd morning of childhood And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, When the billows of twilight were flowing, I thought, as I mus'd on the days tliat were o'er, How the rose on her cheek would be blowing I came to the banks of the deep flowing Tweed, And mine own little cot by the wild wood. When o'er me ten summers had gather'd theii speed. And Fanny had pass'd from her childhood. I found her as fair as my fancy could dream, Not a bud of her loveliness blighted, And I wish'd I had ne'er seen her beauty's sofl beam, Or that wc were for ever united. THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. This Song is one of the many eS'usions of Scots jacobitism. — The title, Flowers of Edin- burgh, has no manner of connexion with the present verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains. • This affecting poem was long attributed to Bums. He thus remarks on it. " Donocht-Head is not mine I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinuurph Herald ; ami came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-marli on ic" It waj the composition of William Pickering, a north o* England puet, who is not known to have written any thKi£ more. By tlirt oj«, it IS singiilar enougb ttat the Scottish Muses were all Jacobites 1 have paid more attention to every description of Scots Bongs than perhaps any body living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the fami- lies of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hundreds satirizing tliem. This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head ; and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting than * * * *. — Burns. My love was once a bonny lad, He was the flower of all his kin. The absence of his bonny face Has rent my tender heart in twaiiL. ; day nor night find no delight, In silent tears I still complain ; And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, That ba'e ta'en from me my darling swain. Despair and anguish fills my breast, Since I have lost my blooming rose ; I sigh and moan while others rest, His absence yields me no repose. To seek my love I'll range and rove. Thro' every grove and distant plain ; Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days. To hear tidings from my darling swain. There's naething strange in Nature's change, Since parents shew such cruelty ; They caus'd my love from me to range. And knows not to what destiny. The pretty kids and tender lambs IMay cease to sport upon the plain ; But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent For the absence of my darling swain. Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat, To send a fair and pleasant gale ; Ye dolphins 8weet,_upon me wait. And convey me on your tall ; Heavens bless my voyage with success, While crossing of the raging main, And send me safe o'er to that distant shors, T» meet my lovely darling swain. All joy and mirth at our return Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing. To grace and crown our nuptial day. Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms, My heart once more I will regain ; Then I'll range no more to a distant shore, But in love will enjoy my darling swain. CHARLIE, IIE'S MY DARLINO OLD VERSES. TuM^^' Charlie is my darling." *TwAs on a Monday morning, Richt early in the year. That Charlie cam to our toun, The young Chevalier. A.nd Charlie he's my darliny. My darling, my darling ; Charlie he s yiy darling. The young Chevalier, As he was walking up the street) The city for to view, O there he spied a bonnie lass, The window looking through. And Charlie, Sfe. Sae licht's he jumped up the stairs And tirled at the pin ; And wha sae ready as hersell. To let the laddie in ! And Charlie, i^e. He set his Jenny on his knee. All in his Highland dress ; For brawly weel he kenned the W»y To please a bonnie lass. And Charlie, §*c. It's up yon heathy mountain, And down yon scroggy glen. We daurna gang a-milking, For Charlie and his men. And Charlie, 8fc THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK Up with the souters of Selkirk, And down with the Earl of Home ! And up wi' a' the brave lads, Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! O ! fye upon yellow and yellow. And fye upon yellow and green ; And up wi' the true blu» and scarltt. And up wi' the single-soled shoon ! Dp wi' the souters of Selkirk — Up wi' the lingle and last ! There's fame wi' the days that's coming And glory wi' them that are past. Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — Lads that are trusty and leal ; And up with the men of the Forest, And down wi' the Merse to the deil ' O ! mitres are made for noddles, But feet they are made for shoon ; SONGS. 153 And fame is as sib to Selkirk As light is true to the moon.^ There si^js a souter in Selkirk, Wha sings as he draws his thread— There's gallaut souters in Selkiik A.* 'ang there's water in Tweed. CRAIL TOUN.» " Tune-~" Sir John Malcolm." And was ye e'er in Crail toun ? Igo and ago ; And saw ye there Clerk Dishington ?f Sing iroin, igon, ago. His wig was like a doukit hen, Igo and ago ; The tail o't like a goose-pen, Sing ironi, igon, ago. And d'ona ye ken Sir John Malcolm ? Igo and ago ; Gin he's a wise man I mistak him, Sing irom, igon, ago. And haud ye weel frac Saudie Don, Igo and azd ; He's ten times dafter nor Sir John, Sing irom, igon, ago. To hear them o' their travels talk, Igo and ago ; To gae to London's but a walk, Sing irom, igon, ago. To see the wonders o' the deep, Igo and ago, Wad gar a man baith wail and weep, Sing irom, igon, ago. To see the leviathan skip, Igo and ago, And wi' his tail ding ower a ship, Sing irom, igon, ago. • There is a somewhat different version of this strange sdng in Herd's Collection, 1776. The prtscnt, which I think the liest, is copied from the Scottish Mjnstrel. t riie persiin known in Scottish song and tradition by the epithet Clerk Dishington, was a notary who re. »>lc(l alKHit the middle of the last century in Crail, and acteil as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. I have been informed that he was a person of great local selebhty in his time, as -m uncompromising humour- lot. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O GALL.* Tune—" My only jo and deane, d" Thy check is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie, O ; Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew, Upon the bank sae briery, O. Thy teeth are o' the ivniy, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : Nae joy, nae ])leasure blinks oq me, My only jo and dearie, O. When we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinkin' bonnie, O, Aft we wad dafF the lee iang day, Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee. And round about the thorny tree ; Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, O. 1 hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O ; A wish tliat thou wert ever mine. And never mair to leave me, O ; Then I wad daut thee nicht and day, Nae ither warldly care I'd hae, Till life's warm stream forgat to play, My only jo and dearie, O. FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. run* — " Fairly shot o' her." O gill I were fairly shot o' her! Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her I O gin I were fairly shut d her ! If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' hrr. Till we were married, I couldna see licht tili her; For a month after, a' thing aye gaefl richt wf her : But these ten years I hae prayed for a wrigfiJ to her — gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shut o' her ! i^c. Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi* her : The ncebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her: And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! Sfc She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckie pride in her ; There's no a gudewife in the haill country-sida like her ; ♦ Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in oM furnitum Isi St. Mary's Wynd, Edinburgh, was brought up ta the business of a printer, and died at an early ago. about the beginning ot the present «r.tiuy. N2 154 BURNS' WORKS. Wi' dress and wl' diink, the deil wadna bide wi' her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! §*c. If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi' her, And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi' her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! Sfc. FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D ME THIS. False luve ! and hae ye play'd me this, In summer, 'mid the flowers ? I shall repay ye back again In winter, 'mid the showers. But again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, Will ye not turn again ? As ye look to other women Shall I to other men ? * FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD V/IFE. And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bee, berry, bum; Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my auld wife. The steerer up o* sturt and strife. The maut 's abune tlie meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. And fare ye weel, my pike-staflf; Bias bum," bee, berry, bum : Fare ye weel, my pike-staff; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, ray pike-staff, W vou uae mair njy wife I'll baff ; The maut's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. It fell about the Martinmas time. And a gay time it was than. * From Herd's Collection, 1776.— A slightly dififer- jnt version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth of Davie Gellatley, in tlie celebrated novel of Waver- " False love, and hast thou play'd me thi*, In summer, among the flowers? I will repay thee bacS. again In winter, among the showers. " Unless again, again, my love. Unless you turn again, As you with other maidens rove, rU smilfe on othertnen " When our gudewlfe had puddins to raak. And she boil'd them in the pan. And the harrin o' our door well, teei., weil. And the barrin' o' our door weil. The wind blew cauld frae south to north, It blew into the floor ; Says our gudeman to our gudewife, Get up and bar the door. And the harrin\ ^c. My band is in my bussyfe skep, Gudeman, as ye may see ; An it shouldna be barr'd this huncer yeai, It's no be barr'd for me. And the barrin , Sfc. They made a paction 'tween them twa, They made it firm and sure. The first that spak the foremost word Should rise and bar the door. And the barrin\ Sfc. Then by there came twa gentlemen, At twelve o'clock at night ; And they could neither see house nor ha'. Nor coal nor candle-licht. And the barrin', §"C. Now whether is this a rich man's house, Or whether is this a puir ? But never a word wad ane o' them speak, For the barrin' o' the door. Ann the ban in, ^c. And first they ate the white puddins. And syne they ate the black ; And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersdlf But never a word she spak. A7id the barrin', ifc. Then said the tane unto the tother, Hae, man, take ye my knife, Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard, And I'll kiss the gudewife. And the barrin', ifc. But there's nae water in the house, And what shall we do than? Wliat ails ye at the puddin' broo, That boils into the pan ? And the barrin', Sfc. O, up then startit om «fudeman. And an angry man was he : Wad ye kiss my wife before my face. And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? And the barrin', ^c. Then up and startit our gudewife, Gi'ed three sKips on the floor : Gudeman, ye've spoken the foieraost word. Get up and bar the door.* And the barrin', ^c. • From Herd's Collection, 1776.— Tradition, as re. ported m Johnson's Musical Museum, aifirms that th< SONGS. 155 LOGIE O' BUCHAN. Tune—" Logic o' Buchan." O. Ldgie o' Buchan, O, Logie, the laird, They hae tu'en awa Jamie that delved in the yard ; He play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma' ; They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o' them a*. He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa ; He said, Think na Jang, lassie, though I gang awa ; For the simmer is coming, cauld winter^s awa. And I'll come back and see thee in spite o' them a'. O, Sandie has owsen, and siller, and kye, A house and a haddin, and a' things forbye, But I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's hand. Before I'd hae Sandy wi' houses and land. He said, ^c. My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour, They frown upon Jamie, because he is poor ; But daddie and minnie although that they be, There's nane o' them a' like'my Jamie to me. He said, Sfc. I sit on ray creepie, and spin at my wheel. And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ; He had but ae sixpence — he brak it in twa, Ami he gi'ed me the liauf o't when he gaed awa. Then, haste ye back, Jamie, and hide na awa, Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa ; Simmer is comin' , cauld winter's awa, And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them " piudeman" of this song was a person of the name of John Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford-Muir. There are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes; the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems to have been preserved by tradition alone, as we have 3ever seen it in prinU A third tune, to which we have tieard this song sung, bv only one person, an American student, we suspect to have been ^imported from his own ;o Hitry. • " Logie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan of Peterhead, in his Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads (IS.'T). to have been the composition of Mr. George HaVket, and to have been written by hnn while school- nijster of Rathcn, in .Aberdeenshire, about the year 17"S. " The poetry of this individual," says Ml. Buch.m, " was chiefly Jacobitical, and long remained familiar amongst the peasantry in tliat quarter of the country : One of the best known of these, at the jiro- sent, is • Wherry, Whigs, awa, man I' In 174(>, Mr. Halket wrote a dialogue betwixt George II. and the Oevil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of Cumbeilaud while on his march to Culloden, he of- fered one hundred pounds reward for the person or tlie head o.f its author. Mr. Halket died in 1756. " The Logic here mentioned, is in one of the ad- loining parishes (Cramond) where Mr. Halket then resided ; and the hero of the piece was a James Ro. bcrtson, gaidener ut tlic jilace of Logie." HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. Tune — " Here's a health to them thafs awa- ' Here's a health to thetn that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; Here's a health to them that were here thort syne, And canna be here the day. It s gude to be merry and wise ; It's gude to be honest and true ; It's gude to be afF wi' the auld love, Before ye be on wi' the new. HEY, CA' THROUGH. Tune—" Hey, ca' through." Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the Idmmers o' Largo, And the lasjes o' Leven. Hey, ca' through, ca' through^ For tee hae muckle ado : Hey, ca' through, ca' through, For we hae muckle ado. We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing ; We hae pennies so spend. And we hae pints to bring. Hey, ca' through, ^c. We'll live a' our days ; And them that comes behin', Let them do the like. And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' through, Sfe, I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANB CLUNIE. Tune — " My lodging is on the cold ground." I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me. He's willing to mak me his ain ; And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens j' green ; The price was a kiss o' my mou' ; And I paid him the debt yestreen. Let ithers brag weel o* their gear, Their land, and their lordly degree , I carena for ought but ray dear. For he's ilka thing lordly to me : His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet ' His sense drives ilk fear far awa ! I listen — poor fool ! and I greet ; Yet how sweet are the tears as thev &* * 156 BURNS' WORKS. AYE WAUKING, O. THE ORIGINAL SONG, FROM RECITATION. O I'ji wet, wet, O I'm wet and weary ! Yet fain wad I rise and rin. If I thought I wjuld meet ray deary. Ai/ ivauking, O ! Wauh'ing aye, and weary. Sleep I can get nane For thinking o' my deary. Simmer's a pleasant time, Flowers of every cct'our. The water rins ower tne heugh— And I lang for my true lover Ay wauking, 8fc When I sleep I dreara. When I wauk I'm eerie ; Sleep I can get nane For thinking o' my deary. Ay wauking, ^c, Lanely night comes on ; A' the lave are sleeping ; I think on my love. And blear my een wl' greeting. Ay wauking, 8fc. Feather-beds are soft, PaintcJ rcoms are bonnie ; But a kiss o my dear luve Is better ar than ony. Ay wauking, Sfc. To the streamlet winding clear, To the fragrant-scented brier, E'ea to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O, For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, O, On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O • Ere the golden orb of day. Wakes the warblers from the spray, From this land I luust away, bonnie lassie, O. And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, O Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear Of thy lover on his bier. To Lis memory shed a tear, b mnie lassie ? O.* KELVIN GROVE. JOHN LYLE. T^ne—" Kelvin Grove." Let u3 haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O ; Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; Where the rose in all its pride Decks the hollow dingle's side. Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, To the r.eve beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; Where the glens rebound the call Of the lofty waterfall, Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O. Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O, With the songsters in the grove, We have told our tale of love, And have sportive garlands wove, boaaie lassie, O. Ab ! I soon must bid aaieu, bonnie lassie, O, To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O, BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER SIR WALTER SCOTT. Time—" Blue Bonnets over the Border." March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward it order ? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdile ; All the blue bonnets are over the Border. Many a banner spread flutters above your head ; Many a crest that is famous in story : Mount and make ready, then, sons of the moun- tain glen ; Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grac- ing 5 Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; Come with the ^iickler, the lance, and the bow Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are bounding ; Stand to your arms, and march in good order. England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray^ When the blue bonnets came over the Border, COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. run*—" Gin a Body meet a Body. Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body. Need a body cry ? Ev'ry lassie has her la A wee drap Highland whiskv, O. SONGS. 17! Yet tlie doctors tliey do a' agree* That whisky's no the drink for me. Saul I quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee, Should they part me and whisky, O. Though I can baith get wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale, I'll be content, though legs should fail, To play farewell to whisky, O But still I think on auld lang syne, When Paradise our friends did tyue, Because something ran in their mind, Forbid like Highland whisky, O. Come, a' ye powers o' music, come ; I find my heart grows unco glum ; My fiddle-strings will no play bum. To say, Fareweel to whisky, O. Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand, And screw the pegs up while they'll stand, To make a lamentation grand, On gude auld Highland whisky, O. THE LAMMIE. HECTOR MACNEILL. Tune — *• Whar hae ye been a' day." WiiAR hae ye been a' day, IVIy boy Tammy ? I've been by burn and flow'ry brae. Meadow green and mountain grey. Courting o' this young thing. Just come frae her mammy. And whar gat ye that young thing, My boy Tammy ? I got her down in yonder howe. Smiling on a bonnie knowe. Herding ae wee lamb and ewe, For her poor mammy. What said ye to the bonnie bairu, My boy Tammy? I praised her een, sae lovely blue. Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou ;— I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow !^ She said she'd tell her mammy I held her to my beating heart. My young, my smiling lammie ! I hae a house, it cost me dear, I've wealth o' plenishen and gear ; Ye'se get it a', were't ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy. The smile gacd aff her bonnie face — I maunna leave my mammy. She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise, She's been my comfort a* my days : — My father's death brought mouie wae^^ I caani leave my mammy. We'll tak her hame and mak her fain. My ain kind-hearted lammie. We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise, We'll be her comfort a' her days. The wee thing gies her hand, and says- There ! gang and ask my mammy. Has she been to the kirk wi* thee, ]My boy Tammy ? She has been to the kirk wi' ue. And the tear was in her ee : For O ! she's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy. THE WEE WIFIKIE. DR. A. GEDDES. Tune~~" The wee bit Wifikte." There was a wee bit wifikie was comia' frw the fair. Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her Hiuckle care ; It gaed about the wifie's heart, and she began to spew : ! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. I wish I binna fou, I wish I binna fou, O ! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm sure he'll claw my skin ; But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I gae in. Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin' o' her nap, By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack, By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack He's clippit a' her gowden locks, sae bonnie and sae lang ; He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast awa he ran : And when the wifie wakened, her head was like a bee. Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me. This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ; Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is bae me. 1 met wi' kiadlv company, and birl'd my baw- bee ! And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks re« main wi' me : And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin the cunyie be ; — There's neither purse nor plack about me , This is nae me. This is nae me, &c. I have a little housikie, but and a kindly man ; A dog, they ca' him Doussikie ; if this be me, he'll fawn • 172 BURNS' WORKS. And Jotnnie he'll come to the door, and kindly welcome gie, And a' the bairns on the floor-head will dance, if this be me. Will dance, if this be me, &c. Tlie nlcht was late, and dang out weet, aad, oh, but it was dark ; The doggie heard a body's fit, and he begin to bark : O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken- nin' it was he, O, weel ken ye, Dousslekle, quo she, this is nae me. This is nae me, &e. When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to the door he ran : Is that you, Bessikie ? — Wow, na, man ! Be kind to the bairns a', and weil mat ye be ; And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me. This is nae me, &c. John ran to the minister ; his hair stood a' on end : I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never mend ; My wife's come hame without a head, crying out most piteouslie : Oh, fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! This is nae me, &c. The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful to me, How that a wife without a head should speak, or hear, or see ! But things that happen hereabout so strangely alter'd be, That I could maist wi' Bessie say, 'Tis neither you nor sne ! * Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you nor she ; Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor she. Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow, but he was fain, To see his little Bessikie come to hersell again. He got her sittin' on a stool, wi* Tibbock on ner knee : O come awa, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to m* For I've got « drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now me. This is now me, quo' she, this is now me ; I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now me. FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. Now a sad and last adieu ! Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloaminj Fare thee weel fcefore I gang ! Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming, First I weav'd the rustic sang I Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, First inthrall'd this heart o' mine, There the saftest sweets enjoying,^ Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! Friends, so near my bosom ever, Ye hae rendered moment's dear ; But, alas ! when forc'd to sever. Then the stroke, O, how severe ! Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! Could I think I did deserve it, How much happier would I be ! Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. Scenes that former thoughts renew, Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. Now a sad and last adieu ! TIBBIE FOWLER,* Tune — " Tibbie Fcwler." Tibbie Fowler o* the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her ; Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her. Wooin'' at her, pu'ln' at her, Conrtin' her, and canna get her ; Filthy elf, it's for her pelf That a' the lads are tcooing at her. Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; Ten cam rowln' ower the water ; • A Jacobite allusion, probably to the change of the Stuart for the Brunswick dynasty, in 1714. » Said CO flave be>*n written by the Rev. Dr. Strach.ui, late minister of Carnwath, although cer. tainly gro\mcled upon a song of older standing, the name of which is mentioned in the Tea.Table Miscel- lany. The two first verses of the song appeared m Herd's Collection, 1776. There is a tradition at Leith that Tibbie Fowler was a real person, and married, «nme time during the se- venteenth century, to the representative of the attanit. ed &mily of Logan of Restalrig, whose town-house, dated 1636, is still pointed out at the head of a streef in Leith, called the Sheriff-biae. The marnage-con. tract between Logan and Isabella Fowler is still extant, in the possession of a gentleman resident at Leith.— See Campbell's History of Leit/i, note, p. 314. SONGS. 173 Twa cam down the lang dyke-side : There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at her. Wooin' at her, Sfc. There's seven but, and seven ben, Seven in the pantry wi' her ; Twenty head about the door : There's ane-and-forty wooin' at ber. Wooin' at her, ifc. She's got pendlew in hpr lugs ; Cockle-shells wad set her better ! High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags ; And a' the lads are wooin' at her. Wooin' at her, Sfc, Be a lassie e'er sae black, Gin she hae the penny Siller, Set her up on Tintock tap, The wind will blaw a man iill her. Wooin' at her, 8fc. Be a lassie e'er sae fair, An she want the penny siller, A. flie may fell ber in the air, Before a man be even'd till her. Wooin' at her, Sec ANNIE LAURIE. • Maxwelton banks are Iwnnie, Where early fa's the dew ; Where me and Annie Laurie Made up the promise true ; Made up the promise true, And never forget will I ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me doun and die. She's backit like the peacock ; She's breistit like the swan ; She's jimp about the middle ; Her waist ye weel micht span : Her waist ye well micht span, And she has a rolling eye ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me doun and die. • These two verses, which arc in a style wonderful- ly tender and chaste for their age, were written by a Wr. Douglas of Fingland, upon Anne, one of the four daughters of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba ronet in the year 1685, it is probable that the verses were composed about the end of tlie seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. It is painful to record, that, notwithsLuiding the ardent and chival- rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his poem, he did not obtain the heroine fora wife: .She was mar- ried to Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroeh. — See " A 3a/- lad Book," ( minted at Edinburgh in 1824), p. 107. THE BRISK YOUNG L.\D. Tune—" Bung your eye in the morning." There cam a young man to my daddie's door My daddie's door, my daddie's door ; There cam a young man to my daddie's door, Cam seeking me to woo. And wow ! hut lie was a hraw yovng lad, A. brisk young lad, and a hraw young lad • And wow ! hut he was a hraw young lad, Cam seeking me to woo. But I was baking when he came, When he came, when he came ; I took him in aud gied him a scone, To thowe his .rozen mou. And woiv ! hut he was, 8^c. 1 set him in aside the bink ; I gae him bread and ale to drink ; And ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, Until his wame was fou. And wow ! hut he teas, 8fC. Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer, Ye isour-looking, cauldrife wooer ! I straightway show'd him to the door, Saying, Come nae mair to woo. And wow ! but he was, SfC There lay a deuk-dub before the door, Before the door, before the door ; There lay a deuk-dub before the dooi, And there fell he, I trow ! And wow ! hut he was, Sfc, Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted ; Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ; And a' the toun-neebors were gather d about it i And there lay he, I trow ! And wow I but he was, ifc. Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled ; Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ; Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a* befvled ; We'll hae nae mair o' you ! And wow I but he was, S^c. KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. Tune — " Robin lo'es me." Rodin is my only jo, i For Robin has the art to lo'e ; Sae to his suit I mean to bow, Because I ken he lo'es me. Happy, happy was the shower, That led me to his birkcn bower, WTiere first of love I fand the power, And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. They speak of napkins, speak of nogtt Speak of gluves and kissin' (trings ; r/4> And name a tliousauJ bonnie tnings, And ca' them signs he lo'es me. But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob, Seated on the velvet fog, To gifts as lang's a plaiden wwb ; Because I ken he lo'es me. He's tall and sonsie, frank and free, Lo'ed by a', and dear to me ; Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee, Because my Robin lo'es me. My tittle Mary said to me, Our courtship but a joke wad be. And I or laiig be made to see That Robin didna lo'e me. But little kens she what has been, Me and my honest Rob between ; And in his wooing, O sae keen Kind Robin is that lo'es me. Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. And hasten on the happy day, When, Join your hands. Mess John will say. And mak him mine that lo'es me. Till then, let every chance unite To fix our love and give delight. And I'll look down on such wi' spi'». Wha doubt that Robin lo'es me. O hey, Robin ! quo' she, O hey, Robin ! quo' she, O hey, Robin ! quo' she ; Kind Robin lo'es me. BURNS* WORKS. THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE TO DEAVE US. ROBERT GILFILLAN. Tune — " Fy, let U3 a' to the bridal." The poets, what fools they're to deave us, How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; The tane is «n angel — and, save us ! The neist ane you meet wi's divine . And then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet, Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; And the moon, or some far-Ava planet's Compared to the blink o' her een. The earth an' the sea they've ransackit For sim'iies to set oflf their charms ; And no a wee fiov/'r but s attackit By poets, like bumbees, in swarms. Now, what signifies a' this clatter, By chiels that the truth winna tell ? Wad it no be settlit' 'i\e matter. To say. Lass, ye're just like your sell ? An' then there's nae end to the evil, For they are no deaf to the din^ Tnat like me ony puir luckless deevil Daur scarce look t'ae gate they are in I But e'en let them be, wi' their scornin' : , There's a lassie whase name I could teH'j Her smile is as sweet as the mornia'— But whisht ! 7 am ravin' mysell. But he that o' ravin's convickit, When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on. May he ne'er get anither strait jacket Than that buckled to by Mess John ! An' he wha — though cautious an' canny— The charms o' the fair never saw, Though wise as King Solomon's grannie- I swear is the daftest of a'. 'TWAS WITHIN A MILE OF EDIN- BURGH TOWN. Tutsi—" Within a mile of Edinburfrh." 'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, In the rosy time of the year ; Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, And each shepherd woo'd his dear. Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay. The lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No, no, it will not do ; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc kle too." Jockey was a wag that never would wed, Though long he had followed the lass ; Contented she earned and eat her own bread, And merrily turn'd up the grass. Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, Won her heart right merrily : Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No. no, it will not do ; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- kle too." Bat when he vow'd he would make hef hii bride. Though his flocks and herds were not few. She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, And vow'd she'd for ever be true. Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, Won her heart right merrily : At church she no more frowning, cried, " No, no, it will not do ; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot bwv kle too." MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. Tune — " My luve's in Germanie. Mt luve's in Germanie ; Send him hame, send him hame ; My luve's in Germanie; Send him hame. SONGS. 17 b My luve's in Gjrmanie, Fighting brave for royalty ; He may ne'er liis Jeanie see ; Send him hame, send him hame ; He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; Send him hame. He's as brave as brave can be ; Send him hame, send him hame ; Our faes are ten to three ; Send him hame. Our faes are ten to three ; He maun either fa' or flee, In the cause of loyalty ; Send him hame, send him hame ; In the cause of loyalty ; Send him hame. Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Bonnie dame, winsome dame ; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Winsome dame. Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Rut he fell in Germanic, Fighting brave for loyalty, IMournfu' darae, mournfu' dame ; Fighting brave for loyalty, IMournfu' dame. He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; Willie's gane ! He will ne'er come ower the sea. To liis luve and ain countrie. This warld's nae mair for me ; Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; This warld's nae mair for me ; Willie's gane ! TO THE KYE Wr MR WAS na* she worthy o' kisses, Far mae than twa or three. And worthy o' bridal blisses, WTia gaed to the kye wi' me. O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, Gang to the kve wi' me, Ower the burn and through the broom; And I'll be merry wi' thee. 1 hae a house a biggin, Anither that's like to fa*, And I love a scomfu' lassie, Wha grieves me warst of a'. O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, O gang to the kye wi' me. Ye'll think nae mair o' your mither Amang the broom wi' me. I hae a house a biggin, Anither that's like to fa', I hae noo the lassie wi' bairn. Which vexes me warst of a'. gang to the kye wi' me, my loi'i^ Gang to the kye wi' me, 1 hae on auld mither at hame, Will doodle it on hei knee. THE MILLER O' DEE. Tune—" The Miller of Dee." There was a jolly miller once Lived on the river Dee ; He wrought and sung from morn till niglu^ No lark more blythe than he. And this the burden of his song For ever used to be ; I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody cares for me. And this, Sj-c. When spring began its merry career, O, then his heart was gay ; He feared not summer's sultry heat. Nor winter's cold decay. No foresight marred the miller's cheer Who oft did sing and say, Let others live from year to year, I'll live from day to day. Ho foresight, Sfc. Then, like this miller, bold and free, Let us be glad and sing ; The days of youth are made for glee, And life is on the wing. The song shall pass from me to you, Around this jovial ring. Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : And so, God save our king.* Tlie song, §t. SAW YE I\IY- FATHER ? Tune—" Saw ye my father f" " O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother, Or saw ye my true love John ?" " I saw not your father, I saw not vour mother But I saw your true love John." " It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae light, And the bells they ring ding dong ; He's met with some delay, that causeth him to stay ; But he will be here ere long," The surly auld carle did nacthing but snarle. And Jonnie's face it grew red ; • From an old M.S. cony. The song soemi to hsT* been first printed in Hera's Collection, 1776, 176 BURNS' WORKS. Yet, though he often sighed, Le le'er a word replied, Till all were asleep in bed. Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, And gently tirled at the pin. The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went, And she opened and let him in. " And are ye come at last, and do I hold ye fist ? And is my Johnie true ?" " I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 1 like mysell, Sae lang sail I love you." " Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, And craw whan it is day : Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd, And your wings of the silver grey." The cock proved fause, and untrue he was ; For he crew an hour ower sune. The lassie thought it day, when she sent her love away. And it was but a blink o' the mune. TAM O' THE BALLOCH H. AINSLET. Tune—" The Campbells are coming. In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tam, Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ; A breist like a buird, and a back like a door, And a wapping wame that hung down afore. But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam ? For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow tram ; Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out. And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout. ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent, The strength o* a stot — the wecht o' a cow ; Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew. 1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a ram ; O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam ? Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed ? Hae they broken your heart or broken your head ? Hae they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ? Or, Tammy, my man, hae ye seen the deil ? Wlia auce was your match at a stoup and a tale i Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale ? Now ye peep like a powt ; ye glumpk and yt gaunt ; Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned i saunt ? Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the mulr; We tell our distress ere we look for a cure : There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye Lae mairl Oh ! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thie^ That deepened my ee, and lichtened my betf ; But the word that makes me sae waefu' and wan, Is — Tam o' the Balloch's a married man I HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. Haud awa, bide awa ! Haud awa frae me, Donald : I've seen the man I well could love, But that was never thee, Donald. Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud. And claymore by thy knee, Donald, And Lord o' Moray's mountains high, Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald, What sairs your mountains and your lochi) I canna swim nor flee Donald : But if ye'U come when yon fair sun Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. And take the hills wi' thee, Donald. One of the old verses runs thus :— Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald, Keep awa your cauld hand Frae my warm knee Donald. AULD ROB MORRIS. ,Tuite — " Auld Rob Morris." BIOTHER. Auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, He s the king o' guid fallows, and wale o' auld men ; He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscor* too ; Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e, DAUGHTER. Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee ; For his eild and my eild can never agt«e : They'll never agree, and that will be seen ; For be is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. SONGS. 177 MOTHER. Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride, For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride ; He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too ; Auld Rob Jloivis is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTER. Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel, His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; He's out- shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. MOTHER. Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man. Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; Then, dochter, ye should na be sa ill to shoe. For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun Jp'e. DAUGHTER. But auld Rob Morris I never will hae, Ris back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey; I had rather die than live wi* him a year ; 6ae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear. THE MALT-JIAN. The malt-man comes on IVIunday, He craves wonder sair, Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller, Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. I took him into the pantry, And gave him some good cock-broo, Syne paid him upon a gantree, As hostler-wives should do. Wlien malt-men come for siller. And gangers with wands o'er sood. Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar, And clear them as I have done. This bewith, when cunzie is scanty. Will keep them frae making din ; The knack I Icaru'd frae an auld aunty. The snackcst of a' my kin. The malt-man is right cunning, But I can be as slee, And he may crack of his winning. When he clears scores with me : For come when he likes, I'm ready ; But if frae hame I be, Let him wait on our kind lady. She'll answer a bill for roe. THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. There was a wife won'd in a glen, And she had dochters nine or ten, That sought the house baith but and ben. To find their mam a inishing. TTie auld wife beyont the ^^re. The auld wife anieit the fire. The auld n-ife ahoon the Jire, She died for lack (f anishing,* Her mill into some hole had fawn, Whatrecks, quoth she, let it be gawn. For I maun hae a young goodman Shall furnish me with snishing. The auld wife, §*c. Her eldest dochter said right bauld, Fy, mother, mind that now ye' re auld, And if ye with a younker wald, He'll waste away your snis'ning. The auld wife, Sfc. The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out. Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout, Your mill can had nae snishing. The auld wife, §-c. Ye lied, ye limmers, cries auld mump, For I hae baith a tooth and stump. And will nae langer live in dump, By wanting of my snishing. The aidd wife, §-c. Thole ye, says Peg, that pawky dat. Mother, if ye can crack a nut, Then we will a' consent to it. That you shall have a snishing. The auld wife, §'c. The auld ane did agree to that, And they a pistol-bullet gat ; She powerfuMy began to crack, To win hersell a snishing. The auld wife, Sfc, Braw sport it was to see her chow't. And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row't, While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd. And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. The auld wife, §-c. At last she ga'e a desperate squees. Which brak the lang tooth by the necB, And syne poor stumpy was at case. But she tint hopes of snishing. The auld wife, Sfc, She of the task begin to tire. And frae her dochters diil retire. Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire. And died for hick of snisliing. The auld wife, §-c. Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, Assoon as ye're past mark of mouth. • Snishing, in its literal mcanin(», is snuiT made of tobacco ; Out, In this song, it meant lometjmai ea** tenement, a husbuid, lore, mooey, flrf. 03 1 nS BURNS' WORKS. Ne'er do what's only fit for youth, And when sht drew the curiam by. And leave aff thoughts of snishing ; Young man, I think you're dying Else, like this wife heyont the fire, YeW bairns against you will conspire ; its I'm sick, and very very sick. Nor will ye yet, unless ye hire, And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. A young man with your snishing. the better for me ye's never be. Tho' your heart's blood were a- spilling dinna ye mind, young man, said she, When he was in the tavern a-drinking, BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. That ye made the healths gae round and round. And slighted Barbara Allan ? O BESSY Bell and Jlary Gray, They are twa bonny lassies, He turn'd liis face unto the wall, They bigg'd a bow'r on yon burn-brae, And death was with him dealing ; And theek'd it o'er vvi' rashes. Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen, And be kind to Barbara Allan. And thought I ne'er could alter , But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, And slowly, slowly raise she up. They gar my fancy falter. And slowly, slowly left him j AnA sighing, said, she cou'd not stay. Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap , Since death of life had reft him. She smiles like a May morning. When Phcebus starts frae Thetis' lap, She had not gane a mile but twa, The hills with rays adorning : ^Vhen she heard the dead-bell ringing, Wliite is her neck, saft is her hand, And every jow that the dead-bell gied Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. i^ith ilka grace she can command ; Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty. mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow. And Mary's locks are like a craw. Since my love dy'd for me to-day, Her een like diamonds glances ; I'll die for him to-morrow. She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw, She kills whene'er she dances : Blythe as a kid, with wit at will. She blooming, tight, and tall is ; And guides her airs sae gracefu' still. ETTRICK BANKS. Jove, she's like thy Pallas. Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, Ye unco sair oppress us ; Our fancies jee between you twa, On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night, At glowming when the sheep drave haoM ; I met my lassie braw and tight, Came wading, barefoot, a' her lane : Ye are sic bonny lassies : Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, To ane by law we're stented ; Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate, And be with ane contented. Jly heart grew tight, I ran, I flang My arms about her lily neck, And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fou lang ; My words they were na mony, feck. I said, my lassie, will ye go To the highland hills, the Earse to learn , rd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew. BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. When ye come to the brigg of Earn, At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, It was in and about the Martinmas time. And herrings at the Broomy Law ; When the green leaves were a-falling. Chear up your heart, my bonny lass. That Sir John Graeme in the west country There's gear to win we never saw. Fell in love with Barbara Allan. All day when we have wrought enough, He sent his man down through the town, When winter, frosts, and snaw begin, To tlie place where she was dwelling, Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. haste, and come to my master dear. . At night when you sit down to spin. Gin ye be Barbara Allan. I'll screw my pipes and play a spring : And thus the weary night will end. O hooly, hooly rose she up, Till the tender kid and lamb-time brmg To the place where he was lying, ' J Our pleasant summer back again. SONGS. 179 Svne when the trees are in their bloom, And gowans glent o'er ilka field, r 11 meet my lass among the broom, And lead you to my summer-shield. Then far frae a' their scornfu* din. That make the kindly hearts their sport, We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing. And gar the langest day seem short. THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.» DAVID MALLET. Tune — " The Birks of Invermay. The smiling mnrn, the breathing spring. Invite the tunefu' birds to sing ; And, while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them, improve the hour that flies ; And in soft ra])tures waste the day, Among the birks of Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear ; At this th/ living bloom will fade. As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feather'd songsters are no more ; And when they drop, and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay ! THE BRAES O' BALLENDEAN. DR. BLACKLOCK. Tune — " The Braes o' Ballendean." Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain ; So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow ; Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain, Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. • Invermay is a small woody plen, watered by the rivulet May, which there joins the river Earn. It is about five miles above the bridge of Earn, and nearly nine from Perth. The se.it of Mr. Belsches, the pro. prietor of this poetical region, and who takes from it nis territorial designation, stands at the boltom of the glen. Beth sides of the little vale are completely wood- ed, chiefly with birches; and it is altogether, in point of natural loveliness, a scene worthy of the attention of the amatory muse. The course of the May is so sunk among rocks, that it cannot be seen, but it can casjlv be traced in us progress by another sense. The peculiar sound which it makes in rushing through one particular part of its narrow, rugged, and tortuous channel, h.is occasioned the descriptive appellation of the Humble-Bumble to be attached to that quarter of the vale. Invermay may be at once and correctly de- scribed as the fairest possible little miniature specimen of cascade scenery. The song appeared in the 4lh volume of the Tea- Table Miscellanv. How happv, he cried, mv moments cnce flew. Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view ! Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey ; Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they. Now scents of distress please only my sight ; I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light Through changes in vain relief I pursue, All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ; From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair- To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ; But love's ardent lire burns always the same. No winter can cool it, no summer inflame. But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind. Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. Ah, wretch ! how can life be worthy thy care ? To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. • THE BRUME O' THE COWDEN- KNOWES. Tune — " The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes." How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see ]My swain come ower the hill ! He skipt the burn and flew to me : I met him with good will. Ok, the brume, the honnie, honnie brume I The brtime o' the Cowdenknowes ! I wish I were ivith my dear swain, With his pipe and my yowes. I wanted neither yo%ve nor lamb, While his flock near me lay ; He gather'd in my sheep at night, And cheer'd me a' the day. Oh, the brume, ^x. He tuned his pipe, and play'd sae sweety The birds sat listening bye ; E'en the dull cattle sJtood and gazed, Charm'd with the melodye. Oh, the brume, Sfc. While thus we spent our time, by turns. Betwixt our flocks and play, I envied not the fairest dame, Though e'er so ricii or gay. Oh, the brume, ^c. • The celebrated Tendueoi used to sing this sone, with great effect, in St. CwilLVs Hall, at Edinburgh; about fifty vears ago. Mr. Tytler, who w.is a great na- tron of that obsolete place of amusement, s.ays, in nis Dissertation on Scottish Music, " Who could heal with insensibility, or without l)cing moved in the high- est degree, Tenducci sing, ' I'll never leave thee,' or, ' The Braes o' Ballendean.' The air was composed b| Oswald. 180 BURNS' WORKS. Hard fate, that I should banish'd be, Gang heavily, and mourn, Because I loved the kindest swain That ever yet was born. Oh, the brume, Sfc, He did oWige me every hour ; Cou\d 1 but faithful be ? He stavve my heart ; could I refuse Whate'er he ask'd of me ? Oh, the brume, S^c. My doggie, and my little kit That held my wee soup whey. My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick, May now lie useless by. Oh, the brume, §-c. Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! Ye gods, restore me to my swain- Is a' I crave or care. Oh, the brume, §*c.* THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE CRAFT. Tune—" The Carle he cam ower the Craft." The carle he cam ower the craft, Wi' his beard new-shaven ; He looked at me as he'd been daft, — The carle trowed that T wad hae him. Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! For a' his beard new-shaven. Ne'er a bit o' me will hae him. A siller brooch he gae me neist, To fasten on my curchie nookit ; I wore 't a wee upon my breist. But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook' ; And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! Twice-a-bairu's a lassie's jest ; Sae any fool for me may hae him. The carle has nae fault but ane ; For he has land and dollars plenty ; But, wae's me for him, skin and bane Is no for a plump lass of twenty. Hout awa, I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! What signifies his dirty riggs, And cash, without a man wi' them ? • As the reader may be supposed arxious to know •omethinf! of the place which has thus been the subject of »o much poetry, theeditor tliinks it proper to inform him, that, " the Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes ipelled in old writings, the Coldingknowes, are two little hills on the east side of the vale of Lauderdale, Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of the village of Earlston, celebrated as the residence of 'be earliest known Scottish poet, Thomas the Rhymer. But should my vankert daddie gar Me tak him 'gainst my inclination, I warn the fumbler to beware That antlers dinna claim their station Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! Fm flee'd to crack the haly band, Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae him THE WEE THING. MACNEIL. Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." Saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaoK in'? Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- tree ? Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk • white ; Dark is the blue o' her saft-roUing ee ; Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ?— I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing. Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin. Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- tree. Her hair it was lint-white j her skin it waa milk-white ; Dark was the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me !^ It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true love ye met by the tree : Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature ! She never loed onie till ance she loed me. Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle-Cary ; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee ! — It was, then, your Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary ; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree : Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me.— Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-red hii cheek grew — Wild flash 'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee ' SONGS. 81 \ e'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning Defend ye, fause traitor ! for Umdly \e lie. — Awa wi' beguiling cried the youth, smiling : AfF went the bjnnet ; the lint-white locks flee; "^he belled plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shaw- liig — Fair stood the loved maid wl' the dark-roll- ing ee ! Is it my v/ee thing ! is it mine ain thing ! Is it my true love here that I see ! — O Jamie, forgie me ; your heart's constant to me ; ril. never mair wander, dear I ,ddie, frae thee ! THE M^HITE COCKADE. Tunc—" The White Cockade." Mt love was born in Aberdeen, The bonniest lad that e'er was seen ; But now he makes our hearts fu' sad — He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade. O, he^s a ranting roving blade I O, lie's a brisk and a bonny lad ! Betide what may, my heart is glad To see my lad wi' Iiis white cockade. O, leeze me on the philabeg, The hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! But aye the thing that glads my ee, Is the white cockade abocfn the bree. O, he's a 1-anting, Sfc. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, RIy rippling kame, and spinning wheel, To buy my !ad a tartan plaid, A braidsword and a white cockade. O, he's a ranting, S^c. I'll sell my rokely and my tow. My gude grey mare and hawket cow. That every loyal Buchan lad May tak the field wi' his white cockade. O he's a ranting, i^c. THE WIDOW. ALLAN RAMSAY. The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, The widow can shape, and the widow can sew. And mony braw things the widow can do ; Then have at the widow, my laddie. With courage attack her, baith early and late : To kiss her and dap her ye maunna be hlate : Bpeak well, and do better j fur that's the best gate To win a young widow, my laddie The widow she's youthlui, anii never ae hair The waur of the we:iritig, and has a gooil skaif Of every thir;g iov>?ly ; she's witty and fair, And has a rich jointure, my laddie- Wkat could ve wish better, your pleasure to crown, Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town. With, Naething but — draw in yiiur stool and sit down, And sport with the widow, my laddie. Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead, Though stark love and kindness be all you cac plead ; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed With the bonnie g;iy widow, my laddie. Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald; For fortune ay favours the active and bauld. But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld Unfit for the widow, ray laddie. THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. OLD VERSES. THnt~" The yellow-hait'd Laddi*." The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae. Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o" them gae; And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudc- The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. The yowes are new dipt, and they winna buch< in; They winna bucht in, although I should dee; Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. And aye as she milkit, ifc. The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, como ben ; The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn. Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang sour, I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. It's ae lang half hour, and we'll e'en mak il three, For the yellow-hair'd laddie my gudeman shall be.* • From the Tea-Table MisceUAny, 17*4« 182 BURNS' WORKS. IHE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATIE. Tune—" Tartan Screen." Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, Coming down the street, my joe ? My mistress, in her tartan screen, Fii' bonnie, braw, and sweet, ray joe ! My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht That never wiss'd a lover ill. Sin' ye're out o' your mither's sicht, Let's tak' a walk up to the hiU.* Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave the dinsome toun a while ? The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, And a' creation's gaun to smile. The mavis, nichtingale, and lark, The bleating Iambs and whistling hynd, In ilka dale, green shaw, and park. Will nourish health, and glad your mind. Sune as the clear gudeman o' day Docs bend his mornin' draught o* dew, We'll gae to some burn-side and play. And gather flouirs to busk your brow. We'll pou the daisies on the green. The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; Between hands, now and then, we'll lean And sport upon the velvet fog. There 's, up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father's tower, A canny, saft, and flowery den, Which circling birks have form'd a bower. Wliene'er the sun grows high and warm, We'll to the caller shade remove ; There will I lock thee in my arm, And love aai kiss, and kiss and love. I canna get leave To look at my love. Or else she'd be like to devour me. Right fain wad I tak' your ofler. Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher Then, Sandy, ye'U fret, And wyte your puir Kate, Whene'er ye keek in your tnom coffer For though my father has plenty Of silver, and plenishing dainty. Yet he's unco sweir To twine wi' his gear ; And sae we had need to be tenty. Tutor my parents wi' caution. Be wylie in ilka i otioa ; Brag weel o' i'our land, And, there's ruy leal hand, Win them, I'll be at your devotion. MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN* OWER ME; IN ANSWER TO THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EUINBURGH KATY. RAMSAY. A une — " My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me." fllv mother's aye glowrin* ower me. Though she did the same before me ; * It \i quite as remarkable as it is true, that tlic Bsocle of tourtship among people of the midille ranks in Edinburgh has undergone a complete change in the course of no more than the last thirty years. It used to be customary for lovers to walk together for hours, both during the day and the evening, in iho Meadows, or the King's Park, or the fields now accupied by the New Town ; practices now only known to artizans and serving-girls. The song appeared in the Tea -Table Miscellany, "24. WANDERING WILLIE. OLD VERSES. Tunc—" Wandering Willie." Hbre awa, there awa, wandering Willie ! Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame : Lang have I sought thee, dear have I boughJ thee ; Now I have gotten my Willie again. Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie ; Through the lang muir I have followed him hame. Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; Love new rewa.'ds all my sorrow and pain. Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. * CAM' YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. Cam* ye o'er frae France, came ye doun by Lunnon, Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman War' ye at the place ca'd tha kittle-housie, Saw ye Geordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie. Geordie he's a man, there 's little doubt o't. He's done a' he can, wha CEUi do without it ; Down there cam' a blade, Jiiikin' like a lordie , He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.f * From Herd's Collection, 1776. t Tliis plainly alludes to Count KonirgMaaill and the Queen. SONGS, 18S Tho the claitV were bad, blythely may we niffer, Gin we get a wab, it mak's little differ ; We liae tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, Ha's and maillins braid, but we hae a Geordie. Hey for Sandy Don, hey for coekolorum. Hey for Bobbin' John and his Highland quo- rum ; Many a sword and lance swings at Highland hurdie. How they'll skip and dance o'er the bum o' Geordie. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. ANOTHER SET. The lawland lads think they are fine ; But O they're vain and idly gaudy ! How much unlike tnat gracelu' mien, And manly looks of my highland laddie ? my bcmuT/, hi)nny highland laddie, Mg handsome, charming highland laddie ; May heaven still guard, and love reward Our lawland lass and her highland laddie. If I were free at will to chuse To be the wealthiest lawland lady, I'd take young Donald without trews, With bonnet blue, and belted plaidy. O my bonny, S(c, The brawest beau in borrows-town, In a' his airs, with art made ready, Compar'd to him, he's but a clown ; He's finer far in's tartan plaidy. O my bonny, Sj'c. O'er l)enty hill with him I'll run, And leave my lawland kin and dady ; Frae winter's cauld, and summer's sun, He'll screen nie with his highland plaidy. O my bonny, Sfc. A painted room, and silken bed. May please a lawland laird and lady ; But I can kiss, anil be 'as glad, Behincl a bush in's highland plaidy. my bonny, Sfc, Few compliments between us pass, 1 ca' him my dear highland laddie. And he ca's me his lawland lass, Syne rows me in beneath his olaidy. O my bonny, Sfc. Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend, Than thit his love prove true and steady. Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end. While heaven presw-ves my highland laddie. O my bonny, §"c. JENIVY NETTLES. Saw ye Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Saw ye Jenny Nettles Coming frae the market ? Bag and baggage on her back, Her fee and bnuntith in her lap ; Bag and baggage ou her liack. And a babie in her oxtei ? I met ayont the kairny, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Singing till her bairny, Robin Rattle's bastard ; To flee the dool upo' the stool, And ilka ane that mocks her. She round about seeks Robin out. To stap it in his oxter Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle ; Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, Use Jenny Nettles kindly : Score out the blame, and shun the shames And without mair debate o't, Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain The leel and leesome gate o't. O MERRY MAY THE MAED BR SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENNYCUICK. Tune — " Merry may the Maid be.* O, MERRY may the maid be That marries the miller ! For, foul day or fair day. He's aye bringing till her. H'as aye a ])enny in his pouch, For dinner or for supper ; Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheese^ An' lumps o' yellow butter. Behind the door stands bags o' meal, And in the ark is plenty. And good hard cakes his mither bakeSi And mony a sweeter dainty. A good fat sow, a sleeky cow, Are standing in the byre ; Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy moOf Is playing round the fire. Good signs are these, iny mither sayS) And bids me take the miller ; A miller's wife's a merry wife. And he's aye bringing till her. For meal or maut she'll never want. Till wood and water's scanty ; As lang's there's cocks and clockia heB% She'U aye hae eggs in plenty. 184 BURNS* WORKS. Tim TAILOR. The Tailor ftU thro' the bed thimbles an' a', The Tailor fell thro* the bed thimbles au' a*, The blankets were thin and the sheets they were sma', The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a'. The lassie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; The weather was cauld and the lassie lay still ; The Dinth part o' manhood may sure hae its will; She kent weel the Tailor could do her nae ill. Tlie Tailor grew droosy, and thought in a dream, How he caulked out the claith, and then felled in the seam ; A while ayont midnight, before the cocks craw, The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an* a'. The day it has come, and the nicht it has gane, Said the bonnie young lassie when sighing alane: Since men are but scant, it wad gee me njje pain, To see the bit Tailor come skippin again. AWA, WHIGS, AWA! JACOBITE SONG. 7^iu-~" Awa, WTiigs, awa !" Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair. And bonny bloom'd our roses, But Whigs came, like a fiost in June, And wither'd a' our posies. Awa, \Vhi<;s, awa ! Awa, Whigs, awa I Yere but a pack o' traitor loons ; Ye'll ne'er do good at a'. Our sad decay in church and state Surpasses my descriving; The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we have done wi' thriving. Awa, Whigs ! awa, S^c. A foreign Wlviggish loon bought seeds. In Scottish yird to cover ; But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks, And pack him to Hanover. Awa, Whigs! awa, §*c. Our ancient crown's fi'n i' the dust, Deil blind them wi' the stour o't ! And write their names in his black beuk, Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't ! Awa, Whi • f ciwa, jfc. Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, But we may see him waukea : Gude help the day, when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin ! Awa, Whigs ! awa, §tj. The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, And ramping came amang us ; But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,— He turn'd and wadna wrang iia. Awa, Whigs I awa, Ifc Sae g^-im he sat amang the reek, Thrang bundling brimstone matches ; And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking Whigt, Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. Awa, Whigs, awa ! Aiva, Whigs, awa ! Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks. And ne'er do good at a'. LOCH-NA-GARR. BTBOK. Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake re poses. If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains, Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead ! have I heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale. Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- thers. Winter presides in his cold icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Locb- na-garr. THE IMERRY MEN, O. When I was red, and ripe, and crouse, Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse. My father buUt a wee house, a wee house. To baud me frae the men, O. There came a lad and gae a shout, Gae a shout, gae a shout. 185 The wa*s fell in, and I fell out, Amaijg the merry men, O. I dream sic sweet things in my sleep, la my Sleep, in my sleep, My minny says I winna keep, Amang sae inony men, O. When plums are ripe, they should be poo'd, Should be poo'd, should be poo'd, When maids are ripe, they should be woo'd At seven years and ten, O. My love, I cried it, at the port. At the port, at the port. The captain bade a guinea for't, The colonel he bade ten, O. The chaplain he bade siller for't, Siller for't, siller for't. But the sergeant bade me naething for't. Yet he cam farthest ben, O. KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE. Tune—" Kcnmure's on and awa." 0, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, O, Kenmure's on and awa ; And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw. Succes to Kenmure's band, Willie, Success to Kenmure's band ! There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That riiles by Kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude. Nor yet o' Gordon's line. O, Kenmure's lads are men, W^illie, O, Kenmure's lads are men ! Their hearts and swords are metal true ; And that their faes shall ken. They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, They'll live or die wi' fame; But suue wi' sound and victoiie May Kenmure's lord come harae ! Here's hinr. that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far awa ; And here's the flower that I lo'e best, The rose that's like the snaw. POLWART ON THE GREEN. At Polwart on the green. If you'll meet me the mom, Where lasses do convene To dance about the t^orn. A kindly welcome you shall meet Frae her wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete. The lad and lover you. Let dorty dames say Na, As lang as e'er they please, Seem caulder than the sna', \\ hile inwardly they bleeze ; But I will frankly shaw my mind. And yield my heart to thee ; Be ever to the captive kind, That langs na to be free. At Polwart on the green, Amang the new-niawn hay, With sangs and dancing keen We'll pass the heartsome day. At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid. And thou be twin'd of thine. Thou shalt be welcome, my dear la^ To take a part of mine. HAME NEVER CAME HE. Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, A plume in liis helmet, a sword at his knee ; But toom cam' the saddle, all bluidy to see, And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cam he. Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sae sair, Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, Down cam* his sweet wife wi* bonnie bairns three, Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the spot. There stood his gray father, weeping sae free. So hame cam' his steed, but hame never cam he. THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. Lassik, lend me your braw hemp heckle. And I'll lend you my thripling kame; For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle, If ye'll go dance the Bob of DumbUne. Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies^ Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ; Consider in time, if leading cf monkies Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblauar Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle. And take my word and offer again. Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle. Ye did na accept the Bob of Dumblane. 186 BURNS' WORKS. The dinner, tlie piper, and pr'u st shall be ready, And I'm a;ro\vn dowy with lying my lane ; Away then, leave Itaith minny and dady, And try with me the Bob of Dumblaae. LOCHABER NO MORE T^ne — " Luchaber no more." Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell ay Jean, ^^'here heartsome with thee I've mony day been ; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir, Tho bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, May be to return to Lochaber no more. Tho* hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in ray mind. Tho' loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd, By ease that's inglorious, no fame can be gain'd. And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? Without it I ne'er tan have merit for thee. And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er. And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. JocKY said to Jeany, Jcany, wilt thou do't ? Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be. I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough, I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh, Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee, And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre, A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, I'll make a rantin fire, a::d merry nfaall we be : And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell. Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell. Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, Ve're welcoraer to tak me than to let me be. THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND ANOTHER VERSION The luve that I hae chosen I'll therewith be content; The saut sea will be frozen Before that I repent ; Repent it will I nevr Until the day I die, Though the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me. My luve lies in the saut sea, And I am on the side ; Enough to break a young thing's heart Wha lately was a bride — • Wha lately was a happy bride And pleasure in her ee ; But the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me Oh ! Holland is a barren place, In it there grows nae grain. Nor ony habitation Wherein for to remain ; But the sugar canes are plenty, And the wine draps frae the tree, But the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me. My love he built a bonnie ship. And sent her to the sea, Wi' seven score guid mariners To bear her companie. Three score to the bottom gaed, And three score died at sea ; And the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me. JENNY DANG THE WEAVE* Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, Jenny dang the weaver ; The piper played as Jenny sprang, An' aye she dang the weaver. As I cam in by Fisherrow, IVIusselburgh was near me, I threw a£f the mussel-pock, And courtit wi' my deerie. Had Jenny's apron bidden down The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it j But now the word 's gane thro the totrif The devil canna mend it. Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, Jenny dang the weaver ; The piper played as Jenny sprang, A-ad aye she dang the weaver. SONGS 187 AS I WENT OUT AE MAY MOR'NIN'G, As I went oat ae Jlay morning, Ae May morning it happened tJ be, there I saw a very bonnie lass Come hnkin' o'er the lea to me. And O she was a weel-faud lass, Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung ; 1 said, fair maid, an' ye fancy me. When she laughing said, I am too young. To be your bride I am too young, And far our proud to be your loon ; This is the merry month of May, But I'll be aulder, Sir, in June. The hawthorns flourished fresh and fair, And o'er our heads the small birds sing, And never a word the lassie said, But, gentle Sir, I am too young. THE WEE, WEE GER3IAN LAIRDIH'- Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king. But a wee, wee Geiraan lairdie ? And, when we gaed to bring him, He was delving in his yardie : Sheughing kail, and laying leeks. But the hose, and but the breeks ; And up his beggar duds he cleeks^ This wee, wee German lairdie. And he's clapt down in our guderaau's chair, The wee, wee German lairdie ; And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash. And dibbled them in his yardie. He's pu'd the rose o* English loons. And broken the harp o' Irish clowns; But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs — This wee, wee German lairdie. Come up amang our High.and hills, Thou wee, wee German lairdie. And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive We dibbled in our yardie : And if a stock ye dare to pu'. Or baud the yoking o' a plough. We'll break your sceptre o'er your mcu , Thou wee bit German lairdie. Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, Nae fitting for a yardie ; And our Norland thistles winna pu', Thou wee bit German lairdie : And we've the trenching blades o* weLr> Wid prune ye o' your Germaa gear-— We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear, Thou feckless German lairdie ! Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole For nursin' siccan vermin ; But the very dougs o' England's court They bark and howl in German. Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand. Thy spade but and thy yardie ; For wha the deil hae we gotten for a kiogi But a wee, wee German laiidie? THE FORAY. SIR WALTER SCOTT. The last of our steers on riie board has bee« spread. And the last flask of wine in our goblets is reJ : Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! — belt swords and begone ; There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to won ! The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours. For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers. And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom. The prance of the steeds and the top of the plume. The rain is descending, the wind rises loud. The moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud — 'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh. Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe grey; There is life in his hoof-cJang and nope in his neigh ; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the dark- ness and rain. The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount and begone : To their honour and peace that sjiall rest With the slain .' To their health and their glee that see Teviol again ! 183 BURNS'S SONGS. ADIEU : \ HEART-WARM FOND ADIEU! Tune—" The Peacock." Adieu ! a beart-warm fond adieu ! Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few. Companions of my social joy ! Though I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, though far awa'. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful festive night; Oft, honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light ; And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong memory on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa ! May freedom, harmony, and love, Unite you in the grand design, Beneath the Omniscient Eye above. The glorious architect divine ! That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine — Shall be my prayer when far awa. And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear ! Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear ! A last request peimit me here, When yearly ye assemble a*. One round, 1 ask it with a tear, To him, the bard, that's far tiwa.* AE FOND KISS. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. • Written as a sort of farewel! to the Masonic com- panions of his youth, when the poet was on the point of leaving Scotland foi Jamaica, 1 786. Who shall say that fortune grieves !iiiB, Mliile the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me J Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy ; But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly ; Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge the*. War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. AFTON WATER. Tune — " The Yellow-hair'd Laddie." Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy greeo braes. Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, IMy IMary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds througL the glen. Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowerj den. Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- bear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills ; There daily I wander, as mora rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow. There oft, as mild evening creeps o'er the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and ma SONGS .89 Thy crj'stai stream, Afton, now lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Jlary resides ! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. Tune—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks." Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues ; Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. All freshly steep'd in morning dews. In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team ; Wi' joy the tentie seedman stauks ; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims ; Amang the reeds the ducklings cry ; The stately swan majestic swims ; And every thing is blest but I. The shepherd steeks his faulding slaps, And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blithe wuukcns by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, Ai;J raging bend the naked tree ; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me ! A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS BORN. THK " RAUCLE CARLINe's" SONG IN IHK " JOLLY BEGGARS." Tune — " O an ye war dead, guidman !" A Highland lad my love was born. The Lawland laws he held in icom ; But he still wa» faithful to his can. My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman I Sing ho, my hraw John Highlandman I There's not a' lad in a the land. Was match for my hraw John Highlandman} With his philabeg and tartan plaid, And gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, §"c. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, And lived like lords and ladies gay j For a Lawland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, Sfc. They banished him beyond the sea ; But, ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, 8fc. But, och ! they catched him at the last. And bound him in a dungeon fiist ; My curse upon them every one, They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ' Sing hey, S^c. And now, a widow, I must mourn Departed joys that ne'er return. No comfort but a hearty can. When 1 think on John Highlandman. Sing hey, §'c. AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM- MING BEES. T^ne—" The King of France, he rade a Raoik Amang the trees where humming beei At buds and flowers were hinging, O ; Auld Caledon drew out her drone. And to her pipe was singing, O ; 'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or rcelf She dirl'd them aff, fu' clearly, O ; When there cam a yell o' foreign squar'* That dang her tapsalteerie, O — Their capon craws and queer ha ha'i. They made our lugs grow eerie, O The hungry bike did scrape and pike 'Till we were wae and weary, O — But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the North That dang tl em tapsalteerie, O. 190 BURNS' WORKS. A MAN'S A MAN TOR A' THAT. Tune — " For a' that, and a' that. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward-slave, we pass him by ; We daur he puir for a' that. For a' that, and a* that. Our toils obscure, and a* that. The rank is but the g ainea-stamp— . The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that ? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine ; A man's a man for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that, The honest man, though e'er sae puir, Is king o' men for a' that. ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, His ribbon, star, and a' that. The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his micht, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that. The pith o* sense, the pride o* worth. Are higher ranks for a' that. Then let us pray, that comb it may, As come it will, for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that. It's corain' yet for a' that. That man to ir.an, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that. ANNA. Tune—" Banks of Banna." Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na ; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The raven lucks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness, Rejoicing ower his manna. Was naething to my hinny bliss, Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah i Gie me within my straining gra^p The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana. While dying raptures, in her arms I give and take with Anna. Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! Awa, thou pale Diana ! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night, Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn «* ^ And bring an angel pen to write My transports with my Anna.* ANNIE. Tune—" Allan Water." I WALKED out with the Museum in my hand, and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure. Br Allan stream I chanced to rove, While Phcebus sank beyond Benledi, The winds were whisp'ring through the groT<> The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen'd to a lover's sang. And thought on youthful pleasures many ; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! O, happy be the woodbine bower ; Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I meet my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! While many a kiss the seal impress'd, The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae; The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheerie, through her short'ning day, Is Autumn in her weeds of yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart. Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or through each nerve the rapture dart. Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? • This song, like " Highland Mary," affords a strong proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising and subliming objects. Highlantl Mary was the dairy, maid of Coilsfield ; Anna is said to have been some, thinp, meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy rolling when he said, " I think this is the beet 1ot*< •ong I ever wrote." I ?ONGS. 191 A RED RED ROSE. Tune—" Low down in the Brume.' O, MT hive's like a red red rose, That's newly sprung in June ; O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, Sae deep in luve am I ; And I will love thee still, my dear. Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a* the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; will love thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. 4nd fare thee weel, my only luve. And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mUe. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- shank, only child to my worthy friend INIr. William Cruikshank of the High-School, Edin- burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle. A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, AH on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a* its crimson glory spread. And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood. The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amaiig the fresh green leaves bedewed. Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. On trembling string or vocal air. Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent's evening ray That watched thy early morning. A SOUTHLAND JENNY. This is a popular Ayrshire song, though tho notes were never taken down before. — It, a. well as many of the ballad tunes in this co.les- tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. A Southland Jenny that was right bonny. Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, But he was sicken a basht'u' wooer, That he could scarcely speak unto her. But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller Forced him at lust to tell his mind till her ; My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry, Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry Come awa then, my Norland laddie, Tho' we gang neat, some arc mair gaudy ; Albeit I hae neither land nor money, Come, and I'll ware my beauty on thee. Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for dressin ; Lasses o' the North, mind milkin and threshin , ]My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad mj daddie. Should 1 marry ane as dink as a lady. I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a scauldin ; Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. My father's only dochter, wj' farms and si..- ready, Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; A' that I said was to try what was in thee, Gae hame, ye Norland Jockie, and court yovi Norland Jenny ! AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And a'.ild lang syne ! For auld lang syne, my jo, For aidd lan^ nyne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne I And surely ye'll be your pint Btoup ! And surely I'll be mine ! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld, Sfc. We twa hae run about the braes, And pou't the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd many a weary fixil Sin auld latig syne. For artld, ^c. 192 PURNS' WORKS. We twa Kae palJI't i' the burn, Frae morning sim 'till dine ; But seas l)et\veen us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. For auld, Sfc. And there's a han', my trusty fiere, And gies a ban' o' thine ! And we'll tak a right gude willy-waught For auld lang syne ! JFor auld, Sfc. AULD ROB MORRIS. There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers ; he has ousen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; .4.S blythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the lea ; And dear to my heai-t as the light to my ee. But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cothouse and yard. A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed. The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist. And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast ! Oh had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ; O how past deserving had then been my bless, As now my distraction, no words can express. Blest wl' content, and milk, and meaW O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! On ilka hand the burnies trot. And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest ; The sun blinks kindly in the biel. Where blythe I turn my spinning-whed On lofty aiks the cushats wail. And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes. Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirring ower the lea. The swallow jinkin' round my shiel ., Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flaring idle toys. Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys- Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? BESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. Tttne—" The oottom of the Punch Bowl." O lEF.zE me on my spinning-wheel ! O leeze me on my rock and reel ! Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fell * and warm at e'en ! I'll set me doun, and sing, and spin. While laigh descends the simmer sun ; • Covers me with a stufiTagTeeaM*. to tfie ikm. BEWARE O' BONNIE ANf I COMPOSED this song out of compUflftent to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of mf ft-iend, Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Straths allati's Lament, and two or three others in thii work. Ye gallants bright I red ye right, Beware o' bonnie Ann ; Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, Your heart she will trepan. •Her een sae bright, like stars by night. Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist. That sweetly ye might span. Youth, grace, and love, attendairt mov ■, And pleasure leads the van : In a' their charms, and conquering armi, 1 ney wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the ^andi, But love enslaves the man ; Ye gallants braw, I red you a*. Beware o' bonnie Ann. SONGS 193, BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT ARRIVE. Tune—" Oran Gaoil." Behold the hour, tliu boat arrive ; Thou e;oest, thou dailing of my heart! Sever'd from thee, can I survive? But fate has will'il, and we must part. I'll often f;reet this surging swell, Yon dist;int isle wdl often hail ; " J; en here I took my last farewell, There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, M'hile flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the roiling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, Wliere now my Nancy s path may be ! While through thy sweets she loves to stray, Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. It is remarkible of this air, that it is the con- fine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowlanil music, (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can localize it), has been com- posed. From Craigie-burn, near IMofFat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarce- ly one slow air of any antiquity. The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Mts» Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- dale. — The young lady was born at Craigie- burn wood Tiie chorus is part of an old fool- ish ballad. — Beyond thee, .dearie, heyond thee, dearie, And O to be lying beymtd thee, sweetly, soundly, iveel may he sleep, That's laid in the bed beyond thee. CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood, And blythely awakens the morrow ; But the pride of the spring ia the Craigie-burn wood. Can yield me to nothing but sorrow. lieyond thee, §-c. I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing ; But pleasure they hae nane for me, While care my heart is wringing lieyond thee, Sfc. canua tell, I maun na tell, i 1 dare ua for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart* If I conceal it langer. Scyond, thee, §-c. I see thee gracefu', straight and talL, I see thee sweet and bonnic, But oh, what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy JitLnie ! Beyond thee, §-e. To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, iVIy heart wad burst wi' anguish. Beyond thee, ^c. But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; And a' my days o' life to come, I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, §-c. BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOP ttlLl. Tunt—" Liggcram coih." Bltthe hae I been on yon hill. As the lambs before me ; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me : Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me : Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task. Hopeless love declaring : Treml)ling, I dow nocht but glowT Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws, In my bosom swelling ; Underneath the grass-green sod, Soon maun be my dwelling. BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, biythe and merry teas she, BIythe was she but and ben ; Blythe by the banks of Brn, And blythe in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw.t But Phemie was a bonnnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, §-c. Her looks were like a flow'r m Jlay, Her smile was like a simmer mora : 191. BURNS WORKS. She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Ulythe, Sfc. Her bonny face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lee ; The evening Pnii was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. Jill/the, Sfc, The Highland hill's Fve wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. JBli/the, Sj'c. BONNIE WEE THING Tunir — " Bonnie Wee Thing." Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee things Loveiy wee thing, wert thou mine^ I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine Wistfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wi*, and grace, and love, and beauty. In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o* this soul o' mine ] Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. BONNIE BELL. The smilieg Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies ; Now crystal clear are the falling waters. And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mor- "\"^' The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning. And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near. Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell. But never ranging, still unchanging T adore mv bonnie Bell. BONNIE LESLEY. Tune—" The Colliei's bonnie Lai8i& O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed o'er the Border ? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther* To see her is to love her. And love but her for ever ; For nature made her what she it, And never made anither • Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley ; The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face. And say, I canna wrang thee I The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune shanna steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. That ill they'll ne'er let near thee< Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.* BONNIE JEAN. Tune-'" Bonnie Jean." There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen ; When a' the fairest maids were met. The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And aye she sang sae merrilie ; The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; And frost will blight the fiiirest flowers. And love will break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen ; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. And wanton naigies nine or ten. He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. Written in honour of Miss Lesley Baillie of Ayp ehire, (now Mrs Cuminini; of Logic), when on hm J way to England, nrou^h Dumfries. SONGS 195 As in the bosom o' the stream The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en, So trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. ^Vha, for Scotland's Vvjg and law, Freedom s swoid w'i'A strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me ! And now she irorks her mammie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' grief and pain ; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad make her weel again. By oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free. But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her ee, As Robie tauld a tale o' love, Ae e'ening, on the lily lea ? Lay the proud usurpers low, • Tyrants fall in every foe. Liberty's im every blow. Let us do, or die ! The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale of love : CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWKS O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; O canst thou think to fancy me ? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie. At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee ; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi* me. Hark, the mavis' evening sang, Sounding Cluden's woods araang; Then a-faulding let us gang, Jly bonnie dearie. Now what could artless Jeanie do ? She had nae will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent. And love was aye between them twa. We'll gang doun by Cluden side, Through the hazels spreading wide O'er the waves that sweetly glide, My bonnie dearie. Yonder Cluden's silent towers, Where, at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy budding flowers The fairies dance sae cheerie. HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. I have met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce's march at the Battle of Ban- nockburn. BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near. My lipmiie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stoun my very heart; I can die — but canna part. My bonnie dearie. Tune—" Hey tuttje taittie." Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! Welcome to your gory bed. Or to victorie ! CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, Mt KATY? Tune—" Roy's wife" Now's the day, and now's the hour : See the front of battle lour : See approach proud Edward's power^ Chains and slaverie ! Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Caast thou leave me thus, my Katy .' Well thou knowest my aching heart, And canst thou leave me thus for pity? Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave '' Wha sac base as be a slave ? Let him turt .-d flee' Is this thy plighted fond r«gsrd, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katv ' 196 BURNS WORKS. Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, ray Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- But not a love like mine, my Katy. REPLY TO THE ABOVE JT A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS DECEASE. Stay, my Willie — yet believe rae, Stay, my Willie — yet believe me; 'Tvveel, thou know'st na every pang Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. Tell me that thou yet art true, And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; And when this heart proves false to thee, Yon sua shall cease its course in heaven. But to think I was betray'd, That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! To take the floweret to ray breast, And find the guilefu' serpent under ! Couirf I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me, Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. CALEDONIA. Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon. Where bright-beamiog summers exalt the per- fume ; Far dearer to rae yon lone glen o' green breckan With the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue bell and gowan lurk Iflwly unseen ; Tor there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny vallies, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; Their sweet-scented woodlands, that skirt the prou'f palace. What are they ? — the haunt o' the tyrant and slave ! The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains, Save love's willing fetters — the chains of hit Jean.* CHLOE. altered from an old ENGLISH SOXO It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay, One morning by the break of day. The youthful, charming Chloe ; From peaceful slumber she arose. Gilt on her mantle and her hose. And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she hy tne dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feather'd f pie you might see Perch'd all around on every tree, • Burns wrote this song in compUment to Mrs. Burn* during their honeymoon. The air, with many otherj ofe(iual beauty, was the composition of a Mr. Mar- shall, who, in Burns's time, v/as butler to the Duke of Gordon. This beautiful song— beautiful for both its amatory and its patriotic sentiment — seems to have been com. posed by Bums during the period when he was court, mg the lady who afterwards bcc-anje his wife. The present generation is much iriturested in this Uu'.v, and deservedly; as, in addition to lier poetical history, which is an extremely interesting one, she is a person- age of the greatest private worth, and in every respect deserving to be esteemed as the widow of Scotland's best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote will perhaps be held as testifying, m no inconsiderable degree, to a quality which she may not hitherto liave been supposed to possess — her wit. It isgenerally known, that Mrs. Burns has, ever since her husband's ilealh, occupied exactly the same houss in Dumfries, which she inhabited before that event, and tliat it is customary for strangers, who hapjien to pass through or visit the town, to pay their respects to her, with or without letters of introduction, precisely as they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, or any other public object of curiosity about the place. A gay young English gentleman one day visited iVlrs, Bunio, and after he had seen all that she had to show — the bedroom in v. hich the poet died, his original por. trait by Nasmyth, his family-bible, with the names and birth-days of himself, his wife, and children, written on a blank-leaf by his own hand, and some other little trifles of the same nature — he proceeded to intreat that slie would have the kindness to present him with som«» relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him, as a wonder, to show in his own country. " Indeed, Sir," said Mrs. Burns, " I have given away so many re- lics of Mr. Burns, that, to tell \e the truth, I have not one left-" — " Oh, you must surely have something," said the persevering Saxon ; "anything will do— any little scrap of his h.andwriting — the least thing you please. All 1 want is Just a relic of the poet ; and ant thing, you know, wil'l do for a relic." Some furthf altercation took place, the lady reasserting that she hs-' no relic to giv«, and he as repeatedly renewing his rr quest. At length, fairly tired out with the man's i;^ portunities, Mrs. Burns said to him, with a smile, "'Deed, Sir, u\i\css ye tak mysell, then, I dinna see how you are to get what you want ; for, really, I'm the only relic o' him that I ken o'." The petuit^neratonc* wiu*7Jirew his request. SONiIS. 19'» In i.,»tcs '' swo test mt'Iody Tliey ha .1 the charming Cbloe ; Ti!\ painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun begin to rise, Outrivall'd hy the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she, !fc. CIILORIS. T^B«— " My Lodging it on the Cold Ground.' My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how f lir ; The bahny gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flaxen hair. The lav'rock shuns the palace gay. And o'er the cottage sings ; For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To shepherds as to kings. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string In lordly lec^itit ha' ; The shepherd s'cps his simple reed, Blythe, in the birken shaw. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; But are their hearts as light as ours, Bi\.ieath the milk-white thorn ? f'.e shtr>herd, irt the flow'ry glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo; The courtier tells a fairer tale. But is his heart as true ? V^-se wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast of thine ; The courtier's gems may witness love. But 'tis na love like n mARINDA.« Clarinda, »A;«tress of my soul. The mcasur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Dejiriv'd of thee, his life and light. The sun of all his joy. We part, — but by these precious drops. That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her 8ex> Has blest iny glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix Aly worship to its ray ? CONTENTIT WI' LITT..E. Tune—" Lumps o' Puddin." CoNTENTiT wi' little, and cantie wi* mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottisfc sang. I whiles claw the elbow o* troublesome thocht ; But man is a soda-jr, and life is a faucht : My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's mylairdship nae monarch daur touch. A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa , A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' : When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, ^'ha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite >n her way ; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let .he jaud gae ; Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or psin^ My warst word is — Welcome, and wi'icome, a- gain ! CO.ME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; And I shall >purn, as vilest dust. The warld's wealth and grandeur; And do I hear my Jeanie own. That equal transports move her ? I ask for dearest life alone That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' a* thy chamu, I clasp my countless treasure; ; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. Than sic a moment's pleasure : And, by thy een sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall I never. * Tb widow alludec « in tlie Lift 98 BURNS' WORKS. COUNTRY LASSIE. In simmer when the hay was mawn, And corn wavM green in ilka fiehl, WTaile claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blythe Bessie in the milking shlel, Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ; Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, O' gude advisement comes nae ill. Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, And, lassie, ye' re but young, ye k^n ; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routhie ben : There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire. For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie ; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me : But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : Ae blink o' him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught. The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, A hungry care's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare. And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. O gear will buy me rigs o' land. And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy : We may be poor, Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and love brings peace and joy, What mair hae queens upon a throne ? equal to their wit and htimout they would merit a place in any colljction. — The list stanu Being pursued by a dragoon, Within my bed he was laid down ; And well I wat he was worth his room. For he was my daintie Davie. DAINTY DAVIE. Tiine—" Dainty Davie." Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay green birken bowers, And now come in my happy hours. To wander wi' my Davie. 3Ieet me on the loarlock knowe, Dainty Davie, dainty Davie t There III upend the day wi' you. My ain dear dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a'. The scented breezes round us blaw, A-wandering wi' my Davie. 3Ieet me on, 8fc. When purple morning starts the hare> To steal upon her early fare. Then through the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. Meet me on, §-c. When day, expiring in the west. The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best. And that's my dainty Davie. Meet me on, §'C, DAINTIE DAVIE. This song, tradition says, and the composi- tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev David Wiiriamson's getting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant The pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bc-d with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. — A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd's colltction, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE Tune—" The Collier's Bonnie Lassie." Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee Is but a fairy treasuie — Thy hopes will soon deceive thee> The billows on the ocean. The breezes idly roaming, The clouds' uncertain motion, They are but types of woman. O ! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature ? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow ; Good claret set before thee; Hold on till thou art mellow; And then to bed in glory 1 SONGS. 199 DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. DUNCAN GRAY. 3>iHf-*" Push about tt.e Jorum.' Dr. Blacklock informed me that he Lad April, 1795. often heard the tradition that this air was cam- | | posed by a carman in Glasgow. Does liauo;hty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir, Duncan Gray cam here to woo, There's wooden walls upon our seas. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. And volunteers on shore, Sir. On blythe yule night when we were fottj The N!th shall run to Corsincon,* Ha, ha, the wooing o't. And Criffel sink in Solway,f Maggie coost her iiead fu* high. Ere we permit a foreisjn foe Look'd asklent and unco skeigji ; On British ground to rally ! Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Fall de rail, ^c. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. let us not, like snarling tykes, Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray d : In wrangling be divided ; Ha, ha, §-c. 'Till slap come in an unco loon I\Ieg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, * And \vi' a rung decide it. Ha, ha, §-c Be Britain still to Britain true. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Amang oursels united ; Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin, For never but by British hands Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; Maun British wrangs be righted. Ha, ha, ^c. Fall de rail, Sfc. Time and chance are but a tide, The kettle o' the kirk and state, Ha, ha, ^c. Perhaps a clout may fail lift ; Slighted love is sair to bide. But deil a foreign tinkler looa Ha, ha, Sfc. Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Shall I, like a fool, quo' he, Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, For a haughty hizzie die ; And wha wad dare to spoil it ; She may gae to — France for me ! By heaven the sacrilegious dog Ha, ha, Sfc. Shall fuel be to l)oil it. Fall de rail, 8fc. How it comes let doctors tell. Ha, ha, |-c. The wretch that wad a tyrant own. Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, And the wretch his true-boin brother. Ha, ha, §t. Who would set the mob aboon the throne, Something in her bosom wrings. May they be damned together ! For relief a sigh she brings ; Who will not sing " God save the king," And O, her een, they spak sic thing* • Shall hang is high's tie steeple; Ha, ha, §-c. But, while we sing " God save the king,' We'll ne'er forget the people. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Fall de rail, §-c. Ha, ha, §-c. Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, Sfc. Duncan could na be her death. Swelling pity snioor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith. DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. TKRSE ADDED BY BURNS TO THE OLD SONG. As down the burn they took their way. And through the flowery dale, EVAN BANKS. His check to hers he aft did lay. Slow spreads the glopm my soui aesirn, And love wis aye the tale The sun from India's shore retires ; With — Mary when shall we return, To Evan banks, with teino rate ray. Such pleasure to renew ? Home ol my youtn, it leaus ine day. Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! Quoth JIary, love, I like the burn. And aye will follow you. Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! All, all my hopes of bliss reside. Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. P high hill at the source of the Nith. * A well-known mounta'ii at the mouth of the lenie ■ «»»'er. 1 • A well-fenown rock in tte Frith ot Clyde. 1 200 BURNS' WORKS. And Sfrte, in simple beauty drest, Whose imasje lives within my breast; Who trembling; heard my piercing sigh, Aud long pursu'd me with her eye ! Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, .)ft in the vocal bowers recline ? Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. Ye lofty banks tliat Evan bound ! Ye lavish woods that wave around, And o'er the stream your shadows throw, Which sweetly winds so far below ; What secret charm to mem'ry brings, All that on Evan's border springs ? Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. Can all tht wealth of India's coast Atone for years in absence lost ? Return, ye moments of delight. With richer treasures bless my sight ! Swift from this desert let me part, And fly to meet a kindred heart ! Nor more may aught my steps divide Froic that dear stream which flows to Clyde. FAIR ELIZA. A GAELIC AIR. Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rew on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' heari Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies. For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise ! Thee, dear maid, bae I offfinded ? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever Wha for thine wad gladly die ! While the life beats in my bosom. Thou shalt mix in ilka throe: Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sinny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy. All beneath the simmer moon ; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens on his ee, Kens the ])!easure, feels the rapture That thy presence gies to me. FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS, Tune—" Rothlcmurchle." Fairest maid on Devon bunks. Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou wert wont to da Full well thou knowest I love thee dear, Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! O did not love exclaim, " Forbear t Nor use a faithful lover so." Fairest piaid, i^c. Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; And by that beauteous self I BWear, No love but thine my heart shall know* Fairest maid, Sfc* FATE GAVE THE WORD. Tune—'i Finlayslon House." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierced my darling's heart ; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. My cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes, Jly age's future shade. The mother linnet in the brake Bewails her ravished young ; So I for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live-day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow. Now fond I bare my breast, O do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest ! FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBOD'I Mr heart is sair, I dare nae tell, My heart is sair for somebody ; l*could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hcy ! for somebody ! • These verses, and the letter enclosing them, ar» written in a cliaracter that marlebk stnte of tlieir author. Mr. .Syinc isof opunon th:it he could not have b en in any clariper of a j.iil at Dumfries, wlicre certainly he hail many firm friends, nor under any necessity of iniploriuf; aid from Kdinbiirgh. Hut alx'iut tills time his mind begin to be ;it limes imset- t.cd, and the liorrors of a jail pcr|ieliiallv liaunted hi* ^lagination. lie died uu the 2Ul of this niuiuji. I SONGS. 20J I could range the world around, For the s;ike of somcbudy. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka diingcr keep him free, And send int s:ife my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not, Fo. the sake of somebody ! FORLORN, MY LOVE, T^inc — " Let me in this ae night.' Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. Far, far from thee I waiirier here ; Far, far fioin thee, the f.ite severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou love, hut near me, JRtit. near, near, near me ; Uow khidlij llioii wouldst cheer me, And minr/le sighs with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry skv, That blasts each bur] of hope and joy ; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in these arms of thine, love. O wert, §-c. Cold, altor'd fiiendsliip's cruel part, To poison fortune's nitliless dart- Let me not break thy faithful heart, And K;iy th.it fate is mine, love. () ivert, Sfc. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet ! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy CIdoris shine, love. O wert, §-c. FROM THEE, ELIZA. Twn#— " Gilderoy." From thee, Eliza, I must go. And from my native shore ; The cruel fite.s between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : But i)oun(lles.s oceans, roaring wide Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. Farewell, farewell, Eliia dear. The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear. We part to meet no more. i'2 But the last throb that leaves my heart. While death stands victor by. That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thiue that latest si^h. • GALA WATER. Tune—" Gala Water. There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Vaes, That wander through the bluming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, Can match the lads o' Gala Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Abnne them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be miue, The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. Although his daddie was nae laird, And though I hae na miekle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks on Gala Water, It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! GLOOMY DECEMBER. Ance raair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; Sad was the parting chou makes me remember.- Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. Such is the tem])est has shaken my bosom. Since my last hope and last comfort is gone Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting thoa makes me re- member, Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. • Mi.ss Miller of IMauclilinc, (probably the sjime lady whom the poet has celebrated in ]iis catalogue of tne beauties of that village — " Miss Miller is fine" ) afterwards Mrs. Tcmplcton, was the heroine of thll beautiful song. ^{,'4 BURNS' WORKS GFEEN GROW THE RASHES: A FRAGMENT. Green grow the ranhes, O ! Green prow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend. Are spent amang the lasses, O I There's nought Imt care on every han', In every hour that ])asses, O ; What signifies the life o' man, An* 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, Sfc. The warly race may riches chase. An' riches still may fly them, O ; An' thou};h at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, ^c. But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' warly cares, an' waiiy men. May a gae tapsalteerie, O. Green grow, SfC. For you so douse, ye sneer at this. Ye' re nought hut senseless asses, O ; The wisest man the warld e'er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O. Green grow, §"c. Auld nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lassesj O. Green grow, 8fc. GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. Tune — " Gudewife, count the Lawin." Gane is the day, and mirk's the night ; But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light ; For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And blude-red wine's the rising sun. Then, gudewife, count the lawin. The lawin, the lawin. Then, gudeivife, count the lawin, A.nd bring a coggie mair. There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And semple folk maun fecht.and fen ; But here we're a' in ae accord. For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. Then, gudewife, ^c. My coggie is a haly pool. That heals the wounds o' care and dor' ; And pleasure is a wanton trjut — An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him o^H, Then, gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin. Then, gudeivife, count the lawin. And bring's a coggie mair. HANDSOME NELL. Tune — " I am a man unmarried O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still. And w ailst that virtue warms my b7eu% I'll love my handsome Nell. Tal lal de ral, §'C. As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw, But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. Tal lal de rat, $-c. A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the ee, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. Tal lal de ral, §-c. But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a' Her I'eputation was complete. And fair without a flaw. Tal lal dc ral, §"c. She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel ; And then there's ssomethlng in her guift Gars ony diess look weel. Tal lal de ral, ^c. A gaudy dress and gentle air Slay slightly touch the heart, But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. Tal lal de ral, tfc 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul ; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. Tal lal de ral, §"c. It must he confessed that these lines give nt indication of the future genius of Burns ; bu' he himself seems to have been fond of theD% probably from the recollections they excited. SONGS. 203 HAD I A CAVE. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try What peace is there. Compare this with the old crambo-clink, — to the same air — You "R weicome to Paston, young Robin Adair, Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair. How does Johunle Mackeral do? Aye, and Luke Gardener too? Come love me and never rue,' Robin Adair. HIGHLAND HARRY. Mr Ha.ry was a gallant gay ; Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; But now he's banish'd far away, I'll never see him back again. Oh, for liim back aqnin ! Oh, fur him back again ! I wad gie a Kyiochltaspie s land For Highland Harry back again. When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen ; I sit me down, and greet my fill. And aye 1 wish him back again. Oh, for him back again ! §"c. Oh, were some villains hangit hie, And ilka body had their ain, Then I mi(!ht see the joyfu' sicht. My Highland Harry back again. Oh, fur him back again ! Sfc. Sad was the day, and sad the hour, He left me in his native plain. And rush'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ; But, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again ! Oh, for hiyn back again I ^-c. Strong was my Harry's arm in war, Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's ])lain ; But vengeance marks him for her ain^ I'll never see him back again.* Oh, for him buck again I 8fC, HIGHLAND MARY. Tunc—" Katherine Ogie." Ye banks, and braes, and streams aromd The Castle o* Montgomery ! * Green be your woods, and fair your flow rS) Your waters never diumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there they langest tarry ! For there I took the last farewcel O* my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk ; How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu* tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, AVe tore ourselves asunder : But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost. That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the claj, That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly I And closed for aye the sparkling glance. That dwelt on me sae kinilly; And mould'ring now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary. * The first three verses of this sonp;, excepting the chorus, are by Burns. The air to which it is sung, is the H:j;hlan(ler's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter «tioiis, sung slowly. HER FLOWING LOCKS; A niAGMENT. Her flowiqg locks, the raven's wing', Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her . Iler lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner. • Coilsfield House, near Maucliline ; but poeticaU^ titled as above, on account of the nami oi tbe pr» prietor. 204 BURNS' WORKS. HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST FRIEND. Here's, a bottle and an honest friend ! What wad ye wish for inair, man .' WTia kens, before his life may end. What his share may be of care, man. Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man :— < Believe me, happinpss is shy. And comes not ay when sought, man. HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. PATRIOTIC UNFINISHED. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never gude luck be their fa' ! It's gude to be merry and wise. It's gude to be honest and true. It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success ! May prudence protect her frac evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil ! Here's a Laa'^h to them that's awa, Here's a liealth to them that's awa, Here's a health to Tamniie, the Norland laddie. That lives at the lug of the law ! Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write ! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard. But they wham the truth would indite. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain ^orth gowd. The' bred amang mountains o' snaw I HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE 1 LO'E DEAR. Tune—" Here's a Health to them that's awa," Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear- Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; Thou art sweet as the smile when kind loven meet, And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ! Although thou maun never be mine-ia Although even hope is denied — *Tis sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! I rnourn through the gay gaudy day. As hopeless I muse on thy charms ; But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie 5 I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love-rolling ee ; But why urge the tender confession, 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie '• HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH EONQ. Tune — " John Anderson my jo." How cruel are the parents AVlio riches only prize. And to the wealthy booby. Poor woman sacrifice. Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife ; To shun a tyrant father's hate. Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flies^ To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries ; 'Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retr°at, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet. HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen How lang and drearv is the night. When I am frae my dearie •. I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Though I were ne'er sae weary. For, oh, her lanehj nights are lang^ And, oh, her dreiims are eerie, And, oh, her wi.'/oic'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie. • Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs. Thomiion of Dumfries; a true friend and a grc:it favourite o- the poet, and, at liis deaih, one of the most syrapa thizing friends of his afilictcd widow. SONGS. 205 When I tliink on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; And now what seas between as roar, IIow can I but be eerie ? For, oh, SfC. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; Thj joyless day how dreary ! It wasna sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. For, oh, ^'c. I AM A SON OF MARS. Tunc—" Soldier's Joy." I AM son of Mars who have been in mary wais. And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that otlier in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Ziol de dandle, Sfc. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breith'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out ray trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Z,al de dandle, §"c. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de dandle, kc. And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, As when I ui'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Lai de dandle, Ifc. Wliat tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home. When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, couIJ meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. Lai de dandle, Sfc, 1 DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGl-NG. These two stanzas I composed when I wat seventeen, and are among the oldest of my print, ed pieces. I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing; Gaily in the sunny beam ; List'ning to the wihl birds singing, By a falling, crystal stream : Straight the sky grew black and daring ; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; Trees with aged arras were warring, O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasures 1 enjoy'd ; But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. She promis'd fair, and perform'd but iU ; Of mony a joy and hope -bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still. I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TODN Tune—" rU gang nae mair to yon towiL" I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. And by yon garden green again ; I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall guss What brings me back the gate again. But she, my fairest faithfu' lass ; And stowlins we shall meet again. She'll wander by the aiken tree. When trystin time draws near again ; And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she's doubly dear again. I'll aye ca' in by yon toun, And by yon garden green again ; I'll aye ca' in by yon toun, And see my bonnie Jean again. I'M O'ER YOUNG TO 1MARR\ iif. The chorus is old : — the rest of it, such u k 19, is mine. I'm my mammy's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk, I weary, Sir ; And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd wad mak me irie. Sir. I'm oer young, I'm o'er yonrg, J'vi o'er young to marry yet^' 3f06 BURNSV WORKS. Im o'er young, tivad he « sin To tah .se frae ni^ frAmmt/ yet. Hallowmas is jome and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; And you and I in ae bed, In trowth I darena venture, Sir, I'm o'er young, Sfc. My minnie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. Tm o'er yoimg, S^c. Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro' the leafl'jss tiramer. Sir ; But should ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir. I'm o'er young, SfC. IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. These were originally English verses : — I gave them their Scotch dress. It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho* thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awauk desire. Something in ilka part o' thee To praise, to love, I find ; Pdt dear as is thy form to me, StiJl dearer is thy mind. Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast. Than, if I canna mak thee sae, At least to see thee blest. Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness to thee : And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die. JASIIE, COME TRY ME. Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me ; If ye wad win my love, Can ye na try me ? If ye should ask my love, Could I deny thee ? If ye wad win my love, Jamie, come try me. My heart leaps light, my love, When ye come nigh me ; If 1 had wings, my love. Think na I'd fly thee. If ye wad woo me, love, Wha can es{)y thee ? I'm far aboon fortune, lovei, When I am by thee. I come from my chamber When the moon's glowing ; I walk by the streamlet 'Mang the broom flowing. The bright moon and stars, lovt None else espy me ; And if ye wad win my love, Jamie, come try me. JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS, Jogkie's ta'en the parting kiss, Ower the mountains he is gane ; And with him is a' my bliss ; Nought but griefs wi' me remain. Spare my love, ye winds th«t blaw, Flashy sleets, and beating rain ! Spare my love, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! When the shades of evening creep Ower the day's fair gladsome ee, Sound and safely may he sleep. Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! He will think on her he loves. Fondly he'll repeat her name ; For, where'er he distant roves, Jockie's heart is still at hame. JOHN BARLEYCORN.* A BALLAD. There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him dswiif Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dea*!. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again. And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came. And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi* pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. • This is partly composed on the plan of an oli song known oy the same name. SONGS. 20" The sober autumn enter'd mild, Wlicn lie grew wan and pale ; V.in bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've ta'e* a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by tlie knee ; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgeiie. They laid him down upon his back, And ciidgell'd him full sore ; They hung hira up before the storin, And tum'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink oi swim. I'hey laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe, And still as signs of life appear'd. They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones ; But a miller used him worst of all. For he crush'd him between two stones. .\nd they hue ta'en his very heart's blood And drank it round and round ; And still the more and more they drank. Their joy did more abound. Tohn Barleycorn was a hero bold. Of noble enterprise. For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. Twill make a man forget his woe ; 'Twill heighten all his joy: Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er taL in old Scotland ! JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. JoHK Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, ar«i why should you do so, Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Ajtderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-wc:k was man ; And you amang them a', John, sue trig fra» tap to toe. She proved to be nae journey-work, John An derson, my 'yj. John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my firfli conceit. And ye na thick it strange, John, tho' I ca' y« trim and neat ; Tho' some folk say ye' re auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns. And yet, my dear^ohn Anderson, I'm hai'isy in your arms. And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye';. ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, JohL Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me. And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquaint, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnis brow was brent, But now your head's turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander- son, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai I we've past, ' And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last : But let nae that affright us, John, our heart* were ne'er our foe. While in innocent delight we lived, John An- derson, my jo. Jiihn Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hi! thegither, To rise so soon in the moming, and sit up K Aud mony a canty Jay, Jola, we've had wi late Rt e en, | jmg anither i 208 BURNS' WORKS. Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, t , * And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John An- deison, my jo. He begged, for gudesake ! I wad be his wife, Or else I w:i(i kill him wi' sorrow ; Sae, e'en to preserve the pair body in life, 1 think I maun wed him to-murrow, to-Biafc row, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. Tune—" The Lothian Lassie." Last May a braw wooer cam* down the lang glen. And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men : The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe me. The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love he was deein'. I said he micht dee whet\ he liked for Jean ; The guid forgi'e me for leein', for leein , The guid forgi'e me for leein' ! A weel-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird. And marriage aff-hand, were his proffer. I never loot on that I kc.:m'd it or cared ; But thocht I might hae a waur cff'er, waur offer, But thought I might hae a waur offer. But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less,— The deil's in his taste to gang near her !— He up the lang loan* to my black cousin Bess- Guess ye how, the jaud ! I coull bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her 1 But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi* care, I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock ; And wha but my braw fickle wooer was there ? Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a warlock, Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock. Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink. Lest necbors micht say I was saucy ; _ My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, _ And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd 1 was his dear lassie. I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet, Gin she had recover'd her hearin' ? And how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled feet?* Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-sweann , a- swearin , _ ^ Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin . • m Scotland, when a cast-off lover pays his ad- dresses toTnew mi^^tress. that newmutrcs is said to ha4 cot the auld shoon (old shoes) of the former one. H«e?he metanhor is made to carry an extremely in gerdois saT^m at the clumsiness of '.he new mistre«'. person. LASSIE WI* THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS Xune—" Rothiemurchus' Rant." Lassie wi' the lint white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tend the flncks ? Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? Now Nature cleads the flowery lea. And a' is young and sweet like thee, O, wilt thou share its joys wi' me. And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? Lassie wi\ §"c. And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, At sultry noon, my dearie, O. Lassie wi', ^c. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Through yellow- waving fields wc'U stray, And talk o* love, my dearie, O. Lassie, wi', §'c. And whea the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest, Enclasped to my faithiul breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie, wi', Sfc. LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS Tune-" O lay the loof in mine, law." O LAY thy loof in mine, lass. In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. A slave to love's unbounded sway. He aft has wrought me muckle wae ; But now he is my deadly fae. Unless thou be my ain. There's mony a lass has broke my rest. That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; But thou art queen within my breast. For ever to remain. SONGS. W9 I.ET not woman E'ER CO^H^LAIN. Again the merry month o' May, Tune—" Duncan Gray." Has made our bills and valleys gay ; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. Let not woman e'er romplain The bees hum round the breathing floTrasit Of inponst.incv in love; BIythe morning lifts his rosy eye, Let not woman e'er complain, And evening's tears are tears of joy : Fickle tiiari is apt to rove. My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Look abroad throiiijh nature's range, Nature's miirhty law is change; Within yon milk-white hawthorn buah. Ladies, would it nut he stran<(e, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : Man should, then, a monster prove? Her faithfu* mate will share her toil. Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; Klark the winds, and mark tlie skies ; But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here. Ocean's eld), and ocean's flow. Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Siin and moon l)iit wt to rise ; Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, Round and round the seasons go. While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Why, then, ask of silly man, wae upon you, men o* state. To oppose great natuie's plan ? That brethren rouse to deadly hate ' We'll be constant while we can, As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, You can be no more, you know. Sae may it on your heads return ! How can your flinty hearts enjoy. The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* But soon may peace bring happy days, LONG, LONG THE NIGHT And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! Tufie—" Aye wakin'." Long, long the night, Heavy comes the rnnrrow. While my soul's delight. Is on her bed of sorrow. LORD GREGORY. Can I cease to care. Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. Can I cease to languish, And loud the tempests roar ; While my darling fair A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower. Is on the couch of anguish?. Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! Z,ong, §'c. An exile frae her father's ha'. Every hope is fled. And a' for loving thee ; Every fear is terror At least some pity on me shaw, Slumber e'en I dread, If love it may na be. Eveiy dream is horror Long, Sfc. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gr»- By bonnie Irvine side, Hear me, pow'rs divine ! Where first I own'd that virgin lore Oh, in pity hear me ! 1 lang lang had denied ? Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! How aften didst thou pledge the voir, Lung, SfC. Thou wad for aye be mine ! And my fond heart, itsell sae true, It ne'er mistrusted t'uine. Hani is thy heart. Lord Gregory, LOGAN BRAES. And flinty is thy breast ! rKn*— " Logan Water." Thou dart of heaven that flashes by. 0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide. Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! That day I was my Willie's bride ; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now the flowery banks appear Ye mustering thunders from above. Your willing victim see ; Like drundie winter, dark an drear, • Originally, While my dear lad maun face his faet,, " Ye mind na *mid your cruel jo\^ Far, far frae nie and Logan braes. " ihe widow's tears, the orpba"'s'i:ri»« - 1 1 21C BURNS' WORKS. But spare aiw. pardon my false love plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte- His wrongs to heaveu and me ! * nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene- volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — Tt was r younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk, became so well known as the advocate of volun- tary emigration, and who settled the uoluny upon the Red River. LINES ON LORD DAER. This wot ve all whom it concerns, L Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgntten day, Sae far I sprackled f up the brae. MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 1 dinner'd wi' a Lord. Tune—" Macpherson's Rant. * I've been at dru.-.ken^?iT!tne—" There'll never be peace till Jamie comet hame. Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. And listens the lambkins that bleat ower the braes. While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlandi adorn. And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews o{ the lawn, The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking dawn ; And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa' ; Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and greyj And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaWj Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa. SONGS. 213 MY NANNIE, O. T^n«-" My Nan«,e, O." Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, Wang moors an* mosses many, O, The wintry sun tlie day has clos'd, And I'll awa to Nannie, O. Tlie westland wind hlaws loud an' shrill ; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; Nd' artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad lieguile my Nannie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true. As spotless as she's bonnie, O : The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O. A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O ; But what care I how few they bo, I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. My riches a' 's my penny-fee. An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheej) an' kye thrive bonnie, O; But I'm as blythe that hands his plough, An' has nae care hut Nannie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O; Nae ither care in life hae I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O. MY PEGGY'S FACE, Mr Peggy's face, my Peggy's form The frost of Hermit age might warm ; My Peggy's woith, my Peggy's mind. Might charm the (irst of human kind ! I lov;; my Peggy's angel air. Her face so truly, heavenly fair. Her native grace so void of art. But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustie of an eye ; Who but owns their magic sway, Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear. The gentle look, that rage disarms, These are all immortal charius. MY SODGER LADDIE, THE soldier's doxy's SONb IN " THK J0LL1 BEGGARS." Tune—" Sodger Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, tho' I canna tell when. And still my delight is in proper young men'; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,— No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, Sfc. The tlrst of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His log was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, ffc. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soid, and I risked the boJi/, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Siiiff, Liil de lal, §-c. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sinff, Lal de lal, §-c. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair. Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; His ray regiinentnl they flutter'd so gaudy. My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, Sfc. And now I have liv'd — I know not how long. And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hoid the g.asa steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sod;i;er laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, §-c. MY SPOUSE NANCIE. Tune—" My Jo, Janet." Husband, husband, cease your Btri] Nor longer idly rave. Sir; Though I aiji your wedded wife. Yet I'm not your slave. Sir. One of two must still obey, Nancie, Nuncie ; Is it man or woman, sav. My spouse Nancie ? If 'tis still the lordly word. Service and obedience ; I'll desert my soveieign lord. And so good-bye allegiauo* Sad will I be so bereft, Nancie, Nancie ; 2U BURNS' WORKS. Yet I'll try to mal e a soift, The warld's wrack we share »*% ]My spouse Nancie. The warstle and the care o't ; W' her I'll blythely bear it, My poor heart then break it must, And think my lot divine. JNIy last hour I'm near it ; When you lay me in the dust, Think — think how you will bear it. I will hope and trust in Heaven, NAE-BODY. Nannie, Nancie, Strength to bear it will be given. I HAE a wife o' my ain. Jly spouse Nancie. I'll partake wi' nae-body ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane. Well, Sir, from the silent dead. I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. Still I'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed I hae a penny to spend. Horrid sprites shall haunt you. There — thanks to nae-body r I hae naething to lend. Ill wed another like my dear I'll borrow frae nae-body. Nancie, Nancie j Then all hell will fly for fear, I am nae-body's lord. RIy spouse Nancie ! I'll be slave to nae-body ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae nae-body MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body ; MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty. If nae-body care for me. And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; I'll care for nae-body. But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, » My tocher's the jewel has chainis for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hinuey he'll cherish the bee. My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, NANCY. He canna hae luve to spare for me. Thine am I, my faitViful fair^ Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny. Thine, my lovely Nancy ; My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy j Ev'ry pulse along my veins, But an' ye be crafty, I am cuncin, Ev'ry roving fancy. Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the tiinmer o' yon rotten wood, To thy bosom lay my heart. Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, There to throb and languish; Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your ciedit wi' mae nor me. Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish. Take away these rosy lips. Rich with balmy treasure : Turn away thine eyes of love, IIY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. Lest I die with pleasure. Tunc—" My wife's a wanton wee thing." What is life when wanting love ? Shk is a winsome wee thing. Night without a morning : She is a handsome wee thing, Love's the cloudless summer sun She is a bonnie wee thing, Nature gay adorning. This sweet wee wife o' mine ! I never saw a fairer. I never loo'd a dearer ; And neist my heart I'll wear her, NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVB For fear my jewel tuie. IN GREEN. She is a winsome wee thing. Now spring has clad the grove in green, She is a handsome wee thiug, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; She is a bonnie wee thing, The furrow'd waving corn is seen This sweet wee wife o' mine. Rejoice in fostering showers , SONGS. 216 While ilka thing in nature join Tlieii sorrows to forego, O why thus cill alone are mine The weaiy steps of woe ! The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art ; My life was aiire that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scureh'd my fountains dry. The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. In yonder dilf that grows, Which save tlie iiimet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the withering blast, Wy youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky. Winnowing biythe he: dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare 0' witching love, in luckless hour, IMade me the thrall o' care. O had my fate been Greenland's snows, Cr Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes. So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! The wretch wliase doom is, " hope nae mair, That t(mgue his woes cau tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD IN GREEN. Now bank and brae are clad in green An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly sprir^. By Girvan's fiiry haunted stream The birdies Hit on w.uiton wing. Tc Cassil'is' banks when e'ening fa's, Thei i ivi' my Mary let me flee. There catch her ilka glance of love The bonnie blink o' iMary's ee ! The child wha boasts o' warld's walth, Is aftcn laird o' nieikle care ; But Miry she is a' my ain, Ah, fortune canna gie me mair! ' Then let me range by Cassillis* banks, Wi' her 6ie lassi-^ dear t« me, ^nd catch her ilka glance o' lora, The bonnie blink u' Mary's ee NOW WESTLIN* WINDS. Tune — " I had a horse, 1 had nae naair." Now westlin* winds, and slaughtering guns. Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; The muircock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather. Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer ; And the moon shine's bright, when I rove a night. To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; The plover loves the mountains ; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains. Through lofty groves the cushat roves, Tlve path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. The spreading thorn the linnet. Thus every kind their pleasure find. The savage and the tender ; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander : Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion ; The sportman's joy, the murdering cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion. But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleai, Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view. All fading green and yellow ; Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. And every happy creature. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't, And swear I love thee dearly. Not vernal showers to budding flowers. Not autumn to the farmer. So dear cau be as thou to n^e, Wy fair, my lovely charmer ! OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Tune^^" Miss Admiral Gordon's Stratlisoey." I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. It was during the houey-inoon. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west. For there the bonnie lassie lives. The lass that I loe best : Tho' wild woods grow, and rivers rovr^ Wi' mony a hill betwetn. 1 216 BURNS ' WORKS Balth (lay and nigTiJ my fancy's flight Some sair o* comfort still at last, Is eviT wi" my Jean. When a' thir days are dune, man-^a My pains o' hell on earth is past, I see her in the dewy flow'r, I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man. Sae lovc-ly, sweet, and fair ; O, ay my wife, §'c. I hear lier voice in ilka bird, Wi' music charm the air ; Tlieie's not a bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, sliaw, or green. Nor yet a boanie bird that sings, BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER But minds me o' my Jeau. BONNIE was yon rosy brier, Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear 1 Tlie lasses busk them briw ; It shaded frae the e'eniu' sun. But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie (lings them a' ; Yon rosebuds in the morning dew In hamely weeds she far exceeds The fairest o" the towa. ; How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow Baith sage and gay confece Jt sae, Tho' drest in russet gown. They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam. That crimson rose, how sweet and fair :. Mair hainiless canna be ; But love is fir a sweeter flower She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't), Amid life's thorny path o' care. Except her love for me : The sj)arkliiig dew, o' clearest hue, The pathless wild, and wimpling burn; Is like her shining een ; Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; In shape and air, nane can coinpare And I the world, nor wish, nor scoin, Wi' ray sweet lovely Jean. Its joys and griefs aUke resign. blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Aniang the leafy trees; Wi' gentle gale, frae inuir and dale. Bring liame the laden bees, 0, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM. And bring the lassie back to me Tune—" The Moudiewort." That's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' l)cr wad banish care. An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn 1 Sae lovely is my Jean. An hey, sweet ane and twinty, TamI ,. Til learn my kin a rattling sang, What sighs and vows amang the knowes. AjC I saw ane and twenty. Tarn! Hae past atween us twa ! How fain to meet, how wuc to part That day she gaed awa ! They snool me sair, and hand me down, And gar me look like Bluntie, Turn ! The powers aboon can only ken. But three short years will soon wheel roon', To «hom the heart is seen, And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn ! I'hat nane can be sae de.ir to me An O, for, §•(;. As my sweet lovely Jean. A gleib o' Ian*, a claut o' gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I need n^a' spier, An* I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 0, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. All' O, for, §-c. Ttine—" 0, ay my Wife she iJang m«." They'll hae me wed a wealthy coot, 0, ay wy wife she dang me, And aft my wife she biinijed me I Jf yi: ijii: a wnmaii a' her will, Gude faith, ihe'll suon oweryung y» Tlio' I mysel hae plenty, Tain ; But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loo^ I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An' 0,for, §-f. On peace and rest my mind was bent. And, fuol I was, 1 married • But never hiuiest man's intent As cursedly miscarried • 0, ay my wife, §-c. J soNca 2it Olf, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. Tftne—" Hughie Graham." Oh, gin my love were yon red rose That grows iipnn tlie castle wa*, And I iny^ull a il ap o' dew, Into her lionnii' breast to fa* ! Oh, there, ijeviiriil expression hlest, I'd feast tin lieauty a' the nieht ; Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest. Till fleyed awa by Plicebus' licLt. ADDITIONAL STAKZA BY BURNS. O, WERE my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing ; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! How I wad sinsr on wanton wing, AVTien youthfu* May its bloom renewed. Oil, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My pliidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield sliould be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a*. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae blai-k and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise. If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I moriarch of the globe. With thee to reign, with thee to reign; The brightest je>vel in my erown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. O LEAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE BELLES. A FRAGMENT Tune—" DonaM Blue" I.FAVE novelles, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching i»ooks aie bailed hooks. For rakish rooks like Hob MossgieL i>in Unheeded howls, utiheciled fa's ; The rauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. O let me in, ^x. HER ANSWER- O TELL nae me o' wind and rain, Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, Gae back the road ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. 1 tell you now this ae night, This ae ae, ae night ; And ance 'or a', this ae night i 1 winn. let you in, jo. The sncllcst blast at mirkcst hours. That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nought to what poor she endures That's trusted faithless man, jo. / tell you 710W, ^'C, The sweetest flower that deck'd tht tDMU^ Now trodden like tlie vilest weed t Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, ja 1 tell you now, ^e. 218 BURNS WORKS. The biin that chann'd his suramer-day Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Let witless, tnistinij; woman say How aft lier fife's the samj, jo. / tell you now, Sfc. O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been. But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green. And a* to jiu' a posie to my ain dear May, The primrose I will pu', the firstling o* the year, And I will pu* the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a bauray kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, And a to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a* to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day. But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away ; And a* to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu*, when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi* the silken band o' luve, Aitd I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve. And Cais will be i posie to m-r ain dear May. O ]MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet. As the mirk night o* December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she I darna name, But I will aye remember. And dear, Sfc. And here's to them, that like oursel, Can push about the jorum ; And here's to them that wish us weel, May a* that's gude watch o'er theoi j And here's to them we darna tell. The dearest o* the quorum, And e\ to, S^c. ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES A LASS.* Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trjtn." On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. Could I describe her shape and mien ; The graces of her weelfar'd face. And the glancin* of her sparklin' e'en. She's fresher than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn j An' she's twa glancin* sparklin' e'en. She's stately like yon youthful ash. That grows the cowslip braes between. And shoots its head above each bush ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn With flow'rs so white and leaves so greed, When purest in the dewy morn , An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'e . Her looks are like the sportive lamb, When fiow'ry May adorns the scene, That wantons round its bleating dam ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her hair is like the curling mist That shades the mountain side at e'en. When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; An' she's twa glancin* sparklin* e'en. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When shining sunbeams intervene And gild the distant mountain's brow ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. * This song was an early production, .t was re. covereil tVom the oral commiinication of a ladv resid' ing at Glasgow whom the Bard in early life affection ately adcnirad SONGS. 21S Her voice s like the ev'ning thrush That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; An' she's t\va glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her lip? are like the cherries ripe, That sunny walls from boreas screen, They tempt the taste and charm the^ sight; An' she's twa glancin* sparklin e'en. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising step ; ^ An' she's twa glancin' sparklin* e'en. Her breath is like the fragrant bree/.e That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, Wlien Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; An* she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace An' chiefly in her sparklin* e'en ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY Tune—" O'er the hills and far awiy." How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad ? How can I the thought forego, He's on the seas to meet his foe ! Let me wander, let me rove. Still niv heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far aieay ; Nitjhlly dreams and t.'unit/hts by day. Are aye with him that's far away. When in summer's noon I faint. As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun M> sailor's thund'ring at his gun : Bullets, spare my only joy ! Bullets, spare my darling boy ! Fate, do with me what you may, Spare bet him that's far away ! On the seas and far away, $-c. At the starless midnight hour, Whf n winter rules with boundless power. As the stoims the forests tear. And thuiidei-s rend the howling air. Listening to the dout)ling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, A- T can — I weep and pray For his weal that's far away. On the seas and far away, §-c. Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wald war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet. Then may heaven with prosperous ga Fill my s;iilor's welcome sails, To my arms their charge convey, I\Iy dear lad that's far away. On the seas and far away, 8fc, ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. Time—" On a bank of flowers." On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, For summer lightly drest. The youthful, blooming Nelly lay. With love and sleep opprest ; Wlien Willie, wandering through the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued ; He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, And trembled where he stood. Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed. Were sealed in soft repose ; Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed. It richer dyed the rose. The springing lilie, sweetly prest, Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, His bosom ill at rest. Her robes, light waving in the breeze, Her tender limbs embrace ; Her lovely form, her native ease. All harmony and grace : Tumultuous tides his pidses roll,^ A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; He gaze Igo, and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore, Iram, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo, and ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. SCROGGAM. There was a wife wonned in Cockpen, Scroggam ; She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam ; The priest o' the parish fell in another : Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. They laid the twa in the bed thegither, Scroggam, That the heat o' the tane might cool the totber Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. Ttine — " She's fair and fause." She's fair and fause that causes my smart. I loo'd her mickle and lang ; She's broken her vow, she's broken my hearty And I may e'en gae hang. A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear ; But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang. Wliae'er ye be that woman love. To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; A woman has't by kind : O woman, lovely woman fair ! An angel's form's faun to thy share, 'Twad been ower n\ickle to hae gi'en thee nui/ I mean an angel mind. SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." Sak flaxen were her ringlets. Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 224 BURNS' WORKS. Bewitcliinj^ly o'er-Rriliin<^ Tw.i l:uiu;hin5 cen o' bonnic; blue. Her smiling sae wylinsr, Wad ;iiake a wietch forget bis woe; What plfusure, what treasure. Unto these rosy lips to grow ; Such was my Cblorij' bonnie f.ice, Wiien first her bonnie face I saw, And ave my Cliloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion ; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion. Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and graceful air ; Ilk feature — auld Nature Declar'il that she could do nae mair ; Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city. And gaudy show at sunny noon ; Gie nie the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon. Fair beaming and streaming, Her siiTer light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling. The amorous thrush concludes his sang There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. And hear mv vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Tune — " Tibby Fowler." W^ILLIE Wasti.k dwalt on Tweed, The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. Willie was a wabster gude, Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. He had a wife was dour and din, O, Tinkler IMadgie was her mother : Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her i She has an ee, she has but ane, The cat has twa the veiy colour ; Twa rustic teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; A whiskin' beard about her mou' ; Her nose and ctiin they threaten ither : Sic a wife as Willie had, 1 wadna gie a button for her ! She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Ae limpin' leg a hand-bread shorter ; She's twisted richt, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka Quarter : She has a hump upon her breast. The twin o' that iijion her shouther : Sic a wife as Willie bad, I wadna gie a button for her ! Auld baudroiis* by the ingle sits. And wi' her loof her fare a-washin' ; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dichts her gninyief. wi' a hushioa.| Her walie neeves, jj like midden cieuU ; Her face wad f\le the Logan Water • Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her ! STEER HER UP AND HACD HEB GAUN, TuTte—" Steer her up." O STEER her up and hand her gaun ; Her mother's at the mill, jo ; And gin she winna tak a man, E'en let her tak her will, jo. First shore her wi* a kindly kiss, And ca' another gill, jo; And gin she tak the thing amiss, E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. O steer her up, and be na blate ; And gin she tak it ill, jo. Then lea' the lassie to her fate. And ',ime nae langer spill, jo. Ne'er break your heart for ae r«4iut, But think upon it still, jo, That gin the lassie winna do't. Ye' 11 find another will, jo. SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGTS- BURN. Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blythe awakes the morrow. But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading tr»es, I hear the wild birds singing ; But what a weary wight can pleasf. And care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would I my griefs impattj Yet dare na for your anger ; But secret Jove will break my he&.t, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me. If thou shalt love anither. * The cat. f Mauth. t Cushioo. H Fbti. SONGS. S25 Whon yon grwn leaves fads fia« the tree, Around my grave they'll wither." TAM GLEN. My heart is a-hreaking, dear tittie, Some (counsel unto me come len*, To anger them a' is a pity, But what wj." I do wi' Tam Glen ? I'm til inking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortitli I might niak a fen ; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunua nurry Tain Glen. There's Lowrie the laird o' Dunieller, " Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben lie brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will, he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, And liiils me beware o' young men ; They flitter, she says, to deceive me, But wha cau think sae o' Tarn Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing. My heart to my mou gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written Tam Glen. The last Hallowe'en I was waukin Jly droukit surk-sleeve, as ye ken ; HLs likeness cum up tiie house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; I'll gie you my bontiie black hen, Gin ye v.ill advise mt to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. THE AULD MAN. But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoiced the day, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In doui'le pride were gay : But aow our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'. * Cragie-burn wood is siljated on the banks of the river Moilat, and about three miles distant from llie village of that name, celebrated lor its medicinal wa- ters. The woods of Cragie-burn, and of Dumcricf, were at one tone favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met tlie " Lassie wi' the lint-while locks," tud that be conceived several of his bcauUfuJ lyrics. But my white pow, nae kindly thswe Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain I Thou golden time o' youthfu* prime, Why comest thou not again ! THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant ye little birds. And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'U break my heart thou warbling bird. That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed never to return. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause lover stole my rose, But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. THE BANKS BY CASTLE-GORDOH Tune—" Morag.- Streams that glide in orient plains Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands : These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly lares The banks by Castle- Gordon. Spicy forests ever gay. Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil, Or the ruthless native's way. Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave. Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms, by Castle -Gordvi. Wildly here, without control. Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood. Dearest to the feeling soul. She plants the forest, pours the flood* Life's poor day I'll musing rave, aa 226 BURNS WORKS. And find at nis!:lit a sheltering cave, Where waters flow ami wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle- Gordon. And art thou come, and art thou trut ! O welcome dear to love and me ! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree. THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. Tune—" Rhannerach dhon na chii." These verses were composed on a charmin girl, a IMiss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- eician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- Tin Hamilton, of IMauchline ; and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon. — I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair ! But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De- von, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Avr : _ ^ Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow r, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal show'r, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill, hoary-wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest, The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either adorns the green vallies,^ Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. THE BARD'S SONG. TUB bard's song in " THE JOLLY BEOaiM, Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your elatwfc' See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round ami round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing — A fig for those by laio protected, Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for coiuarJs were erected. Churches built to please the priesU What is title what is treasure, What is reputation's care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where. A fig for those, ^c. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goc« , Let them cant about decorum, Who hav characters to lose. A fig for those, §*c. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! Here's to all our wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and callets ! One and all cry out, Amen ! A fig for those, SfC. THE BANKS OF CREE. Tune—" The banks of Cree." Here is the glen, and here the bower, Al! underneath the birchen shade; The village bell has toU'd the hour, O, what can stay my lovely maid ? Tis not Maria's whispering call, Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark to tlie grove, Hii little faithful mate to cheer, At once 'tis music — and 'ti» love. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BET-WEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND TH» EARL OF MAR. " O CAM ye here the fight to shun. Or herd' the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man ?" I saw the battle sair and teugh, And reekin-red ran raonie a sheugh. My heart for fear gae sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and sec the cluds O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The red- coat lads wi' black cockades. To meet them were na slaw, man ; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd. And mony a bouk did fa', man • The great Argyle led on his files. I wat they glanced twenty miles i SONGS. 227 They hack'd ana hash'd, while broadswords clu-hM, And thro' they dashM, and hew'd and smash'd, Till fey luea died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs. And skyrin tartan trews, man. When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets op])()sed the targe, And thousands hastened to the charge, W'' highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, •They fled like frighted doos, man. " O how deil Tarn can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, tliey did pursue Tile horsemen back to Forth, man ; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. They took the biig wi' a' their might. And strau'^ht to Stirling winged their flight ; But, cursed lot! the gates were shutj And niony a hunted poor red-coat For fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate came up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man : She swonr she saw some rebels run, Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good will That day their ueeboi's blood to spill ; For fear by foes, that they should lose Tlieir cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Ainang the Highland claus, man; I fear mv Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen iu whiggish hands, man. Now wad ve sing this double fight. Some fell for wraiig, and some for right ; But niony bade the world gude-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and niell, Bv red clavmores, and muskets, knell, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell. And whigs to hell did flee, man.* THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. Ti'te—" The Birks of Abergeldy." Bonnie lassie, ti-ill ye go, tvill ye po, will ye go, Sonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Sirks of Aher- fddy 9 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, .\nd o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; Come, let us spend the lichtsome days In the Bilks of Aberfeldy. Eonnie laisie, §"c. Wliile o'er their head the hazels hing, The little birdies biythely sing. Or lichtly flit on wanton wing. In the Bilks of Aberfeldy. JBonnie lassie, Sfc. The braes ascend like lofty wa's. The foamin' stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shaws, The Birks of AberfeKly. Sonnie lasiie, §-c. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'ti, V/hite ower the lin the burnie pours. And, risia', weets wi' misty show'r* The Birks of Aberfeldy. Jionnie lassie, Sfc. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae ine. Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee. In the Birks of Aberfeldy.* Jionnie lassie, §-c. THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. Tune — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tat err let's fl>." No churchman am I, for to rail and to write j No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight j No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ; I sccrn not the peasant, though ever so low ; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; There centum-per-centum, the cit with hi« purse ; But see you ' the Cror/n,' how it waves in the air! I There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. • This was written about the fcrae our bard made bis touj to Llie Highlands. 1787. • The chor-.is is borrowed from an old simple bal- lad, called " 'I'he Birks of Alaergeldy ;" of which ttx fullowing is a fragment Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will >e go To the birks o' AbcrgeMie? Ve shall get a gown o' silk, A gowii o" silk, a gown o' silk. Ye shall get a gown o' silk. And coat of callimankia 228 BURNS' WORKS. The wife of my bosom, alas ! s'le did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a eui-e for all care.- I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter infonn'd me thit all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares. " Life's cares they are comforts," • a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown ; And faith T agree with th' old prig to a hair, For a big-bi'''licd bottle's a heaven of care. STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 'Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; Her lijis like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving busom, lily-white — It was her e'en sae boncie blue. She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; And aye the stound, the deadly wound. Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spaie to speak, and spare to speed ; She'll aiblms listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue.f THE BONNIE WEE THING. Composed on mj little idol, " The charm- ng, lovely Davies." Sonn'te irie thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; • Youns's Night Thoughts. + The heroine of tliis song was Miss J. of Lochma. fcen. This lady, now Mrs. H. after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled with her hu»ba«d in New Yorit, North America. / wad ivear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish, lu that bonnie face of thine , And my heart it ftounds wi' anguistl, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Bonnie wee thing, ^c. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! • Bonnie wee thing, Sfc, THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. The Ciitriue woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, • Nile lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the ee. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in i)eauty's bloom the while. And aye the wild wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; Ye biiciies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas ! for me nae mair. Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel ! sw(i»t Ballochmyle I THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. These words are mine ; I composed them from the old traditionary verses. There lived a carl on Kellybnrn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. Ae day as the carl gaed up #he lang glen, ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. " I've got a bad wife, Sir ; that's a' my com plaint ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) • Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart Esq. Professor of Moral Philosojihy m tlie Universitj of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, fomn'erlv the scat of Sil John VVliitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. (1800. SONGS. 229 For, savlnor your presence, to her ye're a saint ; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." "■ It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." " O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But if ye can match her, ye're war nor ye're ca'd, And the thyme it is wither'd, and tlie rue is in prime." The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; (Hey, and the rae grows bonnie wi' thyme) And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is it: prime. He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore. And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Turn out on her gauid in the clap of a hand ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is prime. The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) W hae'er she gat hands on came near her nae niair ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue it in prime. •* A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; ( Hey and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) O, help. Master, help, or she'll ruin us a', And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue i» in prime." The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, (Hey, ami the rue grows lionnie wi' thyme) ile ))itied the man that was tied to a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He was n<.t in wedlock, thank heaven, but in hell ; And the tl-.yme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. fhen Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 'Hoy, and the rue grows boanie wi' thyme) And to her auld husband he's earned her back ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue ia in prime. " I hae been a devil the feck o' ray life ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue it in prime. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. Tune—" Captain O' Kaine." Th2 small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- turning ; The murmuring streamlet runs clear through the vale ; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning ; And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. When the lingerin* moments are numbered by care ? No flowers gaily springing. Or birds sweetly singing, Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- lice — A king and a father to phice on his throne ! His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for- lorn ; My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mour^a. Your deeds proved so loyal Ic hot bloody trial ; Alas ! can 1 make it no better return ' THE DAY RETURiN'5, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune — " Seventh of Novcmtier." The day returns, my bosom burns. The blisst'iil day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. Ne'er summer sim was half sac sweet; Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globet, Heaven gave me more, it made thee minei 'WhWe day and night can bring delight, Or nature ought of pleaswe give J 230 BURNS WORKS. While joys above, my mind can move, For tliee, and thee alone, I live ! When that grim foe of life below, Comes in between to make us part; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. THE DEATH SONG. gcFNE— A Field of Battle.— Time op thf. Day— Evening.- 'J'he Wounded and Dying of the Victo. rious Army are supposed to join in the following Song : Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave ; Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave. rhou strikest the "nil peasant j he sinks in the dark, Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame ! In the proud field of honour — our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save — While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O ! who would not die with the brave ! But the ae best dance e tr cam to tne heeli^ Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsieman. The deil's awa, §*c. THE DEIL'S AWA. WF THE EXCISE- MAN. The deil cam fiddling tb-.ough the toun, And danced awa w'" the exciseman ; And ilka auld wife cried, Auld Wahoun, I wish you lucK o' the prize, man. The deil's aiva, the deil's awa. The deil's awa ici' the exciseman ; He's danced awa, he's danced awa, lie's danced awa wi' the exciseman / We'll ^nak our maut, we'll brew our drink, V/e'U laugh, sing, and rejoice, man ; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, That danced awa wi' the exciseman I The deil's awa, §fc. There's threesome reels, there's foursome re .'Is, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; THE ELECTION. Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bndaL" Fi/, let us a' to Kirhcjtdbripht, For there will he bickeriny there, For Murray's light horse are to musttT i And oh, how the heroes will swear f And there will be Murray commander, And Gordon the batttle to win ; Like brithers they'll stand by each othei, Sae knit in alliance and sin. Fi/, let us a', §'c. And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie, The tongue of the trump to theai a* ; If he get na hell fur his haddin'. The dell gets nae justice ava ! Fy, let vs a', Sfc. And there wifl be Templeton's birkie, A boy no sae black at the bane ; But, as to his fine Nabob fortune. We'll e'en let the subject alane. Fy, let us a', §-c. And there will be Wigton's new sheriff: Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped ; She's gotten the heart of a B by, But what has become of the head ? Fy, let us a', §-c. And there will be Cardouess' squire, So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; A wight that will weather damnation, For the devil the prey will despise. Fy, let us a', §-c. And there will be Douglasses doughty, New christening towns far and near; Abjuring their democrat doings, By kissing the doup of a peer Fy, let us a', &'c. And there will be Kenmure sae generous, Whose honour is proof 'gain-nvoyin{; his chest »o far on the rosil from Ayrshire to (in oiiiick, where he inteiuleit to embark in a r'ew dnvs for Jamaica He ilei.i)^>u 1 it, he says, as Ids farewell tlirgc to his native •uuntry I red you hewar* at the hunting, young men ; I red you beivare at the liunthig, yovng men ; Tak some on the wing, and some as theif spring, JBut cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the devf from the brown heather bells, Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy feHs ; Her plumage outlustied the pride o' the spring. And C ' as she wantoned gay on the wing. / red, §-c. Auld Phoebus himsei, as he peep'd o or the hill ; In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae;— His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. I red, Ifc. They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight.—* I red, 8fe. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. This was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all iu the worLL Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, Sail ever be my Muse's care ; Their titles a" ate einjity shew ; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sue rushy, (), I set me down iri' right gond will. To sing my Highland lassie, O. were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and you gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my Highland lassie, O, Within the glen, ^c. But fickle fortune frowns on me. And 1 maun cross the raging sea ; But while my crimson currents Sov, I'll lo'e m'- "'^Mand lassie, O. Within t'he glen, Sfc. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change. For her bosom burns with honour's gloV My faithful Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, Sj-c. For her I'll dare the billow's roar; For her I'll trace a distant shore i SONGb 233 Tbat In'li'aa wealth may lustre throw Ariiuni! my His^liland lassie, O. Within the ylen, §'c. She has my heart, she has mv hand, By secret tnitli and luinoui's band ! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, J'ia thine, my Hif^hland lassie, O. Fureuelt the {jinn, sue bushy, O, Farewi'll the plain, sae rashy, O, To other lamls J now Juust go. To sing my Hiyldund lassie, O. THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. Tune — " O'er the hills and far awa." O, liow can I he blithe and j^hd. Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the boniiie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and fur awa? It's no the frosty wintei wind, it's no the diiving drift and snaw ; But aye the tear comes in my ee To think ou hiiu that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door. My friends they hae disown'd me a' ; But I hae ane will take my part, The bounie lad that's far awa. A pair o* gloves he gae to me. And silken snoods he gae me twa ; And i will wear them for his sake, The bimuie lad that's far awa. The weary winter soon will pass. Arid sj)ring will deed the birken shaw; rtnd my sweet babie will be born. And he'll come harae that's far awa. THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. Tune—" The Lass of Ballochmyle." TwAS even, the dewy fields were green, On ilka blade the peirls hang; The ze])hvr wanton'd round the bean, And liore its fragrant sweets alang ; In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; All nature li»t'ning .'■eem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray 'd, My heart tcjoiced in Nature's joy ; When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair 1 chanced to spy : Hnr look was like the morning'* eye, Her air like Nature's vernal smile ; The lily's cue, and rose's dye, Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. Fair is the morn in flowery IMay, And sweet is night in Autumi mild, When roving through the garden gay. Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; But woman, Nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile j Even there her other works ar« foil'd. By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Oh, had she been a country maid, And I the happy countiy swain, Though shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rcio on Scotland's plain ! Through weary winter's wind and rain. With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosv^n strain The bonnie lass o* Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. Or downward dig the Indian mine. Give me the cot below the pine. To tend the flocks, or till the soil. And ev'ry day have joys divine, Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME.f When Januar winds were blawin' cauld, Unto the north 1 bent my way, The mirksome nicht did me enfauld, I kcud na where to lodge till day ; But by good hick a lass I met. Just in the middle of ray care. And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair. I bnw'd fu' low unto this main. And thank'd her for her courtcsie ; I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. And bade her make the bed to me. • This song was written in praise of Miss Alcx.tndet of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one tine evening to meet this yo'ing '(ndy, when walking Ihr ugh the )>cautifui woods of Balloohniyle, which lie at the dis- tance of two miles from his (arm of Mossgiel. Struck v.iih a sense of her passing beauty, he wrole this noble lyric; which he soon after sent lo her, enclosed in a letter, as f\ill of delicate and romantic sciitiinent, and as Doclical as itself. He was somen Inl mortified to find, that either maidenly modest, or pi ide of supe- rior station, prevented her fiom aeknowlidging the re. ceipt of his compliment : Indeed it is no where record, ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest sense ot it ; as to h,r the pearls seem to have been \i- terally thrown away. t There is an older and coarser song, eontaitdng tha same incidents, and said to have heen occasioned by ar adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the I'resbyteriaii iirinv, ItiVViJl. 'I'h* affair happened at the house of Port.I.elhein, in .Vlier dcensliire, and it was a daughter of the land that mad* the bed to the kinr. 234 BURNS' WORKS. She made the bed b.iith wide and braid, Wi' twii wliite h:in(is sVe spread it doun ; She put the cup to her rosy lips, Aod drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun. She snatch 'd the candle in her hand, And from the chand)er went wi' speed : But I ca'd iier quickly hack again, To hiy some niair beneath my heid. A cod she laid iwneath my heid, And served me with a due respect ; And, to saliity her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. Hand aff your hands, young man, she says, And dinna sae uncivil be ; It will be time to speak the morn, It* ye hae ony love for me. Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie, Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. The lass that made the bed to me. Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa diiftit heaps sae fair to see ; Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss'd her ower and ower again, Anil aye she wistna what to say ; I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; The lassie tJ.ocni r.a .ang till day. Upon the morrow, when we rase, I thaidt'd her for her courtesie ; And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, Anii said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me. I clas])'d her waist, and kiss'd her syne. While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; I said, My lassie, dinna cry. For ;e aye shall mak the bed to me. She took her mother's Holland sheets, And made them a m sarks to me ; Blytl.e and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me. The bnnnie lass that made the bed to me, The braw lass that made the bed to me ; I'll ne'er forget, till the day 1 dee, The lass that made the bed to me. -but how mucli liv'd in How long I arley ! But by the moon and stari so bright. That shone that hour sae clearly ! She aye shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' baaley. I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; I hae been merry drinking ; I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; I hae been happy thinking : But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Though they were doubled fairly, That happy night w.is worth them »* Amang the rigs o' barley. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. Tune—" The MUI, Mill, O." When wild war's deadly blast was blaw% And gentle peace returning'. And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd. That had been blear'd wi' mourniogj I left the lines and tented field, Where laug I'd been a lodger ; My humble knapsack a' my wealth; A poor but honest sodger. A leal light heart beat in my breast, My hands unstain'd wi' plunder ; And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy; I thought upon the witching smile. That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy oft I courted. Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling? And turn'd me round to hide the flooii That ia my ee was swelling. ■Wi' alttr'd voice, quoth I, swe..!; lass. Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O ! happy, happy may he be. That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger ; I've serv'd my king and country lang ' Tak pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully fihe gazed on me. And lovelier grew than ever ; Quoth she, A sodgei ance I loved, Forget him will I never. BURNS' WORKS. Our humWe cot and liauiely fare. Ye freely shall jjartake o't ; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't. She gazed — she redden'd like a rose- Syne pale as ony lily ; She sank within my arm's, and cried, Art thou my ain dear Willie? By Him, who made yon sun and skv, By whom tiue love's regarded ; I am the man ! and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. And find thee still true-hearted ; Though ])oor in gear, we're rich in love, And niair we'se ne'er be parted. Quoth she, JMy granilsire left me gowd, A niailin plenish'd fairly ; Then come, my faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. For gold the merchant ploughs the main, Tl:e farmer ploughs the manor j But glory is the sodger's prize, The soilgcr's wealth is honour. The i)rave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger : Remember he's his country's stay, In day aud hour o' danger. • THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune — " Robic Donna Gorach." The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Wliere royal cities stand ; But sweeter flows the Nith to me. Where Cummins ance had high command : When shall I see that honoured land, Tliat winding stream I love so dear .' Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me heie. Kow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloj)ing dales \\ here lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! • " Burns, I have been informed," savs a clergyman of Dumfriesshire, in a letter to Mr. Georse Thomson, eoilor of Select Melodies of Seotlanil, " was one simi- mcr evening in tlio inn at lirownhill, with a couple of friends, when a poor way-worn soldier passed the win- dow. Of a sudden it slruck the poet to call him in, and set the recital of his adventures; after hearnig whicli, he all at o ee fell intn one of those fits of ab. straction, not iimisual to him. He was lilted to the ;egion where he had his garland and his singing-robes about hitn, and the result was this admirable song he lent vou for ' The Mill, Mill. O." THE TOAST. At a meeting of the Dumfriessiiirk VontSTEER*. held to commemorate the anniversary of Ron.ifKV'8 victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon fol a Song, mstcad of which he delivered the following Lines : — Instead of a song, hoys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found, For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing ; And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the gi'eat Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny tlamn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloval. May his son be a hangman, and he his first triaL THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAAIE. This tune is sometimes called. There's few ffude FtUows ivhen Willie's aira. — But I never have been able to meet with any thing else of the song than the title. Tune — " There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." By yon castle-wa', at the close o' the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gi-ey ; .^nd, as he was singing, the tears down came— There'll never be jieace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : We daurni weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame, — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven hraw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yird : It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Since I ti.it my bairns, and he tint his crown ; But till my last moments my words are the iame,— There'll never be peace till Jamie com?s nama SONGS. 237 THE STOWN GLAN'CE O' KINDNESS. TVrjf — " Laddie, lie near me." 'TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin ; Fair though she be, that wt may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no my ain lassie, §c. THERE WAS ONCE A DAY Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." There was once a day, but old Time then wai young. That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities t.])rung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- vine ? ) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— •' Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue !" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; But chiefly the woods were here fav'iite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand:* Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land : Their pounces were murddr, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : She took to her hills and her ariows let fly. The dai-ihg invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;f The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore :\ O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- vail'd. No arts could ippease them, nor arms could repel ; But brave Caledooia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie te!l.§ The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife j • The Romans, t The Saxons, t The Danes. f Two famous battles, in wliich the Danes or No» wegiajis were defeated. SONGS. 239 Piovoked beyond bearing, at .ast she arose, And r(i!)hM liiin at oik i of his hopes and his life:* Tlie Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- ver flood ; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run ; For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; ril piove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always, f THOU HAST LEFT ]ME EVER, JAMIE. T*une — " Foe him. Father," Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Only should us sever ; Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken ; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love another jo, While my heart is breaking : Sjon my weary een I'll close. Never more to waken, Jamie, Never mere to waken. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. THIS SONG I COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF SEVKNTEEN. Tune—" Invercald's reeL O Tibbie, I Jtac seeti the day Ye wailna been sae shi/ ; For laik o' ge(ir ye lightly me, Jiut trowth, 1 care na by. • The Highlanders of the Isles. t This singular (igure of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers tii the famous i)ri)))Osition of Py- thacora?, the -JTth of Kucliil. In a risht-anfjleii tri- angle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the souares of the two other sides. Yestreen I met you on the moor. Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But feint a hair care I. Tibbie, I hae, §-c. T doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink. Whene'er ye like to try. Tibbie, I hae, §-c. But sorrow tak him that's sae mean^ Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high. Tibbie, I hae, §-c. A'tho' a lad were e'er sae smart. If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'U cast your head anither airt. An' answer him fu' dry. Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he for sense or leaf Be better than the kve. Tibbie, I hae, &-c. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my iidvice, Your daildie's gear maks you sae nic% The deil a ane wad speir your price, Were ye as poor as I. Tibbie, I hae, §*c. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; Ye need na look sae high. Tibbie, I hae, §"c. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray That lov'st to greet the early mcrn ! Again thou usher'st in the day, My Mary from my soul was torn. Oh, ftlary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Sec'st thoH thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breaat f That sacred hour can I forget? — Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Whcie, by the windiiig Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; — Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 240 BURNS' WORKS. Ayr, girrgling', kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhiins^ with wild woiids thickening green; The fragrant birch, the hawthorn hoar. Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, The birds sung love on every spray ; Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaiin'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear My Mary, dear departed sliade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?* TRUE HEARTED WAS HE. Tune-'" Bonnie Dundee." FauK hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; Fo equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. O fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. And sweet is the lily at evening close ; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law ; And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a". WANDERING WILLIE. r-»u — " Here awa, there awa." Uere awa, there awa, wandering Willk ! Htre awa, there awa, haud awa hame I Come to my hmom, my ain only dearie ; Tdl me thou bring^st me my Willie aaain. Winter, winds blew loud and cauld at our part- ing ; Fear* for my Willie brought tears in mv ee •• Welcome now, stt.?jmer, and welcome, my Willie ; The summer to nature, and Willie to me. Here awa, jcc. • To Mary Campbell, one of Burns's earliest and most beloved unstresses, a dairy-maid in the neigh bo\irhood of Mossyiol.— See farllier particulars in the Life Rest, ye wild storms, in tie cavei of your tlnB- bers ! How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arm* Here awa, Sfc. But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannici Flow still between us, thou dark leaving main! May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's ray ain ! Here awa, §-c. WAE IS MY HEART. Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : Forsaken and friendless my burden 1 bear, And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear Love thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel by its throbbings will ■soon be at rest, O if I were, where happy T hae been ; Down by yon stream and you bonnie castle green : For there he is wand'iiug and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry thi tear frae his Phillis's et WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO Wr AN AULD MAN. What can a young lassie, what shall a ycr.ng lassie. What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my miunie To sell her poor Jenny hir siller an' Ian' ! Had Inch on the pennie, §"c. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin. He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 0' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! Bad luck on the pennie, ^c. He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers j I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! Had luck on the pennie, i^c. My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her pl.in ; I'U cross him, and wrack him, unti] 1 heart- break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new paQ Had luck on the pennie, ^c. SONGS. 241 VVHA IS THAT MY BOWEU DOOM. This tiioi; is aUo known by the uame of Xass jr/j / cuDie near thee. The words are mine. Wha is that at my bmvcr door ? O wha is it but Findhiy ; — Then g.ie your gate ye'se n:ie be here ! Indeed maun I, quo' Findlaj-. What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay ; — Before the mora ye'll work mischief ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Gif I rise and let you in ? Let me in, quo' Findlay ; — Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if ye should stay ? Let me stay, quo' P'indlay ; — I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; Indeed will I, quo* Findlay. Here this night if ye remain ? I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; — I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; What may pass within this bower ; Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; — Ve maun conceal 'till your last hour ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD; A FRAGSIENT. run*—" KillicrankJe. When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our helm thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea. Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less, in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was ua slaw, man : Down Lowrie's hum he took a turn. And Carlcton did ca', man : But yet, whit-ieck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man ; Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang bis enemies a', man. Poor Tammy Gar/e, within a cage, Was kept at lioston ha', man ; Till Wil/ie Ilowe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man ; Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Gjid C'lristian blood to draw, man; But at iVexp. York, wi' knife and fork. Sir-loin he hacked sina', man. Burgttyne gaed jp, like spur an' whip> Till Fraser brave did fa' man ; Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. CurntvalUs fought as lang's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man ; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man. Then Montague, an' Guildford too, Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville doure, wha stood the stour^ The German chief to thraw, man : For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box. An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. Then Rockingham took up the game ; Till death did on him ca', man ; When Shdburne meek held up his cheekj Conform to gospel law, man. Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For Aorth and Fox united stocks, And bot^, liira to the wa*, man. Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carte% He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace of Indian race. Led him a sair faux pas, man : The Saxon lads, wi' luud placads. On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, " Up, Willie, waur them a', man I" Behind the throne then Grenville'a gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class Be-north the Roman wa', man : An* Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graittt, (Inspired bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, «' Willie, rise ! Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" But word an' blow, North, For, and O. Go\v*Y'd Willie like a ba', man. Till Suthrons raise, and coost their chi»o Behind him in a raw, man ; Au' Calcdon threw by the drone. An* did her whittle draw, man ; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood To make it guid in law, man. 242 BURNS' WORKS. WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT IN THE MORNING. This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— Tune—" Saw ye my father." The occasion of it was this ; — Mr. VVm. Nico), Where are the joys I hae met in the morning. of the High School, Edinburgh, during the ak- That daiice-l to the lark's early song ? tumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, Where is the peace that awaited my wandering. who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, At evening the wild woods among ? and I went to pay Nicol a visit We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I No more a-winding the course of yon river, agreed, each in our own way, that we shouUI And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; celebrate the business. No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, But sorrow and sad-sighing care. O Willie brew'd peck o' maut. And Rob and Allan cam to see ; Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And glim surly winter is near? Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. Ye wad na find in Christendie. No, no, the bees humming rouud the gay roses, We are na fou, we're na that fou. Proclaim it the pride of the year. Hut just a drappie in our ee ; The cock may crato, the day may daw Fain would I hide what I fear to discorer. And ay we'll tafte the barley brie. Yet long, long too wel! have I known : All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Here are we met, tlrree merry boys. Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Three merry boys I trou are we ; And mony a night we've merry been. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, And mony mae wo hope to be ! Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : We are na fou, §-c. Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. It is the moon, I ken her horn. That's blinkin in the lift sae hie , She shines sae bright to wyle us hatne, But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! WHISTLE AND I'LL COJ.^E TO YOU, We are na fuu, Sfc. MY LAD. WTia first shall rise to gang awa*, O whistle and Til come to yon, my lad*, A cuckold, coward loun is he ! wliisik and I'll come to you, my lad ; Wha last beside his chair shall fa', T/io' father and mither and a' should yae mad. He is the king amang us three ! whistle and Til come to you, my lad. We are 7ia fou, fj-c. But warily tent when ye come to court me, And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; Syne up the back style, and let nae body see. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. And come as ye were nae comin' to me. Anc come as ye were nae comin' to me. Tune—" The Sutor's Dochter." whistle, 8j-c. Wilt thou be my dearie : At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. When sorrow wrings thy gedtle he»rtj Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a file ; Wilt thou let me cheer thee : But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'ee, By the treasure of my soul, Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. That's the love I bear thee ! Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. I swear and vow that only thou O whistle, §-c. Shill ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow, Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, Shall ever be my dearie. And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be, Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. Or if thou wilt na be my ain, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae nie. Say na thou'lt refuse me : whistle, SfC. If it winna, canna be. Thou for thine may chouse me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, • In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus : O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. Trusting that thou lo'es me ; O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo; I'lio" father and mother and a' should say no. Lassie let me quickly die. O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. Trusting that thou lo'es me. J SONGS. 243 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? Tune—" The Yowe-buchts.* Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave aulJ Scotia's shore ? Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic's roar ? Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine ; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the heavens, my Mary, I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; And sae may the heavens forget me. When I forget my vow ! O, plight me your faith, my IMary, And plight me your lily-white hand ; O, plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join ; And curst be the cause that shall part us ! The hour and the moment o' time ! • YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro* the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed : Where the grouse, §'c. Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shares, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, §-c. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath ; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' love. For there. Sec. • When Bums was designing his voyaee to the West Inilies, he wrote this song as a farewell to a girl whom he happened to regard, at the time, witli con- siderable admiration. He afterwards sent it to Mr. Thomson for pubhcation in his splendid collection of the nationsil music and musical poetry of iicotland. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; O' nice education but sma' is her share ; Her parentage humble as humble can be ; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma. Her parentage, §•«. To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, la her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; And when wit and refinement hae polished het darts, They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. And when tcit, §-c. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark* ling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd is her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ' And the heart-heating, §-c. YOUNG JOCKEY. T^nif— " Jockie was the blythcst laAf- Young Jockey was the blithest lad In a' our town or here awa ; Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' J He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, He roos'd my waist sae genty sraa ; An ay my heart came to my mou. When ne'er a body heard or saw. My Jockey toils upon the plain. Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw And o'er the lee I leak fu' fain Wlien Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. An' ay the night comes round again, When in his arms he taks me a' ; An' ay he vows he'll be my ain As lang's he has a breath to draw. YOUNG PEGGY Young Peggy blooms our bonniest laa, Her blush is like the morning. The rosy dawn, the springing grass. With ea.ly gems adorning : Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower. And glitter o'er the crystal streams. And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips more than the cherries bright, A richer die has grac'd them, They charm th' admiring gazer's sight And sweetly tempt to taste them : Ji&±4 JlL/JtiNy' WORKS. Her sraile is as the ev'ning mild, When feather'd pairs are courting, Acd little lambkins wanton wild, In plaj-ful bands disporting. Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain Her winning pnw'rs to lessen : feod fretful envy grins in vain, Ilia polson'd tdo! h to fasten, Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and From ev'ry ill defend her ; Inspire the highly favour'd youdx The destinies intend her ; Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom ; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.* • This was one of the poet's earliest compositioni. It is conied from a MS. book, which he had before tail flnt publicatioa. THE CORRESPONDENCE. NOTICE. Or the following letters of Burns, a consid- erable number were transmitted for publication, hy the individuals to whom they were addressed ; Dut very few have been printed entire. It will easily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- ten without the least view to publication, va- rious passages were found unfit for the press, from different considerations. It will also be readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly at the same time, and under the same feelings to different individuals, would sometimes fall into the same train of sentiment and forms of expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- ters, and sometimes to exscind parts of great delicacy — the unbridled effusiona of pancgjTic and regard. But though many of the letters are printed from originals furnished by the per- »ons to whom they were addressed, others are printed from first draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- neral no man committed his thoughts to his correspondents with less consideration or effort than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- racter, or perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the original sketches were found ; 'and as these sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be considered as the offspring of his mind, where they have seemed in themselves worthy of a place in this volume, and they have been in- serted, though they may not always correspond exactly with the letters transmitted, which have been lost or withheld. Our author appears at one time to have form- ed an intention of making a collection of his letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of them into a book, which he presented to Ro- Dert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. Moore, and printed in the Life. In copying fi'om his imperfect sketches (it does not appear that he had the letters actually sent to Lis cor- 'Mpundents before him) he seems to bava occa- sionally enlarged his observations, and altered his expressions. In such instances his emenda-» tions have been adopted ; but in truth there are but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, the rest be- ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the public eye. In printing this volume, the Editor has found some corrections of grammar necessary ; but these have been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even of literary characters, who have not been in the habit of carrying their compositions to the press. These corrections have never been extended to any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, even where his phraseology may seem to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- guage, which he wrote in general with great accuracy. Some diflerence will indeed be found in this respect in his earlier ami in his later compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the history of his mind. In this Edition, several new letters were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, and which have been taken from the works of Cromek and the more recent publishers. The series commences with the Bard's Love Lcttert — the first four being of that description. They were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : why, has not l)een explained. They have been held to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. He states the issue of the courtship in these terms : — " To crown my distresses, a bdleJJlle whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet mc in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock- hart remarks of the letters; — " They are surely as well worth preserving, as many in the Col- lection ; particularly when their early date is considered." — He then quotes from them large- ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did Burns woo his country maidens, in at most bin 20th year." But we suspect the fault of the English was, that it was too good. It was too coldly correct to suit the taste of the f lir maiden ; had the wooer used a sprinkling of his nativd tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitution- al enthusiasm, he might have had more succcs*. LETTERS, &c. LOVE LETTERS. No, I. (written about the year 1780.) ] rERiLY believe, my dear Eliza, that the pure tcuuiue feelings of love, are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue md piety. This, 1 hope, will account for the ancommon style of all my letters to you. By ancommon, I mean, their being written in such I serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, las made me often afraid lest you should take ne for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his nistress as he would converse with his minis- ter. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for ihough, except your company, there is nothing )n earth that gives me so much pleasure as .rriting to you, yet it never gives me those fiddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 1 have often thought, that if a well-grounded af- fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- thing exticinely a-kin to it. Whenever the tL'jught (>{ my Eliza warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of gcnero- Ri'.y, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every ♦II ty spark of malice and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equal- ly participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- titude for the blessing which I hope he intends tt bestow on me, in bestowing you. I sincere- ly wish that he may bless my endeavours to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the un- kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in r. y view, worthy of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- fection is centered ill her pocket ; and the sla- vish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the corse- market, to choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we may sa)' of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly* disdain their lirty, ptT.y ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if 1 tnougtf I were capable of having so poor a notion o\ the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devJN ! I don't envy them their haj)pines3 who have such notions For my part, I propose quite other pleasure* with my dear partner. ...... No. 11. TO THE SAME. MY DEAR ELIZA, I DO not remember in the course of your ac- quaintance and mine, ever to have heard yoiu opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of life : i do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is rea'Jy ^la^ ced on the person. Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I havi; some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are ninth better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good manage- ment, that there are not more unhappy mar- riages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of ihe females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves ; some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something, he knows not what, ])lease9 him, h knows net how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greatest part of us, and I must own, my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one aj you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and vet though you use him ever so favourably, per- haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may m;ike liim as distractedly fond of another, whilst yoB are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have piofesscd for you is perhaps one of those transient flashev J have 248 BURNS' WORKS. been describing ; but I hope, niy dear Eliza, you will do nie the justice to believe me, when I assure you, that the love I have for you is fouuded on the sacreii principles of virtue and nonour, and by consequence, so long as you con- tir'j" possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the mar- ri>'d state hapi)y. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please ; and a warm fancy with a flew of youthful spirits, may make them feel sometbing like what '^"v describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has aUvays been my opinion, that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see, that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af- fection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- proved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my afiection for her, " O : "-;~;'v sitat*;, when souls each other draw, " When love is liberty, and nature law." T know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridi- culous — but the language of the heart is, my dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use .0 you. When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship — but I shall make no apoli>- gy — I know your good nature will excuse what vour good sense may see amiss. No. III. TO THE SA3IE. Jir DEAR EI.IKA, I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly un- lucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easi- est way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. 1 do not think that it is very difficult for a person of or- dinary cajiacity to talk of love and fonilness, which are not felt, and to make vows of con- stancy and fidelity, which are never intended to be performed, if he lit villain enouE^h to prao. tise such detestable conduct ; but to a maj whose heart glows with the princi))lrs of in- tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this ])resent moment, courtship is a task indeed. Theie is such a number of forebod.ng feais, and distrust- ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to wiite to you, that what to speak or what to write I am iltogether at a loss. I'here is one rule which I have hitherto prac- tised, and which I shall invariablv keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and un- manly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be used by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea-. vour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so gener- ous as to admit me for your partner, your com- panion, your bosom friend through life ; there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this ; that you would soon either l)ut an end to my hopes by a peremjjtory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness ; and if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- band ; I hope you shall ever find them in yodr real friend and sincere lover. No. IV. TO THE SAME. I ouciiT in good manners to have acknow* ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write to you on the subject. J will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving you/ letter. I read it over and over, again and again and though it was in the politest language of re- fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me" wImv, without you, I never can obtain, " you wish me all kind of happiness. " It would be weak and unmanly to sav, that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am. that iShm CORRESPONDENCE. ing life with you, would liave given it a relish, that, wan'ing you, I never can taste. Your uncommoa personal advantages, and your superior good sense, do not so much strike me ; these, possibly in a few instances, may be met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming o&ipring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, heigh- tened by an education much beyond any thing I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- ed to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- face. Wy imagination has fondly flattered itself with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather toH warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear expression for once.) LETTERS, 1783, 1784. No. V. TO MR, JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. BEAR SIR, Loclilee, \bth January, 1783. As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter, without putting you to that expense which any juoductiori of mine would but ill re- pay, I eml)race it with pleasure, to tell vou that J have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obhsjations I lie under to your kindness and friendship. I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know wiiat has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the ediicaticm I have gotten ; but as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. — One wouM have thought, that bred IL8 I have been, under a father who has figured pretty well as un hommc des affaires, 1 might have been what the world calls n pushing, ac- tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth. Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see, and observe ; and I very easily compoimd with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be my thing original about him which shows me human nature in a different light from any thing I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their manners, and theii ways;" and for this darling subject, I cheer- fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift* of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me : 1 know that even then my talent for what country folks call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- fied by a hoary head, would procure me so nmch esteem, that even then — I would learn to be happy. However, I am under no apprehensions about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extremely delicate constitution permit*, I aiu not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- deed for the sake of the money, but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endeai-s economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very ])rofusc. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as S/ienstone, particularly his £ler/ics ; Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a hoidv I prize next to the Bible ; Man of the World ; ISterne, especially his Sentimental Journer/ ; Macpher- sinis Ossiun, §-c. These are the glorious mo- dels afte: which I endeavour to form my con- duct; and 'tis incogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- timents lightened up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race — he " who can soar above this little scene of things," can he descend to mind the paltry concerns abcu' which the terr*- filial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! 1 forget that 1 am a poor insignificant devil, un- noticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- ing the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side as aji idle encumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience ; so shall conclude with Degging you to give ^Irs. • The la=!t shift alhided to here, must bo tlic condf )n of an itinerant beggar 112 S50 BURNS' V^ORKS. Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a mere common-placs story, but — my warmest, kindest wishes for lisr welfare ; and accept of the same for yourself, from, Dear Sir, Yours, &c. No VI. [the following is taken from the MS. PROSE PRESENTED BY OUR BARD TO MR. RIDDEL.] On rummaging over some old papers, I light- ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to write myself out, as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the i\nd hope that, some time or other, even after I Vi>s no more, my thoughts would fall into the h. njis of somebody capable of appreciating their val.ie. It sets oif thus : Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poe- try, S^s. hy R. S. — a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, and a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational. As he was but little Indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic way of life ; but as I believe they are really his own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature, to see how a plough- man thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, ambitioUj, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passionS; which, however diversified by the "itod-s and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the species. " There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the same importance which they do to those which appear in print." — Shenstone. " Pleasing, when youth is lorig expired, to trace The forms our pencil, dV our pen designed ! Such was cur youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of our youthful mind." Ibid. April, T783. Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads a. young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest enco- miums that have been passed on it. If any thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in the compaiy of the mistress of his heart, wlipn she repays him with an equal return of «&»> tion. .4ugust. There is certainly some connection between love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I have always thought a fine toucl of nature, that passage in a modern love composition : " As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along. Her name was frequent in his song. " For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. September. I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- guish. Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self! * Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— Of guilt, perhap^J, where we've involved others , The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruiia ! O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; And, after proper purpose of amendment. Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peac* * O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! O glorious magnanimity of soul. Mat^h, 1734. I have often observed, in the course of my Experience of human life, that every man, even the wors^, has something good about him ; tlioutrh wy often nothing else than a ha)ipy CORR£f.PONDENCE. 251 temperament cf constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other peFson, be- sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us, examine im- partially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such temptation ; and, what often, if not always weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye. I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ifdinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- ther than was consistent with the safety of my character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- lity or headstrong passions, have beej driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes " stained with guilt, .... . . . ," I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested fiiendship, and even modesty. April. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out- of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- sure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast : but there is some- thing even in the " Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — wluch raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it plea- sure — but something which exalts me, some- thing which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the jionipous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the wings of the wind.' In on: of these seasdus just after a train of nisfortunes, I composed the following : The wintry west extends his blast, &c. See Songs. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic oi love-composition, except he himself, in one or more instances, hive been a warm votary of this passion. As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was at the time, genuine from the heart. Behind yon hills, &c. See Sonars. I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- lent — in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining compa- rison between his own situatioc and that of others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose heart* are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that Being to whom we ewe life, with every enjoyment that can render life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revelation teach uf to expect beyond the grave : I do not see tha; the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of po. verty and obscurity, are in the least mo;e inini" 252 BURNS' WORKS. caI to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours ; and I do not see but that he n'.ay gaiu Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- ter all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of he- roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity!) are now "buried among the wreck of things which were." O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the muses' train — one who, moiigh far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes toar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the World — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the loss of his Illt'.e fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love I This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and more than all. R. B. LETTERS, 1786. No. VII. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, Edinburgh. for your silence and neglect ; I shall only sty 1 received yours with great pleasure. I have en' closed you a piece of rhyming ware for youi perusal. I have been very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among se- veral others, The Ordination, a poem on Mr. ISI'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch Drink, a poem ; T/ie Cotter's Saturday Night; An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not shewn it to the world. My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I '^\]X re- mit you the money. I have no news to ac- quaint you with about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some very im- portant news with respect to myself, not the most agreeable, news that I am sure you camiot guess, but I shall give you the particulars an- other time. I am extremely happy with Smith j-^ he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, ind I beg you will let me hear from you regU" iarly by Connel. If you would act your part as a FRIEND, I am sure neither good nor bud for ■ tune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday I am, My dear Sir, Yours, ROBt. BURNESS.t No. VIII. TO MR. MnVHINNIE, Writer, Ate. Mossgiel, I7ih April, 1786. It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the impression of the good Crea- tor, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my oivn feelings in requesting your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of your power. I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment • ConnaJ— the Mauchline carrier. t Mr. James Smith, tlien a shop-keeper in Maueli. line. It was to this young man that Burr s addressed ^if of his finest performances—" To J. !j " be^ ginning " Dear S , the slcest, paukte tliief." He died In the West-Indies. MY TEAR sill, 3Tossfjicl, Feb. 17, 1 786. * T'lj" 'V^^ "."1^ l""'"'^ '^? ^'^'*'"' '"^'^ T' "^'^^ '* sijitAivoi , ./ , ', . , which tlie Poet adds the termination ffj to his name I HAVE not time at pieseiit to upbraid you | as his fatiier and family had spelled it. CORRESPONDENCE. 263 wbicli stamps tlie die with — with — with, per. haps the eternal disgrace of, My dear Sir, You humbled, afflicted, tormented robt. burns. No. IX. TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, JMauciiline. MoTiday Morning, Mossgid, 1786. My 1)EAR SIR, I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- solved to take the opportunity of Capt. Smith ; but . •'bund the Doctor with a J\Ir. and Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever iu conse- quence of hard travelling in tlie sun.i On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept. right fur the place of my destination. The Cap- tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- ton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am pre- pared to meet it. — I'll laugh, an* sing, an' shake my leg. As lang's i dow. On Thursday morning, if you can muster as ouch self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness fur me among them. — O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you To temper man ! we had been brutes without you ! No. X. TO 1\JR. DAVID BRICE. tEAR BuicE, Mossgiel, June 12, 178G. I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson, knd as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worth- less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can •carcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasura to mention or you to hear. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on het way home that is to take me out to Jamaica ■ and then, faiewell dear old Scotland, and fare- well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to com- mence Poet in print ; and to-morrow my worki go to the press. I expect it will be a volume oi about two hundred pages — it is just the last foo - ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe me to be, Dear Brice, Your friend and well-wisher. No. XI. TO ISIR. AIKEN (the gentleman to whom the cotter's saturday night is addressed.) SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by -gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, tlie paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; but this you know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an epocha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- ment of the British national debt. There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my grati- tude to Mr. Ballantyue, by publishing my poen of Tlie Brigs of Ayr. I would detest mysel as a wretch, if I thought I were caoable, in a very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with my- self in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of re- flection, but bhecrly the instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxima and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotationt and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which may perhapt make it impracticable for me to stay at home 254 BURNS' WORKS. and besides,, 'i have for some time oeen pining under secrei, wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the pang of disappoint- ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society or the vaga- ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, ray gaiety is the madness of an intoxica- ted criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it. gressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manner! (which last, by the bye, was rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these pas- sive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful com- peers ("those misguided few excepted, who join- ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of the human race), were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- ng idle in the market place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. YcTi may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical, in some points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- fancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in my liieast, and blessed me with immortality ! I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thick- ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my Weuefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; but should inimical cir- cumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail farther misery— To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last complaint, as the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- fenceless, I looked about in vain for a caver. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy Kcene, and man a creature destined for a pru- You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending thera, I stand a fair chance ; but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from alwayi implying it. * No. XII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. MADAM, Ayrshire, 1786 I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, JMadam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour oj his Country. " Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal : the next was The History oJ Sir William Wallace : f )r several of my ear- lier years I had few other authors ; aud many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laboii- ous vocations of the dav, to shed a tear over their gloiious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being * This letter was evidently written Bnder the dia tress of inind occasioned by our Poet's separation fro» Mrs. Burns. CORRESPONDENCE. 255 Ctrurk with that part of W'allace's story where I scension and afFahility, they -yould never stand these lines occur — I so high, measurinsf out \v \h every looK the " Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat." I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as mui-h devout enthusiasm as ever pil- grim did to Loretto : and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glow- ed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. No. XIII. TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. MAT)\M, 1786. The hurry of my preparations for going a- broad has hindered me from performing my pro- mise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- tainment to you : but of that I am far from be- ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune uf Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impro- priety of exposing much even in manuscript. I think, niysell, .t lias some merit, both as a to- lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in- deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- ful young woman ;• but I have no common friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. I am quite aware. Madam, what task the world would assign me in chis letter. The ob- scure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the alcarwith ihe incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and godlike qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connections in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am a- fraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the roa.i|HT here alluded to, vins written br Mr. M'Kenzie, the celebrated auilior of the Man of t'evU rng. I This letter is now presented entije. 258 BURNS' WORKS. raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throw- ing the said Apostle John, hrother to the Apostle James, comnionry called James the greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by t"ie name of James the less, after thrdwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- raculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee, to a desert island iu the Archipe- lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- stance not very uncommon in story- telling, brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- ed ; I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank iu the address to Edinburgh — " Fair B ," is heavenly Wiss Burnet, daugh- ter to Lord Monbodds, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been any thing nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first d;iy of her existence. My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- chant, Bridge- Street. LETTERS, 1787. No. XXI. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 17S7. Ml HONOURED FRIEND, It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's skate, " past redemption ;"• for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Mil- ler, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dalswin- ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whis- per me that I will be happier any where than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land ; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- nion, an advantageous bargain, that may ruin nie. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I re- turn, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. • This is one of a great number of old saws that tJurns, when a lad, nad plck?dupfrom his mother, of which the good old v/oman had a vast coHection. I went to a Mason-loffge yesternight, where the most Worshipful- Granr* Master Charters, and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotlauid visited.—* The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the different Lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand IMaster, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and Mason, among other general toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother B ," which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunder-struck, and trembling in every nerve made the best re- turn in my power. Just as 1 had finished, seme of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very well indeed !" which set me something to rights aigain. I have to-day corrected my 1 52d page. My best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. I am ever, Dear Sir, Your much indebted humble Servant No. xxn. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. MY LORD, Edinburgh., Jan. 17S7. As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- phy, I cannot riso to the exalted ideas of a ci- tizen of the world ; but have all those national prejudices which, I believe, glow ])eculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely any thing Co which I am so feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare of my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but ne- ver did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be distinguished ; though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- tified with the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful ac- knowledgments; but your patronage is a boun- ty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but my heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer cenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest. CORRESPONDENCE. 25S iNo. XXIII. rO MRS. DUNLOP. »-. .M, EJhihurgh, \bth Jan. 17S7. Yours of the 9th current, which I am this Hioment lionoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserahly awkward at a fib : I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before T wrote to you ; but though, every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and charac- ter, and I am one of " the sons of little men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit* tie character I have ; and to write the author of The View of Society and Manners a letter of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- sition in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im- jjropcr e])ithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and ic?y all allow it to be proper. The song you Jisk I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print, and the enclosed, which I will print in this edi- tion. • You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my Vision, long ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the me- rits of the Saviour of his Conntri/, which, sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected moilesty ; I am wil- ling to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all tlie powers of polite learnina:, polite b(H)ks, and j)olite company — to be drag- geil forth to the full glare of learneienl erected for Ker- Russon by our bard ; this, it is evident, p:issed bclwee* Burns and the Kirk Sescion of llie Canoiitjate. Neithei at Edinburgh, nor anywhere else, do magistratos usu. ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of poor i>oet is furnished^ or how his grave is adorned. 264 BURNS' WORKS. »hcw3 me one thing, which was to be demon Btrated ; tliat strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I, likewise, since you and I Were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength, of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to B wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, " The old man with his deeds" as when we were sporting about the lady thorn. 1 shall be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall expect to hear from you — welcome sense, wel- come nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, My dear old friend, Yours. No. XXXV. TO THE SAME. MT DEAR FRIEND, If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present 1 have time for nothing. Dissipation and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest Scots enthusiast,* a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collfction of all our songs set to music, of which the woids and music are done by Scots- men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number : the first is already pub- lished. 1 shall shew you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fort- night or less. Do be so kind as send me the eong in a day or two : you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. No. XXXVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1767. I READ your lettir with watery eyes. A Ut- ile, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend iitt the stubborn pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pationized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give • Johnson, the puUuker of the Scots Musical Museum. them the cold name of cntieisms, I receive wiA reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed I have the ad vice of some very judicious friends among th« literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Eail of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the hon- our of giving me his strictures : his hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- plicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects ; there 2 can give you no light ; it is all " Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roli'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound." The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest priiis of Johnson and the pauses :.f f^t.Tne in.iy hide a selti>h heart. For my jiirt, Mathiin, I trust I have too much pride for s. rvility, and too httle prudence for selfisliness. I have this moment broke open your letter, but " Rude am I in speech, And therefoie little can I grace my cause In si)eaking for myself — " so r shall not trouble you with any fine speeches ind hunted figures. I shall just 'lay my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have the tr'iest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. I come abroad in print fur certain on Wed- nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and JNIiss W.'s copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle ■vhen I have the honour of waiting on you. Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the cnorning before I received your letter to him. No. XXXVIII. TO DR. MOORE. Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. I REr r:ivED the books, and sent the one you menticD'.cd to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book, is what I have in common with the world ; hut to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Ed*tiburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- dcn- Knoicts, Hanks of Yarrotv, T'weed, ^-c. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- hood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they arc all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundri'*! aiid fifty miles. To tJie rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, .' have no ecjuivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and li- terftture. My mo";t respectful compliments to Miss W If once this tangent flight of mine were over and I were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I may probably endea- vour to retuij her poetic compliment in kind No. XXXIX EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, 30th Ai>ril, 1787. Your criticisms, Madam, I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are light in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered tliose who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no cre- ated being either in prose or verse. I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and per- haps contemptuous neglect. I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are distinguished* by your par- ticular approbation. For my Dream, which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence, in person. No. XL. • Adam Smith. TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIR Lawn-Market, Edinhttrgi, 3d May, 1787. REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, hut could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of my singular si- tuation ; drawn forth from the veriest shade* of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- try, whose works, while they are applauded tc the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and literature, thosr who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- ture of man ; I knew very well, that my utnio merit was far unequal to the task of prescrvi that character when once the novelty was ov# I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almo 266 BURNS' WORKS. eren neglect, wUl not surprise me in my quarters. I have sent you a proof imjiression of Beu- go's work fin- me, June on Indian paper, as a trifling l)ut sincere testimony with what 'aeart- warm gratitude I am, he. No. XLI. FROM DR. BLAIR. Argyle- Square, Edinburgh, 4-th May, 1787. DEAR SIR, I WAS favoured this forenoon with your very obliging letter, together with an impression of your portrait, for which I return you my best thanks. The success you have met with I do not thmk was beyond your merits ; and if I have had any small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in which literary persons, who are advanced iu years, can do more service to the world, than in forwarding the etTorts of lising genius, or bringing foith unknown merit from obscurity. I was the first person who brought out to the notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first by the Fragments of Ancient Poetrg, which I published, and afterwards, by my setting on foot the undertaking fur collecting and publish- ing the Works of Ossian ; and I have always considered this as a meritorious action of niv life. Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular ; and, iu being brought out aM at once from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your charac- ter and behaviour. You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of li(e ; and I trust, will conduct yourself there with mdustry, prudence, and ho- nour. You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the midst of those employ- ments, which your situation will render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that j-steem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- ing to such productions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a haste to come forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents ; for on any second production you give \4ie world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. As you very properly hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in your rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- rounded will that glare of notice and applause which here shone upon you. No man can be g.w^ poet without being somewhat of a phi- J losopher. He must lay his account, that anj one, who exposes himself to public observation, will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- beral censure, which it is always best to over- look and despise. lie will be inclined some- times to couit retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will not affect to shine al- ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth with more advantage and energy. He will not think himself neglected if be be not always praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old man, to give advice and make reflections which your owu good sense will, I dare say, render unnecessary. As you mention your being just about to leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's farms. I heartily wish the ofltirs to be made you there may answer ; as I am persuaded yoo will not easily find a more generous and bettw hearted proprietor to live under than Mr. Mil- ler. When you return, if you come this way, I will be happy to see you, and to know con- cerning your future plans of life. Y(iu will find me, by the 2Sd of this month, not in my house in Argyle Square, but at a country-house at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all success and prosperity, I am, with real regard and esteem, Dear Sir, Yours sincerely, HUGH BLAIK. No. XLII. TO WILLIAxM CREECH, Esq. (^of Edinburgh,") London. Selkirk, I3th May, 1787. MY HONOURED FRIEND, The enclosed* I have just wrote, nearly ex tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirkshires ; and next week I begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Harlot, sister to my noble pa- tron. Quern Deus conservet ! I would write tiJl I would tire you as much with dull prose as I dare say by this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a grate- ful farewell, I have the honour to be. Good Sir, yours sincerely. * Elegy on W. Creech ; see Uie Poetry. CORRESPONDENCE. 267 No. XLIII. FROM DR. MOORE Clifford Street, May 23, 1787. •lAR ilR, I liAD the pleasure of your letter by Jlr. Creech, and soon alter he sent me the new edi- rion of your poems. You seem to think it in- :umhent on you to send to each subscriber a juniber of copies proportionate to his subscrip- ;ion money ; but you may depend upon it, few Bubscribers expect more than one copy, what- ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- ever, that I took twelve copies for those subscri- bers for whose money you were so accurate as to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglintoa told me he had sent for six co|)ies fur himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- ter Niglity the Address to Edinburgh, Green gvDic the Rashes, and the two songs immediate- ly fcdlowiiig ; the latter of which was exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- lent for such compositions, which you ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired on account of his Odes than all his other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and Cotter's Satiirdni/ Nii/ht. In these are united fine imagery, na- tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and thought. It is evident that you already possess a great variety of expression and command of the English language ; you ought, therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future in the provincial dialect : — why should you, by using that, limit the number of your admirers lo those who understand the Scottish, when yo i can extend it to all persons of taste who under stand the English language? In my opinion, you should plan some larger work than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper subject, and arrange the plan iu your mind, without beginning to execute any part of it till jou have studied most of the best English poets, and read a little more of history. The Greek and Roman stories you can read in some abridgment, and soon become master of the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- light a poetical mind. You should also, and very soon mai/, become master of the heathen mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- sions in all the poets, and which in itself is ch.irmingiy fanciful. What will require to be studied with more attention, is modern history ; that is, the history of France and Great Britain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I know very well you have a mind capable of ittaining knowledge by a shorter process than M commonly used, and I am certain you are ca- pable of making a better use of it, when attain ed, than is generally done. I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing to me when it is iiieonvenunt, and make no apology, when you do write, for ha- ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however that I shall always be happy to hear from you I think my friend j\lr. told me that yoL had some poems in manuscript by you of a sati- rical and humorous nature (in which, by the way, I think you very strong), which your i)ru- dent friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- larly one called Somebodi/'s Confession ; if you will entrust me with a sight of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no co])ies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal of theui. I understand you intend to take a farm, and make the useful and respectable business of hus- bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will not prevent your making occasional addresses to the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- vour, one of whom visited you in the auld cluif bigyin. Virgil, before you, jiroved to the world that there is nothing in the business of husband- ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that you. may afford an example of a good poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in my power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may depend on a very cordial welcome from this fa- mily. I am, dear Sir, Your friend and obedient servant. J. MOORE. • His subsequent compositions will bear testimony ao the aixuracy of Dr. Moore's judgment. No. XLIV. TO MR. W. NICOLL, Master of the High-School, Edinburgh. Carlisle, June 1, 17S7. KIND, HONEST-HEARTED WILLIE. I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin, e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a forfougbten cock, to gie you some notion o' my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' atda Reekie. My auld, ga'd glcyde o* a meere has huchy- all'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnte as a vera devil wi me.* It's true, she's as poor s a sang-inaker ♦ This mare was the Poet's favourite Jenxv Gun. DBS, of whom honourable and most humorous men- tion is made in a letter, inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, vol. i. p. 165. This old and faithful servant of the Poet's was named by him, after the old woman, who in her zeal .if;ainst religious innovation, threw a stool at the Dean o*. Edinbiirjih's head, when he attempted m 1"37. to in troduee the bcotlish Litmgy. " Uu Sunday, tlie 234 268 BURNS' WORKS. and as hiirirs a kirk, ana tippcr-taipers when the tiiks the gate, first -ike a lady's gentlewoman in a ininuwae, or a hen on het girdle, but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran fur a' that, and has a stoniack like Willie Stalker's metre that wad hae distjeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me afi" her five stimparts o' the best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. V/hen anceher ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile a day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a guid fa.low, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a son>ie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's » new blawn plunirose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bri;d to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum and rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my hari- gals Were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. I vi'as gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude furgie me, I gat niysel sae notouriously bitchify'd the d.iy after kail-time that I can hardly stoiter but and ben. ]My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common frieas, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Crui'K- shank and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale. Gude be wi* you, Willie ! Amen !— No. XLV. FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. Jamaica, St. Anus, \Uh June, 1787. SIR, I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Ja- nuary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for of July, the De.'n of Edinburgh prep.ired to officiate in St Gilci's. The congregation continued quiet till the -ervice bc[;an, when an old woman, impelled by sudden indis^nation, started up, and exclaimini; aloud, Villain! do^t thou ssy the Mass at my lua !' threw the stool on which she had been sitting, at the Dean's liead. A wild uproar commenced that instant. The •ervice was interrupted. The women inv.ided the desl with execrations and outcries, and the Dean dis- engaged himself from his surplice to escape trom their hauds."^ — Lttitig't Hist of Scotland, vol. iii. p. 122. three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-yewrj and am happy some unexpected accidents int«r- vened that prevented your sailing with the vei- sel, as I have great reason to think j\Ir. Dou- glas's employ would by no means have answer. ed your expcctatitms. I received a copy of yout publications, for which I return yon my thanks, and it is my own opinion, as well as that o." such of my friends as have seen them, they are most excellent in their kind ; although some could have wished they had been in the English style, as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and beauties of your posms are in a great measure lost to far the greater part of the community. Nevertheless there is no doubt you hud sufficient reasons for your conduct — perhaps the wishes of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, yonr patrons, who will always relish their own old country style; and your own inclinations for the same. It is evident from several passages in your works, you are as capable of writing in the English as in the Scottish dialect, and lam in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the specimen you have already given, will turn out both for profit aud honour to yourself and country. I can by no means advise you now to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I assure you, there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius here ; and am very confident you can do far better in Great Bri- tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my friends are well, and shall always be happy to hear from you at all convenient opportunities, wishing you success in all your undertakings. I will esteem it a particular favour if you will send me a copy of the other edition you are now printing. I am, with respect. Dear Sir, yours, &c. JOHN HUTCHINSON No. XL VI. TO MR. W. NICOLL. MauchUne, June 18, 1787. MY DEAR FRIEND, I AM now arrived safe in my native country after a very agreeable jaimt, and have the plea- suie to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex. cellent appearance and sterling good sense. I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him agaiu in August. From my view of the lands and his reception of my hardship, my hopes in that business are rather n.ended ; but still they are but slinder. I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks- Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, k CORRESPONDENCE. 26S a man wliom I shall ever gntefully remember ; and his wife, Gud« foi<;ie me, I had almost broke the tenia commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, g(X)d sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart ; in short — but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of any thing generous ; but the stateli- ness of the Patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about ■with me, in order to study the sentiments — the dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- ing independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hith- erto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. — IMisfortune dodges the path of human life ; the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unlit for the walks of i)usiness ; add to all, that, thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like so many igiies fattii, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant tkis may be an unreal jjicture with re- spect to me ! but should it not, I have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and friend- ehip which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they are almost all of them of such trail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me " through good report and bad report" — the love which Soh>nion emph itically says " Is strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. N.'coll, and all the circle of our common friends. P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter ead of July. and Stirling, and am Jelighted with their ap- pearance : richly waving cro|is of wheat, barley, &c. but no harvest at all yet, except in one or two places, an old Wife's Ridge. — Yestardar morning I rode from this towa ap the mean- dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Cau- dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston ; and after spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. They are a family. Sir, though I had not had any prior tie ; though they had not been the brother and sifters of a certain generoui friend of mine, I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these several years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks are now. Your brother is as tall as yon are, but slender rather than other- wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of those consump- tive symptoms which 1 supjiose you know were threatening him. His make, and particular^ his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. (I put in the word still, to please Mis. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features in his character ; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Ome- ga, he has a heait might adoin the breast of a poet ! Grace has a good figure and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else re- nuiikahle in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; but as we grew bett.<»' acquaiiitL'd, I was delighted with the nativo frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte, 1 cannot speak in common terms of admiration : she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- gant ; her features not regular, but they have the omile of sweetness and the settled compla- cency of good nature in the highest degree ; and her comjdexion, now that she has hajipily re- covered her wonted health, is equal to Misa Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding to the Palis, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donue'a mistress : " Her pure and eloquent blood her cheeks, and so distinctly Spoke wrought, That one would almost say her body thought.' Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive oi good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. I do not give you all this account, my good I Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you, Such relations the first peer in the realrj might MT DEAR SIR, Stirlincj, 2Sih Aug, 1787. own with pride ; then why do you not keep up Here a.in J on my way to Inverness. I have more correspondence witl: these so amiable ramblet attachment to misguided principles. When you have once thought of a plot, and brought the story into form. Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, may be useful in dividing it into acts and scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some attention to certain rules of the drama. These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me advise you to stuily the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, • which s natural without being low, and, under the trammels of verse, is such as country people in their situations speak every day. You have only to bring down your own strain a very lit- tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. I approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, but not so great as to absorb better things. And if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- ment. Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, permit me to go a step fartler. Let ENGLISHED. • On the banks of the Teith, In the small but sweet inheritance Of my fathers. May I and mine live iiu |>eace. And die in joyful hope ! These inscriptions, and th; trtnslations, are j) th« hand. writing of Mr. !l * Allan R.amsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. 272 BURNS' WORKS. those bright talents which the Ahnighty has bestowed on you, 1)3 henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a hundred enemies fur one friend, and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- duals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always ditFered ; and there are certain curious ques- tions, which may affind scope to men of meta- physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- cur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints. Well ! what think you of good lady G. ? It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- pitality and elevation of tnind were conspicu- ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it were no more than to show that you take the effusions of an obscure man like me in good part. I beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock,* And am. Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. Nc LT. FROM MR. W Alhnh House, ISth September, ITS'). Your letter of the 5th reached me only ox the 11th; what awkward route it had taken 5 know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure of writing to you in the manner yoi proposed, as you must have left Dundee before a letter could possibly have got there. I hope your disappointment on being forced to leave us was as great as appeared from your expressions. This is the best c.->nsolation for the greatness of ours. I still think with vexation on that ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) possessed of those very dispositions and talents I most admire ; one . You know how anxious the Duke was to have another day of you, and to let Mr. Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation as the best dainty with which he could enter- tain an honoured gtiest. You know likewise the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; but perhaps you do not know the scheme which they devised, with their usual fertility in resources. One of the servants was sent to Her house is a specimen of the man- your driver to bril)e him to loosen or pull off a shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush before the fire, and plenty of innirlcfi, or Highlanrt soup, prepared to conclude their meal. — The whol': fs- mily and their guest ate heartily, and the evenint; was spent as usual, in tellini; tales and singing songs he. side a cheerful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron hrushed the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The Enrl wrapped his plaid about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst ihe family betook themselves to rest in a corner of the same room. • TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. Iw one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- tury), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the command of the royal armv. They marched into Loehaber, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don- alds, commanded by Donald Balloeh, and posted upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Hav- ing timely mtelligence of their approach, the insur- gents got off )irccipitately to the opposite shpre in their euraghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's troops encamped m foil security ; but theM'Donalds, returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole army. The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any attendants, and made for the more hilly part of the country. In the course of his flight he came to the house of a poor man, w hose name was Omeron Came- ron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut- most kindness; but, as there was no meat in. the house, he told his wife he would directly kill Mool Od/iar, f to faed the stranger. " KUl our only cow !" said she, ♦' our own and our little r Mrcn's principal support I" More attentive, however, vj the present call for hospi- tality, than to the reri^-onstrances of his wife, or the future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. The best and tendcrtst parts weie immediately roasted ♦ Moo) Odhar, i. *. the brown humble cow. Next morning they had a plpntiful breakfast, and at his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew whom he had entertained? " You may probably," answered he, " be one of the king's ofhcers ; but who« ever you are, you came here in distress, and hers it was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, you are most welcome." — " Your guest, then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mai : and if herealter you fall into any misfortune, f.iil not toconie to the castle of Ivildrummie."— " My blessing be with you I noble stranger," said Omeron; " if 1 am ever in distress, you shall soon see me." 'The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the insurgents, finding themselves un.able to make head against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife and children to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and required admittance with a confidence which hardly corresponded with his h:ibit and appearance. The porter told him rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He beoauie noisy and impor- tunate : at last his name w.as announced. Upon hear- ing 1 h.nt it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seat, and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of poe. tical stauita, " I was a night in his house, and fared most plentifully; but naked of clothes was mv bed, Omeron from Breugach is an excellent fellow!" He was introdured into the great hall, anil received with the welcome he deserved. Upon hearing how I e had been treateil, the Earl gave him a four merk land neat the castle; and it is said there are still in the country a number of Cainerons descended of this Highlanc Eumsusi CORRESPONDENCE. 27.'» failed. Prnit mjfu-n I The driver was incor- ruptihlt. Your verses have given us much deliijlit, and I think will produce their proper eftect.' Tliey proiluced a powerful one iin- mediarcly ; for the morning after I read them, we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where none of the ladies had bee ; these seven or eight years, and again enjoyed thera there. The passages we most admired are the descrip- tion of tile 'lying trouts. Of the high fall " twisting strength," is a happy picture of the upper p.irt. The characters of the birds, " mild anil mellow," is the thrush itself. The benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe- ty I higlily ai)prove. The two stanzas be- ginning " Here haply too" — darkli/ dasliingia ani'St descriptively Ossianic. Here I caimot deny myself the pleasure of mentioning an incident which hapjjened yester- day at the Bruar. As we passed the dooi of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied to us with locks of such poverty, and such con- tentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her some money. She was astonished, and in the confusion of her gratitude, invited us in. Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, entered — but, good God, what wretchedness! It was a cow-house — her own cottage had been burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood perfectly silent — looked at JMiss C. then to the money, and burst into tears — JMiss C. joined her, and, with a vehemence of sensibility, took out her purse, and emptied it into the old wo- man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a (situation ! Take your pencil and paint her in your nio>t glowing tints Hold her up amidst the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, without ever feeling one generous, one great emotion. Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- mouth. It is a charming place, but still 1 think art has been too busy. Let me be your Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked nature we aie not surpassed. The loch, the Gothic arcade, and the full of the hermitage, gave me most delight. But I think the hist has not been taken proper advantage of. The hermitage is too much in the common-phce style. Every body exp"cts the couch, the book- press, a (I the hairy gown. The Duke's idea I think better. A rich and elegant apartment is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine horrors. I must now beg your pernn'ssion (unless you have some other design) d have your verses printed. They ajipear to me extremely cor- • " The humble petition of Bruar. \V»tcr to the Duke of Athole." ^ rect, and some particular stanzas woald give universal pleasure. Let me know, however, if you incline to give them any farther touches. Were they in some of the pu!>lic papers, w« could more easily disseminate them among our friends, which many of us are anxious to do. When you pay your promised visit to the Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and Mrs. Graham of Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- ing you to th& bower of Besmj Bell and Mary Gray, Vv-hich is now in their possession. The Duchess would give any consideration for an- other sight of your letter to Dr. Moore; we must fall upon some method .f procuring it for her. I shall enclose this to our mutual friend Dr. B , who may forward it. I shall be extremely happy to hear from you at your first leisure. Enclose your letter in a cover address- ed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. God bless you, J W . No. LIL FROM MR. A- M- sir., 6th October, 1787. Havinc just arrived from abroad, I had your poems |)ut into my hands: the pleasure I re- ceived in reading them, has induced me to so- licit your liberty to publish them amongst i number of our countrymen in America, (tc which place I shall shortly return), and whert they will be a treat of such excellence, that i would be an injury to your merit and their feeU ing to prevent their ap])earing in public. Receive the following hastily-written linel from a well-wisher. Faih fa' your pen, my dainty Rob, Your leisom way o' writing, Whiles, glowring o'er your warks I sob, Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting Y^our sonsie tykes may charm a chiel. Their words are wondrous bonny, But guid Scotch drink the truth does si.? It is as guid as ony Wi' you this day. Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nac but thinki Ye did the poor thing wrang. To leave her tether'd on the brink ' Of stank sae wide and lang ; Her dying words upbraid ye sair, Cry fye on your neglect ; Guid faith. ! gin ye had got play fair This deed had stretch'd your neck That mourijfu* dxip. But, wae's me, how dare I fin' faut» Wi' sic a winsome bardie* 274 Wha great an' siiia's !)egun to daut, And tak' bim by the gardie ; it sets na ony lawland chiel, Like you to verse or ihyrue, For few like you can fley the de'il, And skelp nuld wither'd Time On ony day. It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, Be he of purest fame, If he but tries to raise as Allan, Auld Scotia's bonny name ; To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, Better 1 canna gi'e, And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, Accept these lines frae me, Upo' this day. Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, Frae that e'en to the line, In ilka place where Scotsmen bleed, There shall your hardship shine ; Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick. Will there aye meet a brither, Fe lang may seek, and lang will look. Ere he fin' sic anither On ony day. Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge Some wark of wordie mak', I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge, But now my farewell tak' : Lang may you live, lang may you write, And sing like English Weischell, This prayer I do myself indite, From yours still, A M , This very day. BURNS' WORKS. up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into OM bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne- glected airs, which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. But if it \» true that Corelli (whom I looked on as tho Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their taste ; — this, however, is going out of my province. You can show Mr. Burns the manner of singing these same lithiiffs ; and, il he can humour it in words, I do not despair oi seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the original style, round a napkin. I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, some time or other, to have the pleasure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog and Mylne. If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the frown of his diocesan. I am, Dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY No. Lin. FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, TO THE REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskine. DEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 22d Oct. 1787. Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose poems, I dare say, have given you much plea- sure. LTpon a personal acquaintance, I doubt !iot, you will relish the man as much as his works, ill which there is a rich vein of intel- lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- land luiniys or songs played, which delighted him so much that he has made words to one or two of them, which will render these more popular As he has thought of being in your quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a eamjile of those sweet artless melodies, which only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) to congeniaJ vords. I wish we could conjure No. LIV. FROM MR. RAMSAY, TO DR. BLACKLOCK. DEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 21th Oct. 1787. I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed be- tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other day to your care. You may tell BIr. Burns, when you see him. that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, that his cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was uo poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, having written the words of The Bush aiioon Traquair, and Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was addressed was JMary Stewart of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty-five years ago. He was a prettf young man, and had lived lone in I'rance. Lady Ankerville is his niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. An epitapK CORRESPONDENCii. 27c moflg ;r IiT. • Mr. NiooiL 276 BURNS' WORKS. etic engagement, I sit down imni«nd, JOHN SKINNER. • " A plan of publishing a corapletB collection of *«cttish Songs," iic No. LVIII. FROM MRS. ROSS. SIR, Kilravoch Castle, SOth Nov. 17S7. I HOPE you will do me the justice to believe, that it was no defect in gratitude for your punctual performance of your parting promise, that has made me so long in ackni ivledging it, but merely the difficulty I had in getting the Highland songs you wished to have, accurately noted ; they are at last enclosed ; but how shaL I convey along with them those graces they ac- quired from the melodious voice of one of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrumraie ! These I must leave to your imagination to supply. I has powers sufficient to transport you to her CCRRESPONDENCE. 277 vi]e, to recall her aicents, am J to make them Btill viDrate in the cars of meii.ory. To her 1 air. \n(!el>te(i for geX'mg the enclosed notes. They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, and wnrds thr.t burn." These, however, being in an unknown tongue to you, you must again have recourse to thi^t same fertile imagination of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties of an adored mistress — why did I say unknown ? The hr 'e of love is au universal one, that seein« v ave escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- derstood by all nations. I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so mjiiy things, persons, and places iu your northern tour, because it leads me to hope vou may be induced to revisit them again. That the old cstle of K k, and its inhabitants, were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. I am even vain enough to admit your very flat- tering application of the line of Addison's ; at anv rate, allow me to believe that " friendship will maintain the ground she has occupied" iu both our hearts, in spite of absence, and that, when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of a score of years standing ; and on this footin tncnds !»f Job, of affliction-bearing menaory, when they sat down with him seven Jays and seven nights, and spake not a word. I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and a» soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness and resumed its functions, I cast about what this muiia of yours might por- ten-.lx." 1 wjs nearly as nii'ch strucn hs t)ie , • of tlie Scots Musical Muwum. 278 BURNS' WORKS. You will see a small attempt on a shred of pa- per in tlie book ; but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satis- fied with it myself. I intend to make it de- •cription of some kind : the whining cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly nand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-miuister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline . — a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- rum, John of Badenyon, &c. I suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest paetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a copy of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to wait on IVfr. Rliller about his farms Do tell that to Lady M'KenzIe, that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell with prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! How happy should I be to pass a winter even- ing under their venerable roof ! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-qu.ishmg gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- bered in the old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to Herveiston, but all in vaiu. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its efft^ct on the lovely half of man- kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale of other years." — In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the admiration with which I re- gard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- ship ; 1 am charmed with the wild but grace- ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain jiassion dont j' ai eu Vhomieur d'etre un miserable csclave : as for fi iendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- nent pleasure, " which the woild cannot give, nor take away," I hope ; and which v,'ll out- kst the heavens and the earth. our fimily), I am determined, if ity Duinltiel business fail me, to return into partnership with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. I assure you 1 look fof high compliments from you anil Charlotte on this very sage instance of my unfathomable, in- comprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compliment, now com- pleted. The air is admirable : true ol-.l High- land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song whicb an Inverness lady sung me when I wis there ; and I was so charmed with it that I begjed ht» to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it had never been set before. I a.n fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; so Cha.-- lotte and you need not spend your precious timt in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well : and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but just. (^Here follows the song of " The Banks oftki Devon.") Without date. I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- tiy. I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, &n exceedingly prudent, sober man, ((|ualities which are only a younger brother's fortune in Edinhurgh, Nov. 21, 1787. I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly- welcome, well filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- possible that even you t',V!>, whom 1 declare to my God, I will givs credit for ar.jr d"2;'-He of excellence the sex are capible of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at tl-.at rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall after a few letters hear no more ot you. I in sist that you shall write whatever tomes first what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bag- atelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have ai:y .! though thank heaven I have found at last two girls who can be luxtiriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, A LOVER. Char'.ctte and you are just two favourite rest- iiif^ places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world- God knows 1 am ill-fitted for the struggle : 1 glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thoue'bJ a wise man — I would fondly be generous, nai I wish to be rich. After all, I am afiaid I am a lost subject. " Seme folk hae a hantle n fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflec- tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrickt by the title of the " Wabster's grace." CORRESPONDENCE. 279 '' Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, Some say we lie, ann e"eu sae do we ! Guide t'orgie us, and I Hope sae will he ! Up auQ 10 your looms, lads," Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 1 AM here under the care of a surfjeor., with B bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the tints of my mind vyin^ with the livid horror preceding^ a mvduight thunder-storm. A drun- ken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparahly the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed a " Quadruple Alliance" to guarantee the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- ly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent fur my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town ; and bind it v/ith all the elegance of his craft. I would give my best song to my worst ene- my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you and Charlotte by rm. You are angelic crea- tures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of the Devon," which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills," you shall probably have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches ! Edinhitrgh, Dec. 19, 1787. I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote yiiu last. For the (iist time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good too see my hardship, not cm my pnttic, but on my oiiken stilts ; throwing my best leg with an air ! and with .-is much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragiance of the refreshed earth after the long-expected shower ! banners of imagin-ition, whim, capiice, ani passion; and the heavy -armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prutt.nce and fore-thought, move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures tlat I would envy, a horse in his wild state traxeising the forestt of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. Edinburgh, Mirch U, 1788. I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news when I tell you, ] have at last taken a lease of a firm. Yester- night I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, for the farm of Ellislat.d, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven be my help ! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my former pur- suits, fancies and pleasures ; a motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have iiicorjiiuated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observa- tion, " Where much is attempted, something is done." Firmness both in sufferance and exer- tion, is a character I would wish to lie thought to possess ; and have ilways despised the whin- ing yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this win- ter, and begged nie to remember her to you the first time I wrote you. Surely woinan, amiable woman, is often made in vain I Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the diit of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure : formed indeed for and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rap- ture ; but that etijuyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupi- dity, or wickedness of an animal at all time* comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any where in my path, that meagre, squa- lid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; attended as he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- inf> contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood Jin buffetings many a hard- laboured day already, B'.d still my motto is — I dare ! My worst »neiriy is Moimeme. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, ight-armed, weU-mounted banditti, under the MauchUne, 7th Apr!!, 1788. I AM indebted to you and Mi-s Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kenedy. Strange ! how apt we are to indulge prt^i.dices in our judg- ments of one another ! Even I, who pira stautives, verbn, and participles. In my infant in the same village. My young supariors nevei CORRESPONDENCE. 283 msulted the clnutirJy appearance of my plough- boy c.ircass, the two extremes of wha-h were of- ten exposed to all the inclemencies of all the sea- sons. They would give me stray volumes of books , among them, even then, I could pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart I am iure not even the Munny Segum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My fa- ther's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. My father was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and lie, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 1 ibour. ]\Iy father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter- ous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recol- lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa- tening letters, which used to set us all in tears. This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a lit- tle before which period f first committed the sin of Rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- tumn my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her jus- tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- tish idiom — she was a honnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, aod book-worm philosophy, I liold to be the Srst of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I can- not tell : you medical peo|)le talk much of in- fection froMi breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved Tier. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when return- ing in the evening from our labours ; wby the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an jEolian barp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; ftnd it was her favourite reel, to which I at- tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Litin ; but ray girl sung a song, which was said to be com- posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; fur, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moor- lands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commence- ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair woubl have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- mencing between him and his landlord, as to terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the honors of a jail by a consump- tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest. It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon s and Guth- rie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern maimers, of literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectat ir. These with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan- theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Un- derstanding, Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's British Gurdenir's JJirictoiy, Sayle's Lectures, Allan liamsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, ana Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my cri- tic craft, such as it is. In my seventeenth year, to give ray manners a brush, I went to a country dancing-school . My father had an unaccountable antipathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment I rtpent, in oiiposition to his wishes. My father, as 1 said before, was subject to strong passions; from that instanc* of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which I believe was one cause of the di* sipation which marked my ■'"■lieding yeoi-s 284 BURNS' WORKS. Bay dissipation, compatatr/ely with the strict- ness, atid solnitty, and rejjularity of Presbyte- rian emintry life ; for though the Will-o'-VVisp metiuirs of thouglitless whiin were almost the sole lights of my pafh, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great mis- fortune of my life w.is to want an aim. I h id felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I s:»w my father's situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of 1 ;tle chicaning bargain- making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong ajipetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of ob- servation and remark ; a constitutional melan- choly or hypochondriasm that made me fly so- litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation fur bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surprising that I was ge- nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, there was I among them. But, far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was uii penchiiiit a Vadorable moitSe du genre hii- main. My lieart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; aiul as ii! every other warfare in this wot Id my fortune was various, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mor- tified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad sel- dom carries on a iove adventure without an as- sisting confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intre[)id dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se- cret of half the Inves of the parish of Tarbolton, cs ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. — The very goose- feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the Well-worn path of my imagination, the fa- vourite theme of my song; and is witli difficul- ty restrained from giving you a couple of para- ^aphs on the love adventures of my compeeis, the humble ini-ates of the farm-house and cot- tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour md poverty, they are matters of the rrost seri- ous nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the sto- nen interview, the tender farewell, are the great- Kt aQii most delicious parte of their eDJoyments. Anotner cinumstance m my Vife wn?ii made some alteration in my min;l and manuera, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance f" m h(une, at a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it some- times happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new tG me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Her», though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a (■arnival in my bosom, when a charming _/S/eMe, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, ,ind set me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines, and co-sines, for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel, " Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower." It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mo- dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improv- ed. My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shen- st(me's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up a literary coirespon- dence with me. This improved me in compo- sition. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly : 1 kept copies of any of my own letters that plea'^ed me ; and a com- parison between them and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity, I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a bioad plodding son of day-book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Vive rumour, ei Vive la bagatelle, were my so.'e principles of ac- tion. The addition of two mi-ie authois to my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 3PKejizie — Tristram Shandy anA The Man of Feiliny — weie my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for ;: v mind j but it was only indulged in according to the humoui of the hour. 1 had usually half a dozen or mor« pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as i> CORRESPONDENCE 2eJa iu'ted the momentary tone of the mind, anJ dismissech Robert was so often afflicted through his whole li/e af- terwards. At this time he was almost con- stantly afflicted in the evenings with a duU headache, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of faincing and suflfocation in his bed, in the night-time. By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at the end of every sixth year. He atlemjited to fix himself in a better fjxvm at the end of the first six years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was for six yeart. more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the lent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- rish of Tarbolton, of IMr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liverpocd. He removed to this farm at Whitsunday, 1777, and posse.-sed it only .seven years. No writing had e\'er been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- cision invted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding period at L.)ch- lea, his expenses never in one yeir exceedeil his slender income. As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- ble that there can be any fallacy in this state- ment in my brother's favour. His temperance and frugality were every thing that could be wished. The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were verv frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- withstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to give U|> our bar- gain, with the loss of a considerable p.irt of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert forme means of our friend Mr. Uouibrooke. No. LXIX. FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, GIVING THE HISTORY OF THE ORIOIN OF THf PRINCIPAL POEMS. It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- lars of the history of the preceding Poems, on which the celebrity of our Bard has been hitherto founded ; and with this view the following extract is made from a letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and his friend and confidant from his earliest years. DEAR SIR, Mossgiel, 2d /ipril, 1798. Your letter of the Hth of March I leceived in due course, but, from the hurry of the sea- son, have been hitherto hindered frimi answer ing it. I will now tiy to give you what satis- faction I can in regard to the particulais you mention. I cannot pretend to be veiy accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, but none of them, except Winter, a Dirye, (which was a juvenile production), the Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, were composed before the year 1784. Tlie cir- cumstances of the poor sheep weie pretty much as he has described them. He had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two laudis fnini a neighbour, and she was tethered m a field ad- joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were goiiig out with our teams, and our two younger brotliers to drive for us, at nnd-day, whea Hugh Wilson, a curious looking uwkwaid boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and was ly- ing in the ditch. Robert was much tick'ed with Hughncs ajipearance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when we returned from the plough in the even- ing, he repeated to me lier Dca.h and Dying Words pretty much in the way they luiw statid. Among the earliest of his poems was the E}jii.tle to Davie. Robert often conipnscd with- out any regular plan. When st>ioa on his mind, so a: *> rouse vt BURNS' WORKS. » poetic eTertion. he would give way to the iinpuNe, and cnil)ndy the thought in rhyme. If he liit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and concluding stanzas; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, 1 think, in summer ITbi, when in the Interval of harder labour, he and I were weed- ing in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not sui)erior, to many of AlUa Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression — hut here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- fected, but ap])eared to be the natural language of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly sonic novelty in a pott pointing out the uonso- iations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well plea>ied with my criticism ; and we talked of Bending it to some magazine, but as this plan affuded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the iilea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter folK)wing, as we were going together with carts for eoal to the family fire (and I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author fiist repeated to me the Aildress to the Ddl. The curious idea of such an address was suggested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we hive, from va- rious quarters, of this august personage. Death and Dr. llornbouk, though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in the vcar I TH.'i. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed to that useful class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become most holiliy-horsically attached to the study of medi- cinL, he had added the sale of a few medicines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking bis own incapacity, he had advertised, that •' Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop, gratis." Robert was at a mason - meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie" unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and |)hysic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of a|)parition, he mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he relat- ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- Wrnrton, as 1 was holding the plough, and he was letting the water off the field be«ide mc The Epistle Ij John Lapraih was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem. On fasten e'en lie hail a Tockin, I believe he has omitted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term deris'ed from those primitive times, when the country- women employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one, and w.)' fitted to the so- cial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of going a-Tocking or with the rock. As the connection the phrase had with the implement was forgotten whei: the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on socia. occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning— " When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we are informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lap- raik ; and his second ia reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain- Dai si/ were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plou;;h ; ' could point out the particul.ir spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- sitions, and some of his best verses were pro- duced while he was at that exercise. Seveial of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- ture of human life than a man seeking work. , In casting about in 'nis mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy Man was mode to Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remaiked to me, that he thought theie was iu...:*liing peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us woisliip God," used by a de- cent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the autlior the world is indebted for the Colter's Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure ia view in which I was not thought fit to par'ici- pate, we used frequently to walk together when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday af- ternoons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the community), anil enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abiidged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of he.iiing the author repeat the Cotter's Sntiirdny Night, 1 do not recollect to have rea(f or heard any thing by which I was more highly electn/ied. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eigliteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my aoul I mentiou this to you, that you miy see wliat hit the taste of VMle'.tered criticism. 1 sbuuid CORRESPONDENCE. 297 he ginu to knnw, if .he en.ighteneil miDil and renii(;a taste of Mr. Hii'^coe, whci has borne such honouiaDle testimony to this poem, agrees with me 111 the selection. Fergussoa, iii his Halhtic fiiir i)f Ivlitihurjjh, I helievc, hkewise fiirni>h- ed a hint of the title and |iliin of the Huh/ Fair. The farcical scene the poet theie describes v/as often a favour it<; field of his (il)servation, and the most of the incidents he mentions had actually passed before liis eyes. It is scarce- ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was composed on that uiifortunate passage in his ma- trimonial history, wliicli I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dimlop, after the first distrac- tion of his fi clings had a little subsidcf cu A) iihirr, luat he would i make a drawing of Alloway Kiik, as it wa.s th« burial-|)lace of his father, and where he himsell had a sort of claim to lay down his bones wheo they should be no longer serviceable to him ; and adiled, by way of encouragement, that it was the scene of many a good story of witchei and apparitions, of which he knew the Captaic was very fond. The Captain agreed to the re- quest, provided the Poet would furnish a witch- story, to be printed along with it. Tarn o' Shunter was produced on this occasion, and was first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- land. This poem is founded on a traditional story. The leading circumstances of a man riding home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing a light in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the scanty covering of one of the witches, which made him so far forget himself as to cry — " Weel loupen, short sark !" — with the melancholy ca- tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that can be well attested by many respectable old people in that neighbourhood. 1 do not at present recollect any circumstances respectig the other poems, that could be at all interesting ; even some of those I have mention- ed, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but you will only make use of what a|>pears to you of consequence. The following Poems in the first Edinhurgii edition, were nut in that published in Kilmar nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The Srigt of Ayr ; The Calf; (the poet had been with Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said jocularly to him when he was going to church, in allusion to the injunction of some parents to their children, that he must be sure to bring him a note of the sermon at mid-ilay ; this ad- dress to the Revereid Gentleman on his text was accordingly produced). Tlie Ordination ; The Address to the Unco Quid; Tam Sam- son's Ele'jy ; A Winter Night ; Stanzas on the same occasion as the preceding prayer ; Verses left at a Reverend Friends house ; Th» first Psalm ; Prayer wider the jiressure of vio- lent anguish ; 2'he first si.i verses of the nine- teenth JPs'dm ; Verses to Miss Logan, with Stiittie's J'oems ; To a Haggis ; Address to Edinburgh ; John Jiarliycorn ; Wiieti Guil- ford Guid ; Behind yon hdls whtre Sttnchar floa-s i Green grow the Hashes ; Again re- joicing Nature sees ; 'The gloomy Night ; N» Churchman am I. No. LXX. FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2lt/i Oct. IBOO. DILAK SIK, Yoi'Ks of the 17ch instant cacie to my hud T 2 298 BURNS' WORKS. yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to write you in return ; but when I shall be able to finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I am sorry your convictiou is not complete re- specting feck. There is no doubt that if you take two English words which appear synony- mous to muny feck, and judge by the rules of English construction, it will appear a barbarism. I btlieve if you take this mode of translating from any language, the effect will frequently be the same. But if you take the expression raony feck to have, as I have stated it, the same mean- ing with the English expression very many, (and such license every translator must be al- lowed, especially when he translates from a simple dialect which has never been subjected to rule, and where the precise meaning of words is of consequence not minutely attended to), it will be well enough. One thing I am certain of, that ours is the sense universally understood in this country ; and I believe no Scotsman who has lived contented at home, pleased with the simple manners, the simple melodies, and the simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud science never taught to stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song of Etrick Banks. The story you have heard of the gable of my father's house falling down, is simply as fol- lows. — When my father built his " clay big- gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in his cljy- gable. The consequence was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy morning, when my brother was nine or ten days old, a little before day-light, a part of the gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- ed, that my mother, with the young poet, had to be carried through the storm to a neighbour's bouse, where they remained a week till their own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not think too meanly of this house, or of uiy fa- ther's taste in building, by supposing the poet's description in the Vision (which is entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take notice to you, that the house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- terials with the house, and, when altogether cast over, outside ami in, with lime, it had a neat, comfortable appearance, such as no family of the same r.ink, in the present improved style of living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I wish likewise to take notice in passing, that al- though the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in his manners, his family devotion, and exhorta ions, yet the Other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us were ever " at service out amang the neebors roun." Instead of our depositing our " sair won penny-fee" with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with , the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching the progress of our young minds, and forming in them early habit* of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone did he engage in farming, the source of all his difficulties and distresses. When I threatened you in my last with a long letter on the subject of the books I recom- mended to the Mauchllne club, and the effects of refinement of taste on the labouiing classes of men, I meant merely that I wished to write you on that subject, with the view that, in some future communicaticm to the public, you might take up the subject more at large, that, by means of your happy manner of writing, the attention of people of power and influence might be fixed on it. I had little expectation, however, that I should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put my threat in execution, till some time ago, be- fore I had finished my harvest, having a call from Mr. Ewart, with a message from you, pressing me to the performance oi this task, I thought myself no longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set about it with my first leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay before you what has occurred to my mind on a subject where people capable of oliservation, and of placing their remarks in a proper point of view, have seldom an opportunity of making their remarks on real life. In doing this I may perhaps be led sometimes to write more in the manner of a person communicating information to you which you did not know before, and at other times more in the style of egotism than I would choose to do to any person in whose can- dour, and even personal good-will, I had less contidence. There are two several lines of study that open to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge- neral science of life, of duty, and of happiness; the other, the particular arts of his euiploymec* or situation in society, and the several branches of knowlet with a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with the love of independence and of in- dustry, ecori*my and temperance, as the most ol/vious means of making themselves iutlepen- dent, and the virtues most becoming their situ- ation, and necessary to their happ ness ; men ic the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea CORRESPONDENCE. 30' lures to be derived from tTie perusal of books calculated to improve the mind and refine the taste, without any danger of becoming more un- happy in their situation, or discontented with it. Nor do I think there is any danger of their be- comins; less useful. There are some hours every day that the most constant labourer is neither at \viirk nor asleep. These hours are either ap- propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste for employing these hours in reading were cul- tivated, I do not suppose that the return to la- bour would be more difficult. Every one will allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to abstract men from their proper business, as the attachment to books ; while the one dissipates the mind, and the other tends to increase its powers of self-government. To those wlio are afraid that the improvement of the minds of the common people might be dangerous to the state, or the established order of society, I would re- mark, that turbulence and commotion are cer- tainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let the matter be brought to the test of experience and observation. Of what de- scription of peo])le are mobs and insurrections composed ? Are they not universally ow'ng to the want of enlargement and improvement of mind among the common ])eople ? Nay, let any one recollect the characters of those who formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the government of this country. I suppose few of the common people who were to he found in such societies, had the education and turn of mind I have been endeavouring to recommend. Allow me to suggest one reason for endeavour- ing to enlighten the minds of the common peo- ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded by a sort of dim religious aw'% which from a variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the alteration in this respect considerable, in the short period of my observation. I have already given my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the re- ligion in which they have been educated, the progress is quick and immediate to downright infidelity : and nothing but refinement of mind can enable them to distinguish between the pure essence of religion, and the gross systems which men have been perpetually connecting it with. In addition to what has already been done for the education of the common people of this coun- try, in the establishment ol' p.irish schools, I wish to see the salaries augniented in some pro- portion to the present expense of living, and the earnings of people of similar rank, endowments and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the liberality of the present age will be no longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, such pncouuiigement as may make parish schools worth the attention of men fitted for the impor- tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- ^ncies, I woa'd have more attentioa paid to the candidate's capacity of reading .hf English Ian guage with grace and propriety ; to his uniler standing thoroughly, and having a high nlisb for the beauties of English authors, both in poetry and prose ; to that good sense anil knowledge of human nature which would enable him to ac- quire some influence on the miiuls and afflictions of his scholars ; to the general worth of his cha- racter, and the love of his king and his countiy, than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latia and Greek. I would then have a sort of high English class established, not only for the pur- pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- ful and agreeable manner that niij,'ht m.ike them fond of reading, but to make them unilerstand what they read, and discover the beauties of the author, in composition and sentiment. I would have established in every parish a small circu- lating library, consisting of the books which the young people had read extracts from in the col- lections they had read at school, and any other books well calculated to refine the mind, improve the moral feelings, recommend the practice ct virtue, and communicate such knowledge as might be useful and suitable to the labotring classes of men. I would have the schooluiaster act as librarian, and in recommending l)ooks to his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- ting in the light of them upon their young ininds, lie should have the assistance of the minister. If once such education were become general, t^ie low delights of the public-house, and other scenes of riot and de|)iavity, would be cooteom- ed and neglected, while industry, oidei, cleanli- ness, and every viitue which taste and indepen- dence of mind could recommend, would prevail and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened populace, with high delight I should consider my native country as at the head of all the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. Thus, Sir, have I executfd my threat to the fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- ter. If I had not presumed on doin;; it more to my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; but I hive not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I should succeeil any better. I have learned to have less confidence in my capacity of writing on such subjects. I am much obliged by your kind inquiries about my situation and prospects. I am much pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the terms on which I possess it. I receive great encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, and other conveniences, from my landlord Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general character and conduct, as a landlord and countiy gentlema-(- I am highly pleased with. But the land is in such a state as to require a considerable imme- diate outlay of money in the purcha''e of ma- nure, the grubbing of brush-wood, removing of stones, &c. which twelve years* struggle with a farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill prepar- ed me for. If I can g«t these things done, however, to my min'tuation, O. € In many a way, and vain essaj, I courted fortune's fa- vour, O : Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O ; Sometimes by foes I was o'eipow'rd; si>metimet by friends forsaken, O ; And when my hope was at the top, I stiU was wori) mistaken, O. CORRESPONDENCE 803 nen sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion, O ; I dropt rnv schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O ; The past was bad, and the fature hid ; its good or ill untrveil, O ; But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, mr hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- frient! me, O; So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- tain me, O, To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me earlv, O ; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- tune fairly, O. Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro" life I'm doomed to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slum- ber, O : No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow O ; I live to day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor- row, O. But cheerful still, I am as v/ell, as a monarch in a pa- jace, 11, Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice. O ; 1 make in, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- day, 1 turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air. Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my head, 1 tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am tairly got into the routine of busiivess, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, that it has eflFaced almost every trace of the in me. My very best compliments and good wishep to Mrs. Clegborn. No. LXXVL FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. Savghton Mills, 2'7th April, 1788. MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of • A lady was making a picture from the iescription of Coila in the (Vision, t Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Cneva lUr't Lament, CORRESPONDENCE. die 31st nU. and ca^sider myself greatly obliged to you, for your attention in sending me the song to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. The words delight me much ; they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse or two more ; and if you have no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- den by the unfortunate Charles : Tenducci per- sonates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Queen Mary's Lamentation. — Why may not I sing in the person of her great-great-great grandson ?* Any skill I have in country business you may truly command. Situation, soil, customs of countries may vary from each other, but Far- mer Attention, is a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear from you soon. IVIrs. Cleghoru loins me in best compliments. I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, your very sincere friend, ROBERT CLEGHORN. No. LXXVII. TO MR. JAMES S.AIITH, AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. Mauchline, April 2S, 1788. Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the opening of a correspondence like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery ! There is no understanding a man properly, without knowing something of his previous ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I know many who in the animal-muster, pass for men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the great- est -idft of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some euch fractional matter), so to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately and privately given a nia- trlaoonial title to my corpus. " Bode a robe and wear it," Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- sage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- lar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding day : these twenty-four will giv; me twenty-four gossippings, twenty-four christen ings, (I mean one eqiial to two), and I hope by the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make • Our Poet took this advice. See poetry for the ■Hole of that beautiful lonj— the Chcvalier't Kaatmit. them .Tenty-f jur dutiful children to their p^ rents, twenty- four useful meniljers of iocietr, and twenty-four approven servants of their God ' *' Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you are idle enough to explore tne combinations and relations of ray ideas. *Tis now as plain as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I could readily employ. Now for business. — I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an articU of wnicb 1 dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- sent to her since I have irrevocably called ner mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the said first present fiom an old and much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself possessed of a life-rent lease. Look on this letter as a " beginning cf eor- rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with reading nonsense. Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa*.- tion), begs her best compliments to you. No. LXXVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Mauchline, 2Sth April, l'*8!» Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the excise business without solicitation ; and as it costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; 1 thought five and thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed be- fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the IMount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for som« nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and rain was only mitigated by being sifted through numberlese apertures in the windows, wails, 8ic. In con- sequence I was on Sunday, ]\lond\y, and part of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with aH the miserable cflects of a violent cold. S06 BURNS' WORKS. You see, Midam, the trutn of the French maxim, Lz vrai n' est pas tm/jours le vrai-sem- blable ; your last was so full of expostulation, and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grateful plea- »ure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next No. LXXIX. FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. BEAR sia, Llnshart, 2Sth April, 17S9. I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre- sent you have favoured me with, and would have made proper acknowledgments before now, out that I have been necessarily engaged in matters of a different complexion. And now that I have got a little respite, I make use of it to thank you for this valuable instance of your good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- mony of which I have herewith sent you for your amusement (and in a form which I hope you will excuse for saving postage) the two songs I wrote about to you already. Charming Nancy is the real production of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the time of its appearing, with no more education than what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacj', with some turns of humour, that will please one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when 1 first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of my own sentiments, and jou may make use of ane or both as you shall see good.* • CHARMING NANCY. A 80NG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. Tune-~" Humours of Glen." Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain : Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, But thee, iny dear Naacy, gin thou wert my ain. Her beafity delights me, ner kindness invites me, Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain ; You will oblige me try presenting my respecti to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given such high approbation to my poor Latinity you may let him know, that as I have likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two things that I would, if he desire* it, submit not to his judgment, but to his amusement : the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, Batrachomyomachia Homeri Latinis versibut cum additamentis, given in htely to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr. C. will know Se- na non semper delectanl, non joca semper. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. I have just room to repeat compliments and good wishes from. Sir, your humble servant, JOHN SKINNER. No. LXXX. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART SIR, Manchline, 3d May, 1787. I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- tude have any influence with that great, un- known Being, who frames the chain of causes and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- tend your visit to the Continent, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel, Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain : Her carriage is comely, her language is homely. Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene. Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? The whole of her face is with maidenly graces Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen, She's well shajjcd and slender, true hearted and tender. My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! I'll seek through the nation for some habitation, ■To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery. My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou'wertmy ai^. I'll work at my calling, to furnish thy dwelling. With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; Thou shalt not sit snigle, but by a clear ingle, I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am. I'll make true affection the constant direction Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain : Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy. To favour another be forward and fain, I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her. Begone thou false Nancy, thou'sc ne'er be rry aiB. The Old Man's Song, (see d. 153) CORRESPONDENCE. 30? more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your coun- tenance, your patronage, your friendly good of- fices, as the most valued consequence of my late Buccess in life. No. LXXXI, EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Manchline, ith May, 1789, . Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do mot know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. 1\ 's indeed a species of writing en- tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas I when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- appointed in the JEneid. Faultless correct- ness may please, and does highly please the let- tered critic ; but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether 1 do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of this owing to the translators ; for, from every thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of language. Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion : . in some future letter, you shall have my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper- fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. No. LXXXII. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. Mauchline, May 26, 1788. MT DEAR FRIEND, I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I have been from home, and horridly busy Iniying and preparing for my farming business ; over and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will finish. As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence between us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have the plea- «ure to tell you tl»; I have been extremely for- tunate in all my buyings and bargainings hither* to ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this last affair : it has indeed aM:-t\ to my anxieties for futurity, but it has p.-\i'n ■ "' iM'itv to my mind and resolutions, uiikmiwi '.''ire and the poor girl has the most sacred entliusiusm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deportment. I am interrupted^ Farewell ! my aear Sir. N3 LXXXIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, 21th May, 1788. I HAVE been torturing mv philosophy to no purpose, to account for that kind partiality ol yours, which, unlike , has followed me in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- nevolence. Often did J regret in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no continuing city ;" and but fcr the consolation of a iitw solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary ac- quaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn com- panions of my road through life, insignificance, and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good things of this life, that give me more vexation (I mean in what 1 see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the con- tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that com- posed the floor were decorated with a sjjlendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who, though in appearance partakers, and equally nobie partakers of the same nature with madanie ; are from time to time, their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part o/ their very thoughts, sold for months and years, not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the important few. • We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- standing their general stupidity and rascality did some of the poor devils the honour to com- » ServanU in Scotland .ire hired from term to *nn, t. c. from Whitsundav to Martinmas, he 308 BURNS' WORKS. mend them. But light be the turf upon 'is breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We lOoked down on the upoUshed wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- lessness of his ramble, or tosses in air in the wantonness of his pride. No. LXXXIV. TO THE SAME. (at MR. DUNLOp's, HADDINGTON.) EUisland, VMh June, 1798. " Where'er I roam, whatever realm3 I see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain. And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." GOLDSMITH. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jen- ny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while un- couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a toggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi- bility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- ments, at that period of my existence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. " Tlie valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. Your surmise, Bladam, is just ; I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved and still much- loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid good-nature and sweetness ii disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted' with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage, by a more than common handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she shott'd never have read a page, but the Scriptures of the Old and Nh9 Testament, nor have danced in a brighter a* serably than a penny pay-wedding. No. LXXXV, TO MR. P. HILL. MY DEAR HILL, I SHALL say nothing at all to your mad pre» sent — you have so long and often been of im- portant service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up my face before you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it happened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourning, so, because I have been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pidvilis'd, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of my cheese. I know tliat you are no niggard of your good things among your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our friend Smellie, a man po- sitively of the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with : when you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at tb*^ pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravatea by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sor- rows vanish like the morning mist before the summer sun. C h, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some of his supera- bundant modesty, you would do well to give it him. David • with his Courant comes, tc t, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him CORRESPONDENCE. SOS ifergeiy from the said ewe-milk cheese, to ena- ble him to digest those bedaubing para- graphs with which he is eternally larding the lean characters of certain great men in a certain ^reat town. I grant you the periods are very well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good ming ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory It does not at all improve his figure, not to men- rion the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend, D r, I would wish also to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch- Rllan corps. • Among our common friends I must not for- get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, 1 know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to any thing that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest J S — e, he is such a contented happy man that I know not what can annoy him, except perhaps he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- fessedly — the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- tion. As to their clients, that is another thing ; God knows they have much to digest ! The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to have, at the nest county-meeting, a large ewe- milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queensberry's late political con- duct. I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would Dot digest double postage. No. LXXXVI. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. EUisland, June U, 1788. This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions ; and du- ring these three days you have occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : A club Q> choice spirits. In AjTshire I have several variations of friend- ship's compass, here it points invariably to the pole. — My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate the language o* complaint. Job, or some one of bis friends, says well — " Why should a living man coin- plain ?" 1 have lately been much mortified with con- templating an unlucky irapeifection in the very framing and construction of my soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fellow creatures. I do not mean any compli- ment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim- plicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some raodific»tion of dulness. In two or three smal instances iitely, I have been most shamefully out. I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars and highlanders of the brain ,- but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, oi of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artil- lery corps of plodding contrivance. What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- dies of your profession ? You said something fibout religion in your last. I don't exactly re- member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- low if once you were married. I make no re- servation of your being u,'e//-married : You have so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, that though you m^y not realize perhaps the ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- ried. Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si- tuation respecting provision for a family of chil- dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, I look to the excise scheme as a certainty ol maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or I were born to. Adieu. No. LXXXVII. TO MR. MORISON,* Wrioht, I^Iauchline. E:lisland, June 22, 17S8. MT DEAR CIR, Necessity obliges mi to go into my new • This letter refers to fhalrf and other article* of furniture wtuch llie Poet hart i rdered. SIO BURNS' WORKS. house, evea before it bo plistered. I will inha- bit the one end until the ot\:er is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in a situation that a little kind- ness would have rescued you from many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being ; — ^get these matters of mine rea- dy. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. I am, after all my tribulation. Dear Sir, yours. No. LXXXVIII. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. ElUsland, June 30, 1788. Mr DEAR SIR, I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you Bee, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but dare not enlarge on the subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be al- tered on your late master and friend's death. I am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- spect — for an old man's dying, except he have been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life, that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind benevolent animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- tion here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires aooji, nim, ready to devour him for want of other food ; that fn fact he must lay aside his cares for others, that he may look properly to himself. You have been imposed upon in pay- ing Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. M any such order. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession. I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 15s. to him, 1 will rather in- close you a guinea-note. I have it not indeed to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there I hsive the bank-notes through the house, like salt permits. There is a great degree of folly in talking un- necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- bours, who has made himself absolutely con temptible in ray eyes, by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters, is much more pardonable than imprudence respect- ing character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; but I appeal to your observation, if you hav; not met, and often met, with the same little dis» ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin* cerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackney'd victims of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter cf fact — But in things belonging to and termi- nating in this present scene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with wel come in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether lie shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- natives of the last moment. You see how I preach. You used occasion- ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bo- lingbroke writes to Dea.i Swift, " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely : make an effort to love me with all mine!' Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted business, that honest friend- ship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to her primitive, simple, — farewell ! No. LXXXIX. TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, Merchant, Glasgow. MY DEAR SIR, MaucliUne, July 18, 1788. I AM just going 'or Nithsdale, else I would certainly have transcribed some of my rhyming things for you. The INIiss Bailies 1 have seen in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almost CORRESPONDENCE. 3i: in the predicament of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses's face for the glory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. I did once write a poetic address from the falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. I return to Maucliline in about ten days. My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in truth, but at present in haste. Yours sincerely. No. XC. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Maucliline, 2d Aug. 1788. HONOURED MADAM, Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire, I am indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you ray direction there, but I have scaice an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am al- most an evaiigelieal man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce " where to lay my head." There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- eth its own sorrows, and a stranger iutermed- dleth not therewith." The repository of these " sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them. " Heaven oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung." You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhooiL They are al- most the only favours the muse has conferred V3 me in that country. ( 77ie lines on Friar Carse hermitage, be. yinging Thou whim chance may hither lead.) Since I am in the waj of transcribing, the following were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intended inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose fiiendsliip my excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry ; one ol the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- men, not only of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unan- ointed, uninell'd." Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : The world were blest, did bless on them de- pend ; Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" The little fate bestows they share as soon ; Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! Wlw make poor will do wait upon / shoula ; We own they're prudent, but who feels they'ie good? Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy 1 But come Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewelll No. XCI. TO THE SAME. Maucldine, lOth August, 1786 MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 2-1-th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — ro7 wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When 1 write you. Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful commons ol Great Britain in parliament assembled, answer- ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per- haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. All your epistlea for several months have cost me nothing, ex - BURNS' WORKS. eept a iwelling thmh of gratitude, or a deep- ielt aentiment of reneration. Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman Wlien she first found herself " as women wish to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her uearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her company and their house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal rela- tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and as 1 was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- nion for my journey of life, but, upon my ho- nour, I have never seen the individual instance. Circumstanceil as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- ments, which (pardonnez mot, Madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the up- per ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be-gentry. No. xcn. TO THE SAME. I like your way in your church-yard lucu- brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originali'ty, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and stu- died paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pru- riency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a UQUStrous tax in a close correspondence. EUisland, IGth August, 1788. I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend^ so send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian. " "Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- lorn ? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?* My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — I could indulge these reflections, till ray humour should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon ray soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to rcy mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suff'rage as a professional man was expected \ I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- don me, ye, my adored household gods, Inde- pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In the course of conversation, Jtiinson's Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, " Raving winds around her blowing." The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were the words — " Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very best verses :" she took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says, well, " king's caft' is better than ither folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about " cast- ing pearls ;" but tliat would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selerted few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- ed to gladness amid riches and honours, and pru- dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it. I would CORRESPONDENCE. 813 trsMcribe fo> you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, be- ginDiug thus, " *Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie." 1 had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time, his highest en- joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- ther wou.tJ sing the simple old song of The life and Age of Man. It is this way of thinking — it is those melan- choly truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- gination of enthusiasm, " What truth on earth so precious as the lie !" My idle reasonings sometimes jnake me a lit- tle sceptical, but the necessities of my heart al- ways give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- cnce fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the piilace, in the glare of public life? No : to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear Jladam, you are now more than pleased with the length of my letters. I leturn to Ayrshire, middle of next week ; and •t quickens my pace to think that there will \ye a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest. No. XCIII, rO lU GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. When I had the honour of being introduced ^^ you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Loar, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he answers, " Because you have tnat in your face which I could like to call master." For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare 6.iy, of an ajjjilication I lately made to your Hoard to be admitted an officer of excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a •uperviiior, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a reguest for hi order for instiuctious In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid 1 shall birt too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late ap- pearance on the stage of life, in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable man- ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescu- ed him. I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your patronage to forward me in this affiir, till I be appointed tu a division, where, by the help ol rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from mv situation. When nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net : The caput mortiium of gross desires IMakes a material, for mere knights and squires . The martial phosjjhorus is taught to flow, She kneails the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- signs Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; But ere she gave creating labour o'er. Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuns matter; Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as wc, Her Hogarth-art jjerhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow. When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. X being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, Adriircd and praised — and there the homa, ends : w SI4 BURNS' WORKS. A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind. She cast about a standard tree to find ; And to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great. A title, and the only one T claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- ham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuif, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon. Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- pend. Ah, that " the fiiendly e'er should want a friend !" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, Wlio life and wisdom at one race begun. Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) Who make poor will do wait upon / should — ■ We own they're prudent, but who feels their good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, Iha/en's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! Whose irmsof love would grasp the human race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit. Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit ! Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. They dun benevolence with shameless fiont ; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days ! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist a.ssume the plough again ; The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; On eighteen pence a-week I've lived before. Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that iut shift, I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for height. Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. My muse may imp her wing for some sublimci flight.* No. XCIV. TO MR, BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh. MY DEAR SIR, EUisland, Sept. 9, 1788. There is not in Edinburgh above the num^ ber of the graces whose letters would have givea me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternights. I am here on my farrri, busy with my har- vest ; but for all that most pleasurable part o( life called social communication, I am here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in any de- gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c. and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the muses, they have as much an idf;a of a rhino- ceros as of a poet. For my old capricioi' good-natured hussy of a muse — By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Coila I thought on, In midst thereof I hung my harp The willow trees upon. I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning wheel. I well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I snan send it by a careful hand, as I would not for any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- fish gratification of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your better functions would give you lei- sure to write me I should be extremely happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a • This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin. try. It is not equal to the second, but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author to bt suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural histo ry or of chemistry was wanted to enab'e him to «> e cut£ the original conception correctly. CORRESPONDENCE. 31ft reg jiar correspondence. I hate the idea of being ] alile phrase, are indeed but lighter and deepei obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a [shades of viLLAi:fly, pathless top," is a good expression ; and the surrounding view frDm it is truly great ; the " Silver mist, Beneath the beaming sun,' is well described ; and here, he has contrived Ut enliven his poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modem muses altogether. I know not how far this epi- sode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's wish to carry •' some faint idea of the vision bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the most beautiful passages in the whole poem, are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and the glorious description of the sportsman. This last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. The idea of " the floating tribes distant seem, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar" of *' the white cascades," are all in the same style. I forget that while I am thus holding forth, with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. 1 must, however, mention, that the last verse of the six- teenth page is one of the most elegant compli- ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I should like to know who the author is ; i)ut, whoever he be, jilease present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has af- forded me. * A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, Letters on the Reli'iion es- sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; and, 2'he World Unmasked, or the P/iilosiipher the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. No. XCVIfL TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. MADAM, Manchline, \3th Nov. 17S8. I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. J\Ien are said to flatter wo- • The poem entitled An Address to Loch L. mond, is said to be writton by a pentleman, now one