■04'. 
 
 ■66:: '■^ '''y.-Z::'^ 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. Copyright No. 
 
 V^'Sfe* 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
BY A. J. GEORGE, A.M. 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PRELUDE. With Notes. 
 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. With Notes. 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES AND ESSAYS ON POETRY. 
 
 With Notes. 
 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. With Notes. 
 TENNYSON S PRINCESS. With Notes. 
 COLERIDGE'S CRITICAL ESSAYS. (From Biographia Literaria ) 
 
 With Notes. 
 BURKE'S SPEECHES ON THE AMERICAN WAR, AND LETTER 
 
 TO THE SHERIFFS OF BRISTOL. With Notes. 
 BURKE'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA. With 
 
 Notes. 
 SELECT SPEECHES OF DANIEL WEBSTER. With Notes. 
 THE BUNKER HILL ORATION. With Notes. 
 SYLLABUS OF ENGLISH HISTORY AND LITERATURE. 
 
 In Preparation. 
 
 Wordsworth's Excursion and White Doe of Rylstone. 
 
 Select Poems of Coleridge. 
 
 The History and Literature of Scotland : 
 
 I. The Highlands, II. Border. 
 
SELECT POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER ' 
 
 WITH 
 
 INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND A GLOSSARY 
 
 BY 
 
 ANDREW J. GEORGE, M.A. 
 
 r 
 
 ' A e night V the gloaming, as late I passed by, 
 A lassie sang siveet as site milkit her kye. 
 An' this was her sang, %uhile tJie tears dowft did fcC , 
 O thcre''s fuie bard d' Nature sbi' Kobiji's awa\" 
 
 BOSTON, U.S.A. 
 D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 1896 
 

 Copyright, 1896, 
 By Andrew J. George. 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 
 PKESSWORK BY S. J. PARKHILL & CO. 
 
^ 
 
 i 
 
 TO 
 
 ROBERT HUDSON GEORGE. 
 
 A Lad who loves Burns. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 Scotland may well be proud when she remembers the chil- 
 dren who have shed such lustre upon her land of mist-shrouded 
 mountains, of peaceful and solemnly beautiful valleys, of storied 
 and romantic streams. From the Valley of the Ettrick to Niths- 
 dale, from Ben Lomond to CriiTers hoary top, from St. Mary's 
 Loch to the banks and braes of the Doon, one finds, — 
 
 " Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength, 
 And age to wear away in." 
 
 Here nature and man work together in producing for the atten- 
 tive and the sympathetic an eloquence of glorious and bewitch- 
 ing sights and sounds, of beautiful and ennobling reflections. 
 
 " And what, for this frail world, were all 
 That mortals do or suffer, 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen. 
 Memorial tribute offer .? " 
 
 In a single century Scotland has enriched the blood of the 
 world with the nobility and fascination of Scott, the passion and 
 pathos of Burns, the vision and message of Carlyle, the sweet- 
 ness and simplicity of Dr. John Brown, the health and hope of 
 Shairp, the intellectual and moral vigor of Blackie, and the jo}'- 
 ousness and grace of Stevenson : even now she has children 
 who are the delight of her home, and who are nobly loyal to the 
 mother's teaching and the mother's example. 
 
 V 
 
vi EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 The Muse of Coila early introduced into her mysteries the 
 most wayward and most loving, the most passionate and most 
 penitent, of this various and richly endowed family ; and finally 
 she crowned him lam-eate of her native land. 
 
 '"Wear thou this,' she solemn said, 
 
 And bound the holly round his head." 
 
 That Robbie Burns is the idol of Scotland few who have 
 had the privilege of knowing the Scotch people will venture to 
 gainsay ; and hence it is worth our while to study the forces at 
 work in Scottish life and literature which contributed to the 
 fashioning of such a character. 
 
 On Aug. 1 8, 1803, the day after Wordsworth and his sister 
 had visited the grave of Burns in the churchyard of Dumfries, 
 they were wandering on the banks of the Nith, and reviewing 
 the life and work of the Ploughman Poet, when they gave 
 utterance to the most distinctly human note in literary criticism 
 that had hitherto been heard. It was a prophecy of what the 
 method and the function of criticism in the nineteenth century 
 
 were to be. 
 
 " Leaving each unquiet theme, 
 Where gentlest judgment may misdeem. 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 Of good and fair ; 
 
 Think rather of those moments bright. 
 When to the consciousness of right. 
 
 His course was true, 
 When Wisdom prospered in his sight, 
 
 And Virtue grew." 
 
 Standing as we do, a century away from the death of Burns, 
 we are getting a truer perspective of his life and mission ; we 
 are coming to understand those subtle forces which played in 
 and around his varied and eventful life, and which created the 
 first fine careless rapture. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. Vll 
 
 The influences which quicken and nourish poetic genius are 
 often as silent and unobtrusive as those whicli sun and dew 
 exert upon the growing plant. This analogy is strikingly sug- 
 gestive in the case of Burns. For us, whose tables are loaded 
 with the literature of prose and verse, and in whose education 
 the poets play so great a part, it is difficult to imagine a time 
 when books were scarce, and when the literary poets played but 
 little part in the life of the people. But we have only to go back 
 to the middle of the last century to find just such a condition, 
 both in England and in Scotland. In both nations literary 
 poetry was of little influence with the people, but as if to com- 
 pensate for this lack of power there was a noble revival of pop- 
 ular song and ballad. Percy's Reliqties and Herd's Collection of 
 Scottish Songs stimulated interest in — 
 
 " Old, unhappy, far-off things 
 And battles long ago." 
 or in — 
 
 " Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 That has been, and may be again." 
 
 Burns was thus fortunate in the time and place of his birth — 
 
 "Our Monarch's hindmost year but ana 
 Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
 Blew hansel in on Robin." 
 
 His stormy advent into the world was but the prelude to a 
 still more turbulent life among men ; vet out of this storm and 
 turbulence was generated a poetry sweetly simple, grandly virile, 
 nobly human. It was his mission to teach — 
 
 " How verse may build a princely throne 
 On humble truth." 
 
 The atmosphere of the home in which he grew up was charged 
 with the rapture and the religion of popular song. These songs, 
 
Vlii EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 which came to him from his mother as she rocked his cradle, 
 from old Jenny Wilson who beguiled his youth, and later from 
 Ramsay and Fergusson, touched every fibre of his nature, and 
 made it vibrate to the personal note of each. 
 
 " Fresh as the flower whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius ' glinted ' forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems. 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams." 
 
 Murdock, the accomplished teacher of Burns, says that in the 
 two-roomed cottage, that tabernacle of clay, there dwelt a larger 
 portion of content than in any palace in Europe. Burns in- 
 herited from his father a love of justice — which gave even the 
 ' Deir his due — a deeply religious nature, strength, and pride; 
 and from his mother, a handsome face, laughing dark eyes, 
 sweet voice, tender sensibility, and wunsome manner. " The 
 magic of that presence," says Charles Kingsley, "made Burns 
 both tempter and tempted, and may explain manv a sad story." 
 Created with such a nature, and endowed with such faculties, 
 he was foreordained to restore the element of passion, the 
 personal note to our poetry. 
 
 The interest which his work has for us is first of all Per- 
 sonal, as it is a revelation of his own joys and sorrows, hopes 
 and fears ; then the interest becomes National, when it voices 
 the passion and the pathos of the people ; and lastly it be- 
 comes Universal, in that it reflects the general heart of human 
 kind. 
 
 This Ayrshire singer restored the personal note — passion — 
 to our poetry ; he purified, dignified, elevated, and enriched 
 Scottish song, and made it distinctly national ; he rose above 
 the personal and the national into the sphere of the universal, 
 by the sincerity, variety, and depth of his love of man. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. IX 
 
 Our homely New England poet has selected the personal in 
 Burns's work as its chief title to immortality. He says : — 
 
 " Give lettered pomp to teeth of time, 
 So ' Bonnie Doon ' but tarry ; 
 Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, 
 But spare his Highland Mary.'' 
 
 It is the characteristic of lyric poetry that it is personal not 
 only, but passionate. Given, therefore, Burns's intense, almost 
 volcanic, nature, set in an environment of song, and we can be 
 sure that a prince of lyrists will be evolved. When we read 
 those verses which he wrote before the thought of publishing 
 came to him, and when he rhymed for fun, we get the clearest 
 revelation of the man. 
 
 Now, this personal note comprises three great subjects, — 
 Nature, Man, and God, and reveals itself as the poet's art, his 
 politics, and his religion. Fortunately for us and for Burns 
 these interests had never been absent from the poetry of Scot- 
 land ; it had always reflected the lights and shadows of the 
 landscape, the aims and aspirations of the people ; it was beauti- 
 ful, social, religious. 
 
 In the earliest raptures of the Scottish Gael as he prepared 
 for the combat or returned victorious over his enemy ; in the 
 later and more subdued note of love for nature and man ; and, 
 in the latest of all, in the deep despair of the race as it fiides 
 away before the inevitable, — we find a revelation of man's varied 
 interest and activity. 
 
 In the following description of Cuchullin, the leader of the 
 warriors of Ulster, we have the rapidity, the directness, the sim- 
 plicity, and the nobility of Homer : — 
 
 " In the chariot is seen the chief, 
 True, brave son of the keen-cutting brand, 
 Cuchullin, of blue dappled shields. 
 Son of Semo, renowned in song. 
 
X EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 His cheek like the polished yew ; 
 
 Clear, far-ranging his eye, 
 
 Under arched, dark, and slender brow, 
 
 His yellow hair down-streaming from his head, 
 
 Falls round the glorious face of man. 
 
 As he draws his spear from his back." i 
 
 In the Aged BafcCs Wish we get the intense love of nature 
 and the magical charm so characteristic of the Gaelic. 
 
 *i3' 
 
 " O place me by the purling brook 
 That wimples gently down the lea, 
 Under the old tree's branchy shade, 
 And thou, bright sun, be kind to me. 
 
 Where I may hear the waterfall. 
 
 And the hum of its falling wave. 
 
 And give me the harp, and the shell, and the shield, 
 
 Of my sires in the strife of the brave." ^ 
 
 In the latest of the bards, Duncan Ban, "Fair Duncan of 
 the Songs," as the Highlanders call him, we have an artist 
 whose delight is to sketch the deer, the fox, and the roe : — 
 
 " Tis a nimble little hind. 
 Giddy-headed like her kind. 
 That goes sniffing up the wind 
 
 In her scorning ; 
 With her nostrils sharp and keen, 
 Somewhat petulant I ween, 
 'Neath the crag's ruin she is seen 
 • In the morning ; 
 
 For she feareth to come down 
 From the broad and breezy crown 
 
 Of Ben Dorain, 
 Lest the hunter's cruel shot 
 In the low encircled spot 
 Should be pouring. 
 
 1 Dr. Clerk. 2 j. s. Blackie. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. XI 
 
 She hath breath in breast at will 
 As she scampers o'er the hill 
 
 Without panting, — 
 Ruddy wealth of healthy blood 
 From the lusty fatherhood 
 Of Ben Dorain's antlered brood 
 
 Finely vaunting." i 
 
 It was such work as this that won for him in our day the 
 title " The Burns of the Highlands." In his Last Leave-taking 
 of the Moimtaijis, wnii&n after his farewell visit to the old re- 
 sorts of Glenorchy in 1802, we hear the pathetic wail of a race 
 slowly passing from its native glens. 
 
 " Yestreen as I walked the mountain 
 O the thoughts that arose in me ; 
 For the people I loved that used to be there 
 In the desert, no more could I see. 
 
 When I looked round on every side, 
 
 How could I feel but drear ! 
 
 For the woods and the heather all were gone, 
 
 And the men were no longer there. 
 
 My farewell then to the forests. 
 
 And the marvellous mountains there, 
 
 Where the green cresses grow, and the clear wells flow, 
 
 Draughts gentle, and kingly, and fair. 
 
 Ye pastures beyond all price ! 
 
 Wilderness wide and free. 
 
 On you, since I go to return no more, 
 
 My blessing forever be." 2 
 
 "The Celt's quick feeling for what is noble and distinguished gave 
 his poetry style [says Matthew Arnold] ; his indomitable person- 
 ality gave it pride and passion; his sensibility and nervous exaltation 
 gave it a better gift still, — the gift of rendering with wonderful fe- 
 licity the magical charm of nature. Magic is just the word for it, — 
 the magic of nature, her weird power and her fairy charm," 
 
 1 J. S. Blackie. 2 j. c. Shairp. 
 
xil EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 The poetry of the Highlands was the folk-song and the 
 ballad ; that of the Lowlands was of two varieties, — literary and 
 popular. The literary impulse came from Chaucer through 
 James I. ; but the popular poetry — the song and ballad — was 
 the product of the soil. Beginning with the unknown min- 
 strel of the border, and continuing in Ramsay and Fergusson, it 
 culminated in Burns and Scott. That the influence of the 
 Highland song and ballad upon the spirit of the Lowlands 
 was considerable, there can be but little doubt ; it certainly cast 
 some glorious gleams, such as the far-off Highland Bens reflect 
 upon the plains and lowlier hills of the south. 
 
 The Celt powerfully affected English poetry. Mr. Arnold 
 says, — 
 
 "It is in our poetry that the Celtic part in us has left its traces 
 clearest. If I were asked where English poetry got these three things, 
 — its turn for style, its turn for melancholy, and its turn for natural 
 magic, for catching and rendering the charm of nature in a wonder- 
 fully new and vivid way, — I should answer with some doubt that it 
 got much of its turn for style from a Celtic source ; with less doubt 
 that it got much of its melancholy from a Celtic source; with no 
 doubt at all that from a Celtic source it got nearly all its natural 
 
 How much more, then, must have been the Celtic influence 
 upon Lowland Scotch. 
 
 We must not forget that the chief Celtic influence upon the 
 Lowlands was that of the Cymri. The Cymri, under the leader- 
 ship of the British Guledig, Arthur, founded the kingdom of 
 Strathclyde in the sixth century. Here Arthur fought his twelve 
 great battles for Celtic independence ; and here arose that 
 mighty impulse to romance which, coincident with the defeat 
 and exile of the Cymri of the Tweed, gradually revealed itself 
 in tliat cycle of Arthurian legends which has fed the imagina- 
 tion of the modern world. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. XI 11 
 
 Here, too, in the early conflict of Christianity with heathen- 
 ism, there arose the weird and fascinating figures. Merlin, St. 
 Cuthbert, and St, Kentigern, who live and move in a halo of 
 religious mysticism, and who, by the genius of Scott, have 
 made Whitby, Lindsfarne, and Melrose sacred in history and 
 poetry. 
 
 Prof. Veitch says : — 
 
 " Our life is continuous with theirs: perhaps it is so through blood 
 and imaginative impulses, which now and again have made their ap- 
 pearance in the course of our literature, in our sentiment, in our mel- 
 ancholy and despair, and in our defiant protest against the despotism 
 of fact in the interests of memory, or of a higher ideal. If we wish to 
 recur to the fountain whence have sprung Arthurian tradition and its 
 accompanying weird and heroic ideals, if we wish to see the first out- 
 wellings of that romance which has raised us above self and common- 
 place and conventionalism, which has influenced English poetry from 
 Chaucer to Tennyson, we must go back to that Cymric people who 
 loom so dimly in the early dawn of our history, who showed a spirit 
 of defence, who suffered so greatly and bore so patiently, and in 
 exile longed so grandly and hoped so nobly for the sight of their 
 native hills. The fountains of romance for Britain and for Europe 
 first opened amid the southern uplands of the kingdom of Strath- 
 clyde." 
 
 When the riches of this noble house, and of that sister house 
 of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, awaited union in 
 a royal heir, there came a peasant lad from the " auld clay big- 
 gin' " in Ayrshire, who, with the simple and graceful dignity of 
 one of nature's noblemen, claimed his own, and there was added 
 a new hereditary peer to the House of Fame. The new heir 
 used these riches not like a prodigal, but with prudence and 
 diligence, and left them to his successor increased by the usury 
 of genius. He had added " the light, the gleam, that never was 
 on sea or land, the consecration and the poet's dream." 
 
 It is of importance that we recognize the fact that in Burns 
 
XIV EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 the two literary estates, English and Scottish, were united. 
 Until his time there was a sharp distinction between Scottish 
 and English literature ; but after him the literature of the two 
 countries became one, both in nature and in name. This was 
 but natural when we consider that somethins; of the original 
 impulse which moved Burns's genius was English. Professor 
 Minto says : — 
 
 *' Burns's poetry is not a mere freak of nature, a thing sui generis^ 
 but an organic part of the body of English literature, with its attach- 
 ments or points of connection only slightly disguised by difference of 
 dialect. It drew its inspiration from literature, and it became in its 
 turn a fruitful source of inspiration to two great poets of the next 
 generation, — Wordsworth and Byron." 
 
 Let us now see what Burns himself says of the inheritance 
 which came to him. He says : — 
 
 " What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon and 
 Guthrie's Geographical Grammars, and the ideas I had formed of 
 modern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the Specta- 
 tor. These, with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakespeare, Tull and 
 Dickson on Agriculture., The Heathen Pantheon, Stackhouse's History 
 of the Bible, Boyle's Lecticres, Allan Ramsay's Works, and a select 
 collection of English songs, formed the whole of my reading." 
 
 To Robert Ainslie he wrote : — 
 
 " Let me quote you my two favorite passages, which, though I have 
 repeated them ten thotcsand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
 steel my resolution like inspiration : — 
 
 ' On Reason build resolve, 
 That column of true majesty in man.' 
 
 Young. 
 ' Here, Alfred, hero of tlie state, 
 Thy genius Heaven's high will declare-, 
 The triumph of the truly great 
 Is never, never to despair ! 
 Is never to despair ! ' 
 
 Thomson : Masque of Alfred." 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. XV 
 
 Again he says : — 
 
 " My favorite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shen- 
 stone, particularly his Elegies ; Thomson's Man of Feelings a book I 
 prize next to the Bible; Man of the World ; Sterne, especially his 
 Sentimenial yourney ; yiz.c^hQxsoxi's Ossian, etc. These t^xq glorious 
 models, after which I endeavor to form my conduct; and 'tis incongru- 
 ous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind glows with senti- 
 ments lighted 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 
 about which the terrsefilial race fret and fume and vex themselves! 
 Oh, how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a 
 poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and 
 down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page 
 or two of mankind, and 'catching the manner, living as they rise,' 
 whilst the men of business jostle me on every side as an idle incum- 
 brance in their way." 
 
 At another time he writes : — 
 
 *' The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was 
 The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's beginning, — 
 
 ' How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! ' 
 
 I particularly remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish 
 
 ear, — 
 
 ' For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave'" — 
 
 The second, or National, character of Burns's poetry is quite 
 as logically the result of his environment as was the personal. 
 Most of the popular poetry of Scotland had been born in con- 
 flict, political or religious ; and as a natural consequence Burns 
 became a reformer and a patriot. He writes of some early 
 influences in this direction as follows : — 
 
 " The first two books I ever read in private, which gave me more 
 pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were The Life of 
 
xvi EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 Hannibal and The Hisio7-y of ]Villiain 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 Scottish prejudice 
 into my veins which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life 
 shut in eternal rest." 
 
 Perhaps Burns's chief claim to national recognition la}- in what 
 he did to preserve the native Scottish dialect from passing into 
 disuse, and to make it classical. He gave it much the same 
 relation to English as that which the Doric held to Attic Greek. 
 Of his work here Emerson says : — 
 
 " He grew up in a rural district, speaking 2, patois unintelligible to 
 all but natives, and he has made the Lowland Scotch a Doric dialect 
 of fame. It is the only example in history of a language made classic 
 by the genius of a single man. But more than this. He had that 
 secret of genius to draw from the bottom of society the strength of its 
 speech, and astonish the ears of the polite with these artless words, 
 better than art, and filtered of all offence through his beauty. It 
 seemed odious to Luther that the Devil should have all the best tunes; 
 he would bring them into the churches; and Burns knew how to take 
 from fairs and gypsies, blacksmiths and drovers, the speech of the 
 market and street, and clothe it with melody." 
 
 On the publication of the first edition of his poems at Kil- 
 marnock, in 1786, his national fame began; and when this was 
 followed by his visit to Edinburgh, and the second edition of 
 his poems, printed in 1787, his national recognition was com- 
 plete : he became the observed of all observers throughout old 
 Scotia. 
 
 In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop the poet writes : — 
 
 "The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride; 
 to continue to deserve it my most exalted ambition." 
 
 *' At this time [says Professor Shairp], there was a set of literary 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. xvii 
 
 men in Edinburgh who as to national feeling were entirely colorless, 
 — Scotchmen in nothing except their dwelling-place. The thing they 
 most dreaded was to be convicted of a Scotticism. Among these 
 learned cosmopolitans in walked Burns, who, with the instinct of gen- 
 ius, chose for his subject that Scottish life which they ignored, and for 
 his vehicle that vernacular which they despised, and who, touching the 
 springs of long-forgotten emotions, brought back on the hearts of his 
 countrymen a tide of patriotic feeling to which they had long been 
 strangers." 
 
 Lockhart says : — 
 
 " Burns revived Scottish nationality which was falling asleep on the 
 graves of the Stuarts." 
 
 By thus placing the Lowland vernacular upon a national 
 basis, by making it, and the sentiments it revealed, classic, 
 Burns secured his title to Universality. Through him Scotland's 
 hills and vales, her woods and streams, her men and women, 
 became the friends of the race ; and a new world of sights and 
 sounds, of joys and sorrows, was brought to every reader of his 
 
 work. 
 
 *' We love him, praise him, just for this : 
 In every form and feature, 
 Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, 
 He saw his fellow-creature." 
 
 When we find that the poets more than any other teachers 
 reveal us to ourselves by revealing the unity of the race in the 
 brotherhood of admiration, hope, and love, we take them to our 
 hearts, and they become the most potent forces in our educa- 
 tion, — all the more potent because silent and unobtrusive. 
 Emerson says : — 
 
 " Every man's, every boy's and girl's head carries snatches of Burns's 
 songs, and they say them by heart, and, what is strangest of all, never 
 learned them from a book, but from mouth to mouth. The wind 
 whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes 
 
xviii EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 hoarsely rustle them, nay, the music-boxes of Geneva are framed and 
 toothed to play them, the hand-organs of the Savoyards in all cities 
 repeat them, and the chimes of bells ring them in spires. They are 
 the property and solace of mankind." 
 
 The years 1785 and 1786 are memorable in the history of 
 English poetry ; for they mark the first culmination of that move- 
 ment toward Nature, Man, and God which began in England 
 with Gray and Goldsmith, and in Scotland with Ramsay and 
 Thomson. 
 
 In 1785 Cowper published The Task, and in 1786 Burns 
 gave to the world the first edition of his poems. Each poet 
 wrought at his task unconscious of the existence of the other. 
 The one in the dewy meadows of Buckinghamshire, and the 
 other on the Ayrshire hills, saw Nature as she had not been 
 seen since the time of Chaucer — in all her freshness and 
 beauty — and by so revealing it made poetry simple and natural, 
 strong and healthful, with the health and the strength of youth. 
 
 Cowper — 
 
 " Loved the rural walk through lanes 
 Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep. 
 And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
 Of thorny boughs ..... 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink." 
 
 He loved to tend the hare which he had saved from the 
 
 hunter, — 
 
 " One sheltered hare 
 Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
 Of cruel man exulting in her woes. 
 Yes — thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand 
 That feeds thee ; thou may'st frolic on the floor 
 * At evening, and at night retire secure 
 
 To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed." 
 
 Burns loved to wander, — 
 
 " Whyles owre the linn the burnie plays, 
 As thro' the glen it wimpl"t ; 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. xix 
 
 Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpPt ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
 Whyles cookit underneath the braes. 
 Below the spreading hazel. 
 
 Unseen that night." 
 
 In the winter night when "doors and whinnock rattle" lie 
 
 thought — 
 
 " On the ourie cattle 
 Or silly sheep, wha bide the brattle 
 
 O' winter war. 
 And thro' the drift, deep-laiving, sprattle 
 
 Beneath a scaur." 
 
 Again by revealing that the hearts as tender and true beat 
 under hodden gray as under royal robes, these singers made 
 poetry democratic : 
 
 " He is the freeman whom the truth makes free. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 " Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 'An honest man's the noblest work of God ; ' 
 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 And lastly, by teaching that God's love was revealed in nature, 
 in animal life, and in man, that, — 
 
 " God made all the creatures, and gave them our love and our fear, 
 To give sign we and they are his children, one family here." 
 
 They made poetry reflect, as never before, the religion of 
 Christ. 
 
XX EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 The one indignantly protests : — 
 
 " My ear is pain'd, 
 My soul is sick with every day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled ; 
 Man devotes his brother and destroys. 
 
 And what man seeing this, 
 And having human feelings, does not blush 
 And hang his head to think himself a man ? " 
 
 The other with his sweet sympathy for his erring brother 
 
 says : — 
 
 " 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 do7te we partly may compute. 
 
 But know not what's resisted!''' 
 
 I have said that these poets never met, and that each lived 
 and loved and sang almost unconscious of the existence of the 
 other. It seems that Cowper read Burns's poems in July, 1787, 
 for he then wrote : — 
 
 " I have read Burns's poems twice, and I think them on the whole 
 a very extraordinary production. He is, I believe, the only poet these 
 kingdoms have produced in the lower rank of life since Shakespeare 
 who need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable 
 consideration of his origin, and the disadvantages under which he has 
 labored." 
 
 How soon it was after the publication of Cowper's Task 
 that it found Burns we cannot tell; but in 1795 he wrote his 
 friend, Mrs. Dunlop, as follows : — 
 
 " How do you like Cowper? Is not The Task a glorious poem? 
 The religion of The Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, 
 is the religion of God and nature; the religion that exalts, that en- 
 nobles man." 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. XXI 
 
 In this centenary year, when lovers of Burns are vying with 
 each other in manifestations of loyalty to his memory, I have 
 wished to reveal my appreciation of him as a teacher of men by 
 reproducing something of the old and true rather than by intro- 
 ducing anything strange and new. My experience of twenty 
 years in teaching Burns has convinced me that he is one of the 
 poets whose best work, by its inimitable magic of style and mel- 
 ody of verse, together with that absolute frankness and honesty 
 of purpose which delights in being simple and natural, is admi- 
 rably fitted to kindle in young people a love of simple pleasures 
 and of home-bred sense which is the characteristic of the truly 
 great of all time. 
 
 Because of the difficulty of selecting poems for class use, 
 and because of the time lost in looking up the individual poems, 
 which in various editions appear under different titles, I have 
 at last decided to bring together such poems as I have found 
 suitable for the class-room and the home. Burns more than any 
 other English poet needs to be read in selections, for his work 
 is exceedingly uneven both in form and content. I have en- 
 deavored to select such poems as by " truth and seriousness of 
 subject, beauty and felicity of form," belong to the literature 
 oi power. I cannot hope to have included all that the special 
 student of Burns would like, yet I trust that even he will not 
 miss many of his favorites. 
 
 My end will be accomplished if the reader is led to make 
 friends with this "lightly moved and all-conceiving spirit," and 
 thus to become a lover of the matchless melody of a master of 
 song. 
 
 In his verse and prose Burns is his own portrait-painter ; the 
 notes give to each poem its setting of natural, personal, and 
 historical associations, out of which its pathos and power were 
 created, and thus they are largely biographical. At the same 
 time there is gathered a body of opinion in regard to the mis- 
 sion and message of Burns which may prove of value in con- 
 
XXll EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 firming or correcting opinions already held. Such notes ought 
 never to be assigned as a part of the study of Burns. If the 
 pupil comes to them naturally from the reading of the text, well 
 and good ; they may then be of service ; but unless this be the 
 case they should be left unread. In that holy communion where 
 there is reading that is worthy of the name, nothing should 
 come between the pupil and the author. I believe with that 
 clear-headed and stout-hearted Scot, John Stuart Blackie, that 
 there is nothing so helpful towards the living a noble life "as a 
 memory well stored with sacred texts, and an imagination well 
 decorated with heroic pictures." 
 
 The teacher of English literature needs two qualifications 
 above all others, — a passion for the subject, which is born of 
 long and loving intimacy, and a willingness to keep himself in 
 the background where he may constantly watch the direction 
 and tendency of the pupil, only now and then interfering for the 
 purpose of giving wider vision, or of intensifying the interest. 
 If it be genius that is required to teach English literature, it is 
 the genius which Alexander Hamilton describes when he says : — 
 
 *' All the genius I have lies just in this : when I have a subject in 
 hand I study it profoundly day and night. It is a part of me ; I ex- 
 plore it in all its bearings ; my mind becomes pervaded with it. Then 
 the effort which I make people are pleased to call the fruit of genius ; 
 it is the fruit of labor and thought." 
 
 The story of the "architectonics" of poetry — its art and 
 technique — has little place in the handling of Burns, who wrote 
 not for the eye but for the ear. The essential difference be- 
 tween the songs of Burns and the songs of Tennyson — each 
 perfect after its kind — is that the one is an inspiration, the 
 other an art. If we compare the songs in the Princess with 
 those in this volume, we shall see the distinction of kind clearly 
 marked. Tennyson is the artist who consciously selects his 
 subjects for definite purposes, fashions and refashions the verse, 
 
EDITOR 'S PREFACE. XX 111 
 
 which depends largely for its effectiveness upon what Mr. Sted- 
 man calls " the obvious repetends and singing bars, the stanzaic 
 effect, the use of open vowel sounds and other matters instinc- 
 tive with song-makers." 
 Tennyson says : — 
 
 "There was a period in my life when as an artist, Turner, for in- 
 stance, takes rough sketches of landskip, etc., in order to work them 
 eventually into some great picture, so I was in the habit of chronicling, 
 in four or five words or more, whatever might strike me as picturesque 
 in nature." 
 
 The mood of Burns, on the contrary, reminds us of that 
 given by Plato in loii when Socrates says : — 
 
 "All good poets, epic as well as lyric, compose their beautiful 
 poems, not by art, but because they are inspired and possessed; and as 
 the Corybantian revellers, when they dance, are not in their right 
 mind, so the lyric poets are not in their right mind when they are 
 composing their beautiful strains; but when falling under the power of 
 music and metre they are inspired and possessed." 
 
 Listen now to Burns as he gives the occasion of one of his 
 lyrics : — 
 
 ** I had roved out, as chance directed, in the favorite haunts of my 
 muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the 
 vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western 
 hills; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant 
 spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened 
 to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with 
 a congenial, kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path 
 lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another 
 station. ' Surely,' said I to myself, ' he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
 regardless of your harmonious endeavor to please him, can eye your 
 elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all 
 the property nature gives you, — your dearest comforts, your hapless 
 
XXIV EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, 
 what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, 
 and wished it preserved from the rudely browsing cattle, or the with- 
 ering eastern blast? ' Such was the scene, and such the hour, when in 
 a corner of my prospect I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's 
 workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's 
 eye. What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised 
 plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. The enclosed 
 song was the work of my return home, and perhaps it but poorly 
 answers what might have been expected from such a scene." 
 
 How unnatural it is to subject work done under such condi- 
 tions to the analysis of the modern literary germ hunter. Let 
 us be content to enjoy the things that such minds profess to 
 understand, and if they demur at the principles here laid down 
 let us reply with the youngest of our poets : — 
 
 " Ye hug the wealth ye cannot use, 
 
 And lack the riches all may gain, — 
 O blind and wanting wit to choose, 
 
 Who house the chaff and burn the grain! 
 And still doth life with starry towers 
 
 Lure to the bright, divine ascent ! — 
 Be yours the things ye would : be ours 
 
 The things that are more excellent." 
 
 The local setting of the poems is partly from historical sources 
 and partly the result of my visits to the land of Burns for the 
 purpose of getting nearer to the heart of the poet and the scenes 
 of his toil and his inspiration. In Ayrshire we come to know 
 Burns as we cannot know him elsewhere ; we shake hands with 
 him, as it were, and feel the spell of his sweet, strong person- 
 ality as we wander with him in the fields and woods, by the 
 Nith and the Doon, or as we sit with him at a rockin' amang 
 the neebors dear, and listen to the meickle fun which precedes 
 the " hearty yokin at sang about."' 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. XXV 
 
 "The study of such a genius [says Principal Tulloch], in all the 
 fulness of its development and surroundings, in all its significance, — 
 personal, intellectual, historical, — is a study of wide and ennobling 
 extent, and would be found to make something of a real education for 
 any one undertaking it thoroughly." 
 
 In an age of morbid introspection and analysis, 
 
 " Of fevered fancyings and of fretful lays," 
 
 these poems of Burns, with their simplicity and homely objec- 
 tivity, their tender and pathetic heart logic, reveal to us " A joy 
 in widest commonalty spread," in which young and old, rich 
 and poor, alike may share ; they make the world a lovelier place, 
 and life a diviner thing. 
 
 If errors, textual, historical, or biographical, are found in this 
 edition, the editor will be glad to have his attention called to 
 them. 
 
 A. J. G. 
 
 Brooklinh, Mass. 
 July 21, 1896. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " BuRNS's poems are but little rhymed fragments scattered here 
 and there in the grand unrhymed romance of his earthly existence." 
 
 Carlyle. 
 
 "The songs of Burns appeal to all ranks, they touch all ages, they 
 
 cheer toilworn men under every clime. Wherever the English tongue 
 
 is heard, whenever men of British blood would give vent to their 
 
 deepest, kindliest, most genial feelings, it is to the songs of Burns they 
 
 spontaneously turn, and find in them at once a perfect utterance, and 
 
 a fresh tie of brotherhood." 
 
 J. C. Shairp. 
 
 *'By the striking excellence of his own contributions, and by the 
 exquisite tact with which he handled and improved traditional ma- 
 terials. Burns gave to Scottish lyrical literature a position in the esti- 
 mation of intelligent Europe similar to that which Shakespeare holds 
 
 in the literature of the drama." 
 
 John Stuart Blackie. 
 
 "Yours is the talk of the byre and the plough-tail; yours is that 
 large utterance of the early hinds. No poet since the Psalmist of 
 Israel ever gave the world more assurance of a man." 
 
 Andrew Lang. 
 
 " To homely subjects Burns communicated the rich commentary of 
 
 his nature; they were all steeped in Burns; and they interest us not in 
 
 themselves, but because they have been passed through the spirit of so 
 
 genuine and vigorous a man." 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
XXV^lll lA^TRODUCTION. 
 
 " Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 
 He rules mid winter snows, and where 
 
 Bees fill their hives ; 
 Deep in the general heart of man 
 
 His power survives." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 " In Burns's poems we apprehend is to be found a truer history 
 than any anecdote can supply of the things which happened to him- 
 self, and moreover of the most notable things which went on in Scot- 
 land between 1759 and 1796." 
 
 Charles Kingslev. 
 
 "As Burns's poems grew and breathed into being, the veil of the 
 unknown was lifted, and Lowland Scotland, sweet and cheerful, came 
 to light as when the sun rises over an undiscovered land. Scotland 
 was the first object of his love, but after Scotland, mankind." 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 " We shall never understand Burns aright if we do not grasp the 
 
 fact that he was a ' folk-poet,' into whom the soul of a poet of all 
 
 time and all space had entered." 
 
 George Saintsburv. 
 
 *' Every poet' who, like Burns, increases that larger tenderness of 
 the heart, which not only loves men, but hates to give pain to the lower 
 animals, is, so far at least, religious in his poetry. No poet ever more 
 deeply felt the sorrows of created things than Burns." 
 
 Stopford a. Brooke. 
 
 " In Burns's poems is to be read clearly the lyric chronicle of all 
 that went to make up the most moving tale of Robert Burns, which 
 is surely to be read, if at all, only with sympathy and tears." 
 
 Ernest Rhys. 
 " He came when poets had forgot 
 How rich and strange the human lot ; 
 How warm the tints of life ; how hot 
 
 Are Love and Hate; 
 And what makes Truth divine, and what 
 Makes manhood great." 
 
 William Watson. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XX ix 
 
 " In homely Scots vernacular we are told by an Ayrshire plough- 
 man authentic tidings of living instincts, of spontaneous belief, which 
 not all the philosophy in the brain of the intellectual can bani; a frorti 
 the breast of the human being." 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 
 
 " Give lettered pomp to teeth of time, 
 So ' Bonnie Doon ' but tarry ; 
 Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, 
 But spare his Highland Mary." 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 " He spoke of Burns, — men rude and rough 
 Pressed round to hear the praise of one 
 Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff 
 As homespun as their own." 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 "Not Latimer, not Luther, struck more telling blows against false 
 theology than did this brave singer. The Confession of Augsburg, the 
 Declaration of Independence, The French Rights of Man are not more 
 weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns." 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 " Burns was altruistic because his songs were those of his people. 
 In his notes amid the heather, Scotia's lowly, independent children 
 found a voice. It was his own, and it was theirs; he looked out and 
 not in, or, if in, upon himself as the symbol of his kind. Of all our 
 poets, lyric idyllic, he is most truly nature's darling; his pictures were 
 life, his voice was freedom, his heart was strength and tenderness." 
 
 E. C. Stedman. 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 
 
 OF 
 
 BURNS' POEMS. 
 
 Published at Kilmarnock in 1786. 
 
 The following trifles are not the production of a Poet, who, 
 with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the 
 elegancies and idleness 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 sJiiit up and a 
 book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary rules for com- 
 mencing poetry by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners 
 he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, 
 in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his 
 earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses 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 anything of his worth showing ; and none of the fol- 
 lowing works were composed 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, always 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. 
 
 Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he 
 
 xxxi 
 
XXX ii PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhym- 
 ing tribe, that even he, 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, whose 
 divine elegies do honor 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 our critic catches at 
 the word ge?iius, the author tells him once for all, that he cer- 
 tainly 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 poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, 
 with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in his highest 
 pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretension. These 
 two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in 
 the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their 
 flame, than for servile imitation. 
 
 To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks. 
 Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing 
 gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevo- 
 lence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in 
 that dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. 
 He begs his readers, particularly the learned and polite, who 
 may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allow- 
 ance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, 
 candid, and impartial criticism he shall stand convicted of dul- 
 ness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case 
 do by others — let him be condemned without mercy to contempt 
 and oblivion. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 {Second Edition, Edinbw gh, 17S7.) 
 
 To THE Noblemen and Gentlemen of the Caledonian 
 Hunt. 
 
 My Lords and Gentle7ne}i : — 
 
 A Scottish Bard, proud of name, and whose highest ambition 
 is to sing in his country's service — where shall he so properly 
 look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land ; 
 those who bear the honors and inherit the virtues of their ances- 
 tors? The Poetic Genius of my country found me, as the pro- 
 phetic 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 tuned my wild, artless notes, as she in- 
 spired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis 
 of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honored protection ; 
 I now obey her dictates. 
 
 Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach 
 you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedica- 
 tion, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed 
 by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. 
 Nor do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile 
 Author, looking for a continuation of these favours ; I was bred 
 to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the 
 common Scottish name with you, my ilkistrious countrymen ; 
 and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to con- 
 
 xxxiii 
 
XXXIV DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 gratulate 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 lib- 
 erty. In the last place, I come to proffer my \varmest wishes to 
 the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, 
 for your welfare and happiness. 
 
 When you go forth to waken the Echoes in the ancient and 
 favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be 
 of your party; and may Social Joy await your return. When 
 harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and 
 bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth 
 attend your return to your native seats ; and may domestic hap- 
 piness, 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 
 iind you an inexorable foe ! 
 
 I have the horiour to be, 
 With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect. 
 My Lords and Gentlemen, 
 
 Your most devoted humble servant, 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, ^/r// 4, 17S7. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 DATE. PAGE. 
 
 Editor's Preface v 
 
 Introduction » xxvii 
 
 Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of Poems, 1786 . . . xxxi 
 
 ^,_A_^ Dedication of the Edinburgh Edition, 1787 xxxiii 
 
 1773 Handsome Nell i 
 
 1783 The Rigs o' Barley 2 
 
 """'"^ Now Westlin Winds 4 
 
 My Nannie O 5 
 
 Mary Morison 7 
 
 Winter — a Dirge 8 
 
 A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish .... 9 
 
 The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie 10 
 
 Poor Mailie's Elegy 12 
 
 1784 Green grow the Rashes 14 
 
 Epistle to Davie 15 
 
 Second Epistle to Davie 21 
 
 Address to the Deil 23 
 
 1785 Holy Willie's Prayer 28 
 
 Address to the Unco Guid 32 
 
 Man was made to Mourn 34 
 
 Epistle to John Lapraik 38 
 
 To William Simpson, Ochiltree 43 
 
 To the Rev. John M'Math 47 
 
 To James Smith 51 
 
 See the Smoking Bowl before us 58 
 
 Halloween 59 
 
 xxxv 
 
XXXVl CONTENTS. 
 
 DATE. PAGE. 
 
 To a Mouse 68 
 
 The Vision 70 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 81 
 
 Death and Dr. Hornbook 89 
 
 A Winter Night 94 
 
 There was a Lad . 98 
 
 1786 The Auld Farmer's New Year's Salutation to His Auld 
 
 Mare Maggie 99 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph 103 
 
 The Twa' Dogs 105 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy ., 113 
 
 To a Louse 115 
 
 Epistle to a Young Friend 117 
 
 A Dream 121 
 
 The Lament 126 
 
 A Prayer — O Thou Dread Power 129 
 
 Farewell to the Banks of Ayr 130 
 
 Will Ye Go to the Indies, My Mary . . 131 
 
 Prayer for Mary 132 
 
 My Highland Lassie, O 133 
 
 Lines on Meeting with Lord Daer 135 
 
 The Lass o' Ballochmyle 136 
 
 The Braes o' Ballochmyle 138 
 
 1787 Address to Edinburgh 139 
 
 Epigram at Roslin Inn 141 
 
 Epistle to Mrs. Scott, Guidwife of W^auchope-House . . 142 
 
 Come boat Me o'er to Charlie 144 
 
 Inscription on the Tombstone Erected by Burns to the 
 
 Memory of Fergu.sson 145 
 
 To a Lady Who was Looking up the Text during Sermon . 146 
 
 The Birks of Aberfeldy 146 
 
 The Humble Petition of Bruar Water 147 
 
 The Lovely Lass o' Inverness 151 
 
 Castle Gordon 151 
 
 A Rosebud by My Early Walk 153 
 
CONTENTS. XXXvii 
 
 DATE. PAGE. 
 
 Ely the was She 154 
 
 Banks of Devon 155 
 
 1788 I love My Jean 156 
 
 O were I on Parnassus' Hill 156 
 
 M'Pherson's Farewell 157 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 159 
 
 Up in the Morning Early . 160 
 
 My Bonnie Mary 160 
 
 1789 On seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by Me 161 
 
 John Anderson 162 
 
 The Happy Trio (O, Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut) . . 163 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 164 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands 165 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock 166 
 
 On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 168 
 
 Tarn Glen 170 
 
 1790 Tarn O'Shanter 172 
 
 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 179 
 
 Banks of Nith 183 
 
 1 79 1 Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots 184 
 
 Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 186 
 
 The Banks o' Doon 189 
 
 Version printed in the Musical Museum 190 
 
 Address to the Shade of Thomson 191 
 
 Afton Water 192 
 
 Ae Fond Kiss 193 
 
 1792 The Deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman • . . 194 
 
 Highland Mary 195 
 
 Bessie and Her Spinnin-Wheel 196 
 
 Bonnie Lesley 197 
 
 Duncan Gray 198 
 
 1793 Galla Water 200 
 
 Wandering Willie 201 
 
 Jessie 20I 
 
 The Soger's Return 202 
 
XXXVIU CONTENTS. 
 
 DATE. PAGE. 
 
 Logan Braes 205 
 
 There was a Lass 206 
 
 Bannockburn 208 
 
 Sonnet on Hearing a Thrush Sing 209 
 
 Dainty Davie 210 
 
 1794 A Vision (Lincluden Abbey) 211 
 
 Hark, the Mavis! (Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes) . . 213 
 
 A Red Red Rose 214 
 
 My Chloris 215 
 
 The Charming Month of May 216 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white Locks 217 
 
 Contented wi' little 218 
 
 My Nannie's Awa' 219 
 
 1795 For a' That and a' That 220 
 
 The Dumfries Volunteers 221 
 
 Address to the Woodlark 223 
 
 Inscription ('Tis Friendship's Pledge) 224 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham 225 
 
 1796 Altho' Thou maun never be Mine 227 
 
 O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 228 
 
 Poem on Pastoral Poetry 228 
 
 Chronological 231 
 
 Notes 233 
 
 Burns in Other Tongues 355 
 
 Rules for Pronouncing Scotch Words 355 
 
 Glossary 357 
 
 Ridex to First Lines 367 
 
 References 369 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1773- 1783. 
 
 HANDSOME NELL. 
 
 Tune — " / am a Man tinmarriedr 
 
 O, ONCE I lovM a bonnie lass, 
 
 Aye, and I love her still, 
 And whilst that virtue warms my breast 
 
 I'll love my handsome Nell. 
 
 Fal 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. 
 
 A bonnie lass, I will confess 
 
 Is pleasant to the e'e, 
 But, without some better qualities 
 
 She's no a lass for me. 
 
 But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 
 
 And what is best of a'. 
 Her reputation is complete, 
 
 And fair without a flaw. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
 
 Both decent and genteel : 
 And then there's something in her gait 
 
 Gars onie dress look weel. 
 
 A gaudy dress and gentle air 
 May slightly touch the heart, 
 
 But it's innocence and modesty 
 That polishes the dart. 
 
 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
 'Tis this enchants my soul ! 
 
 For absolutely in my breast 
 She reigns without control. 
 
 Fal lal de ral, &c. 
 
 THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
 
 Tune — " Com rigs are bonnieP 
 
 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, 
 Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed. 
 
 To see me thro' the barley. 
 
 The sky was blue, the wind was still. 
 The moon was shining clearly ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I set her down, wi' right good will, 
 Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
 
 I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 
 I lov'd her most sincerely; 
 
 I kiss'd her owre and owre again 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 
 
 Her heart was beating rarely ; 
 My blessings on that happy place, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
 But by the moon and stars so bright, 
 
 That shone that hour so clearly ! 
 She ay shall bless that happy night 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 
 
 I hae been merry drinking ; 
 I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear ; 
 
 I hae been happy thinking: 
 But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
 
 Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
 That happy night was worth them a', 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Corn rigs, an' barley rigs. 
 An' corn rigs are bonnie : 
 
 I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
 Amano; the rij^s wi' Annie. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURA^S. 
 
 NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 
 
 Tune — " / had a horse, I had nae tttair." 
 
 Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 
 
 Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
 The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 
 
 Amang the blooming heather : 
 Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 
 
 Delights the weary farmer ; 
 And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night 
 
 To muse upon my charmer. 
 
 The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 
 
 The plover loves the mountains ; 
 The woodcock loves the lonely dells ; 
 
 The soaring hern the fountains : 
 Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 
 
 The path of man to shun it ; 
 The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
 
 The spreading thorn the linnet. 
 
 Thus ev'ry 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 sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 
 
 The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning'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, 
 
 And view the charms of nature ; 
 The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 
 
 And ev'ry happy creature. 
 
 We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
 
 Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
 I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 
 
 Swear how I love thee dearly : 
 Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs 
 
 Not autumn to the farmer. 
 So dear can be, as thou to me, 
 
 My fair, my lovely charmer ! 
 
 MY NANNIE, O. 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
 
 The wintry sun the.day has clos'd. 
 And I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 
 
 The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 
 
 The night's baith mirk and rainy, O 
 But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 
 
 An' owre the hill to Nannie, O. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURA'S. 
 
 My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 
 
 Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
 May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
 
 That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true ; 
 
 As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
 The op'ning gowan, wat 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 be, 
 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 sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
 
 But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, 
 An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 
 
 Come weel, come woe, I care na b}^, 
 I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O ; 
 
 Nae ither care in life have I, 
 
 But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 Tune — " Bide ye yet." 
 
 Mary, at thy window be, 
 
 It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see. 
 
 That makes the miser's treasure poor 
 How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 
 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
 
 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 
 1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
 
 "Ye are nae Mary Morison." 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie. 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 WINTER : 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 The wintry west extends his blast, 
 
 And hail and rain does blaw ; 
 Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 
 
 The blinding sleet ai^d snaw : 
 While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 
 
 And roars frae bank to brae ; 
 And bird and beast in covert rest. 
 
 And pass the heartless day. 
 
 "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 
 
 The joyless winter-day 
 Let others fear, to me more dear 
 
 Than all the pride of May : 
 The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 
 
 My griefs it seems to join ; 
 The leafless trees my fancy please, 
 
 Their fate resembles mine ! 
 
 Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 
 
 These woes of mine fulfil, 
 Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 
 
 Because they are Thy will ! 
 Then all I want, (Oh ! do thou grant 
 
 This one request of mine !) 
 Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 
 
 Assist me to resign. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF 
 VIOLENT ANGUISH. 
 
 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 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 ! 
 
lO SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR 
 MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 
 
 AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 
 
 As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
 Was ae day nibbling on the tether, 
 Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
 An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch ; 
 There, groaning, dying, slie did He, 
 When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 
 
 Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted ban's, 
 Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
 He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
 But, waes 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 woefu' case ! 
 My dying words attentive hear, 
 An' 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 increase, an' grow 
 To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 
 
 Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. II 
 
 An' ay 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' ripps o' corn. 
 
 An' may they never learn the gaets 
 Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
 To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
 At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
 So may they, like their great Forbears, 
 For monie a year come thro' the sheers; 
 So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
 An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 
 
 My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
 O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
 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 hame ; 
 An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
 Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 
 
 An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
 Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
 O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
 Wi' ony blastlt, moorland toop ; 
 But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
 Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 
 
12 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
 I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
 An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
 Mind to be kind 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, 
 An' clos'd her een amang the dead ! 
 
 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 of his woes; 
 
 Poor Mailie'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 Mailie dead. 
 
 Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
 A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 3 
 
 Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 
 
 She ran wi' speed : 
 A friend mair faithfu' 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' thievish greed. 
 Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 
 
 Sin' Mailie's dead. 
 
 Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
 
 Her living image in her yowe 
 
 Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. 
 
 For bits o' bread ; 
 An' down the briny pearls rowe 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 
 She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
 
 Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 
 
 For her forbears were brought in ships, 
 
 Frae yont the Tweed : 
 A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
 
 Than Mailie's dead. 
 
 Wa worth the man wha first did shape 
 That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
 It maks guid fellows grin an' gape, 
 
 Wi' chokin dread; 
 An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape. 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 
14 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O, a' ye Bards on bonnie Doon ! 
 An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
 Come, join the melanchoUous croon 
 
 O' Robin's reed 1 
 His heart will never get aboon ! 
 
 His Mailie's dead ! 
 
 1784. • 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 
 
 Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 
 
 There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
 In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
 
 What signifies the life o' man, 
 An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 The war'ly race may riches chase, 
 An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
 
 An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O, 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 5 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 
 My arms about my dearie, O ; 
 An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, 
 
 May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 
 
 The wisest man the warl' saw, 
 ^e dearly lov'd 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. 
 
 An' then she made the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 
 
 January — [1784]. 
 
 While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
 And bar the doors wi' drivin' snaw. 
 
 And hing us owre the ingle, 
 I set me down, to pass the time. 
 And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 
 
 In hamely, westlin jingle : 
 While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 
 
 Ben to the chimla lug. 
 
l6 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift, 
 That live sae bien an snug : 
 I tent less, and want less 
 Their roomy fire-side ; 
 But hanker and canker, 
 To see their cursed pride. 
 
 i 
 
 It's hardly in a body's pow'r. 
 
 To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
 
 To see how things are shar'd ; 
 How best o' chiels are whyles in want. 
 While coofs on countless thousands rant, 
 
 And ken na how to wair't : 
 But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 
 
 Tho' we hae little gear, 
 We're fit to win our daily bread, 
 As lang's we're hale and fier : 
 " Mair spier na, nor fear na," 
 Auld age ne'er mind a feg ; 
 The last o't, the warst o't. 
 Is only but to beg. 
 
 To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
 
 When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin. 
 
 Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
 Yet then content would mak 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 s^uile. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 7 
 
 However fortune kick the ba', 
 Has ay 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'. 
 
 What tho', like commoners of air, 
 We wander out, we know not where, 
 
 But either house or hal' ? 
 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 blackbirds whistle clear. 
 With honest joy our hearts will bound. 
 To see the coming year : 
 
 On braes when we please, then, 
 
 We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
 Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't. 
 And sing't when we hae done. 
 
 It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
 
 It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 
 
 To purchase peace and rest ; 
 It's no in making muckle, 7nair : 
 It's no in books, it's no in lear, 
 
 To make us truly blest : 
 If happiness hae not her seat 
 
 And centre in the breast. 
 
1 8 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
 But never can be blest : 
 
 Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
 
 Could make us happy lang ; 
 The heart ay's the part ay. 
 That makes us right or wrang. 
 
 Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
 
 Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, 
 
 Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
 Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
 Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 
 
 As hardly worth their while ? 
 Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
 God's creatures they oppress ! 
 Or else, neglecting a' that's guid. 
 They riot in excess ! 
 
 Baith careless, and fearless, 
 
 Of either heav'n or hell ! 
 Esteeming, and deeming 
 It's a' an idle tale ! 
 
 Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
 Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 
 
 By pining at our state ; 
 And, even should misfortunes come, 
 I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 
 
 An's thankfu' for them yet. 
 They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
 
 They let us ken oursel ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 9 
 
 They mak us see the naked truth, 
 The real guid and ill. 
 Tho' losses, and crosses. 
 
 Be lessons right severe, 
 There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
 Ye'U find nae other where. 
 
 But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
 
 (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 
 
 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, 
 
 The lover an' the frien' ; 
 Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
 And I my darling Jean ! 
 It warms me, it charms me. 
 
 To mention but her name : 
 It heats me, it beets me. 
 And sets me a' on flame ! 
 
 O all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
 O Thou, whose very self art love ! 
 
 Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
 The life-blood streaming thro' my heart. 
 Or my own dear immortal part, 
 
 Is not more fondly dear ! 
 When heart-corroding care and grief 
 
 Deprive my soul of rest. 
 
20 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Her dear idea brings relief 
 And solace to my breast. 
 Thou Being, All-seeing, 
 
 O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
 Still take her, and make her 
 Thy most peculiar care ! 
 
 All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
 The smile of love, the friendly tear, 
 
 The sympathetic glow ! 
 Long since, this world's thorny ways 
 Had number'd out my weary days, 
 
 Had it not been for you ! 
 Fate stili has blest me with a friend, 
 
 In every care and ill ; 
 And oft a more endearing band, 
 A tie more tender still. 
 It lightens, it brightens 
 The tenebrific scene, 
 To meet with, and greet with 
 My Davie or my Jean. 
 
 O, how that name inspires my style ! 
 The words come skelpin, rank and file, 
 
 Amaist before I ken ! 
 The ready measure rins as fine. 
 As Phoebus and the famous Nine 
 
 Were glowrin owre my pen. 
 My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 
 
 Till ance he's fairly het ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 21 
 
 And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
 An rin an unco fit : 
 
 But lest then, the beast then, 
 Should rue his hasty ride, 
 I'll light now, and dight now 
 His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 
 
 SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER 
 
 POET. 
 
 AULD NEEBOR, 
 
 I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
 For your auld-farrant, fren'ly letter ; 
 Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 
 
 Ye speak sae fair. 
 For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 
 
 Some less maun sair. 
 
 Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
 Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
 To cheer you through the weary widdle 
 
 O' war'ly cares, 
 Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 
 
 Your auld gray hairs. 
 
 But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
 I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
 
22 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 
 
 Until ye fyke ; 
 Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 
 
 Be hain't wha like. 
 
 For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
 
 Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
 
 Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 
 
 Wi' jads or masons ; 
 An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 
 
 Braw sober lessons. 
 
 Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
 Commend me to the Bardie clan; 
 Except it be some idle plan 
 
 O' rhymin clink. 
 The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 
 
 They ever think. 
 
 Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
 Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
 But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 
 
 An' while ought's there, 
 Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 
 
 An' fash nair main 
 
 Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
 My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
 At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 
 
 The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
 Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 
 
 She's seldom lazy. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 23 
 
 Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
 The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
 But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 
 
 Tho' e'er sae puir, 
 Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 
 
 Frae door tae door. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 O Prince ! O Chief of many throned powrs, 
 That led th^ embattled Seraphiju to -war — 
 
 Milton. 
 
 O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 
 
 Clos'd under hatches, 
 Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 
 
 To scaud poor wretches ! 
 
 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
 An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
 
 Ev'n to a deil, 
 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
 
 An' hear us squeel ! 
 
 Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
 Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
 
24 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur. 
 
 Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion 
 For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
 Whyles on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin, 
 
 Tirlin the kirks ; 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 
 I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
 In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
 Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray, 
 
 Nod to the moon. 
 Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 
 
 Wi' eldritch croon. 
 
 When twilight did my Grannie summon, 
 To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman ! 
 Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; 
 Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 
 
 Wi' heavy groan. 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
 
 The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
 
 Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 
 
 Ayont the lough ; 
 Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 
 
 Wi' wavin' sugh. 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 25 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
 When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick, 
 
 Amang the springs, 
 Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
 Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. 
 They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 
 
 Wi' wicked speed ; 
 And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 
 
 Owre howkit dead. 
 
 Thence, contra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
 May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
 For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 
 
 As yell's the Bill. 
 
 Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse. 
 On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an crouse ; 
 When the best wark-lume i' the house, 
 
 By cantrip wit. 
 Is instant made no worth a louse, 
 
 Just at the bit. 
 
 When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
 An' float the jinglin icy-boord. 
 
26 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 
 By your direction, 
 
 An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd 
 To their destruction. 
 
 An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
 Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
 The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies 
 
 Delude his eyes. 
 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
 
 Ne'er mair to rise. 
 
 When Masons' mystic word an' grip. 
 In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
 
 Or, strange to tell ! 
 The youngest Brother ye wad whip 
 
 Aff straught to hell. 
 
 Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
 An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 
 
 The raptur'd hour. 
 Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 
 
 In shady bow'r : 
 
 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog 
 
 Ye came to Paradise incog. 
 
 An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 
 
 (Black be you fa !) 
 An' gied the infant warld a shog, 
 
 'Maist ruin'd a'. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 2/ 
 
 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
 Wi' reckit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
 Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 
 
 'Mang better folk, 
 An' sklented on the man of Uzz 
 
 Your spitefu' joke ! 
 
 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
 An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
 While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 
 
 Wi' bitter claw, 
 An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 
 
 Was warst ava ? 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse, 
 Your wily snares an' fetchin fierce. 
 Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 
 
 Down to this time. 
 Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
 
 In prose or rhyme. 
 
 An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
 A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
 Some luckless hour will send him linkin. 
 
 To your black pit ; 
 But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 
 
 An' cheat you yet. 
 
 But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
 O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
 
28 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 
 Still hae a stake — 
 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sake ! 
 
 1785- 
 HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell, 
 Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 
 
 Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, 
 
 A' for thy glory, 
 And no for onie guid or ill 
 
 They've done afore thee ! 
 
 1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
 Whan thousands thou hast left in night. 
 That I am here afore thy sight. 
 
 For gifts an' grace, 
 A burnin' an' a shinin' light, 
 To a' this place. 
 
 What was I, or my generation, 
 That I should get sic exaltation ? 
 I, wha deserve sic just damnation. 
 
 For broken laws, 
 Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 
 
 Thro' Adam's cause. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 29 
 
 When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
 Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
 To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 
 
 In burnin' lake, 
 Where damned devils roar and yell, 
 
 Chain'd to a stake. 
 
 Yet I am here a chosen sample, 
 
 To show thy grace is great and ample ; 
 
 I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 
 
 Strong as a rock, 
 A guide, a buckler, an example 
 
 To a' thy flock. 
 
 O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
 When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear, 
 And singin' there and dancin' here, 
 
 Wi' great an' sma'; 
 For I am keepit by thy fear, 
 
 Free frae them a'. 
 
 But yet, O Lord ! confess I must. 
 At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust. 
 An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust. 
 
 Vile self gets in ; 
 But thou remembers we are dust, 
 
 Defil'd in sin. 
 
 May be thou lets this fleshly thorn 
 Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
 
;0 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Lest he ovvre high and proud should turn, 
 'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
 
 If sae, thy hand maun e'en be borne, 
 Until thou lift it. 
 
 Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
 For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
 But God confound their stubborn face, 
 
 And blast their name, 
 Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, 
 
 An' public shame. 
 
 Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts. 
 He drinks an' swears, an' plays at cartes. 
 Yet has sae monie takin arts, 
 
 Wi' grit an' sma', 
 Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts 
 
 He steals awa'. 
 
 An' whan we chasten'd him therefore. 
 Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
 As set the warld in a roar 
 
 O' laughin' at us ; 
 Curse thou his basket and his store, 
 
 Kail and potatoes. 
 
 Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r. 
 Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; 
 Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare 
 Upo' their heads ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 3 I 
 
 Lord, visit them, and dinna spare. 
 For their misdeeds. 
 
 O Lord, my God ! that glib-tongued Aiken, 
 My vera heart and saul are quakin'. 
 To think how we stood sweatin', shakin' 
 
 An' fill'd wi' dread, 
 While he wi' hingin' lip an' snakin' 
 
 Held up his head. 
 
 Lord, in the day o' vengeance try him ; 
 Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
 And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 
 
 Nor hear their pray'r ; 
 But for thy people's sake, destroy 'em 
 
 An' dinna spare. 
 
 But, Lord, remember me an' mine 
 Wi' mercies temp'ral an' divine, 
 That I for grace and gear may shine, 
 
 Excell'd by nane, 
 An' a' the glory shall be thine. 
 
 Amen, Amen ! 
 
32 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR 
 THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 My son, these maxims make a rule. 
 
 And Itwip them aye thegither ; 
 The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
 
 The Rigid Wise anither : 
 The cleajtest corn that e'er was dight. 
 
 May hae some pyles <?' caff iti ; 
 So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
 
 For random fits o' daffin. 
 
 Solomon, — Eccles. vii. i6. 
 
 O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 
 
 Sae pious and sae holy, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your Neebour's fauts and folly ! 
 Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 
 
 Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
 The heapet happer's ebbing still, 
 
 And still the clap plays clatter. 
 
 Hear me, ye venerable Core, 
 
 As counsel for poor mortals. 
 That 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. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 33 
 
 Ye see your state \vi' theirs compar'd, 
 
 And 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, 
 And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 
 
 Your better art o' hidin'. 
 
 Think, when your castigated pulse 
 
 Gies now and then a wallop, 
 What raging 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 makes an unco leeway. 
 
 See Social life and Glee sit down, 
 
 All joyous and unthinking, 
 Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 
 
 Debauchery and Drinking : 
 O would they stay to calculate 
 
 Th' eternal consequences ; 
 Or your more dreaded hell to state. 
 
 Damnation of expenses ! 
 
 Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 
 
 Ty'd up in godly laces. 
 Before you gie poor Frailly names, 
 
 Suppose a change o'*cases; 
 
34 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 
 A treach'rous inclination — 
 
 But, let me whisper i' your lug, 
 Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 
 
 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 Why they do it ; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark, 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 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. 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 Made fields and forests bare. 
 
 One ev'ning as I wander'd forth 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 35 
 
 I spy'd a man, whose aged step 
 
 Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
 His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 " Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? " 
 
 Began the rev'rend Sage ; 
 " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 
 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. 
 
 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-sun 
 
 Twice forty times return ; 
 And ev'ry thne has added proofs, 
 
 That Man was made to mourn. 
 
 O man ! while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time ! 
 Mis-spending all thy precious hours. 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 Alternate follies take the sway; 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 Which tenfold force give nature's law, 
 
 That Man was made to mourn. 
 
36 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 Man then is useful to his kind, 
 
 Supported in his right, 
 But see him on the edge of life. 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn, 
 Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 
 
 Show Man was made to mourn. 
 
 A few seem favourites of fate. 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest; 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn ; 
 Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 
 
 That Man was made to mourn. 
 
 Many and sharp the num'rous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves. 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn ! 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile. 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 37 
 
 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 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 son, 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
 This partial view of human-kind 
 
 Is surely not the last ! 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man, 
 
 Had never, sure, been born, 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 
 
 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 pleasures torn ; 
 But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn ! " 
 
3S SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD 
 SCOTTISH BARD. 
 
 April I, 17S5. 
 
 While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
 An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
 An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 
 
 Inspire my Muse, 
 This freedom, in an unknown frien', 
 
 I pray excuse. 
 
 On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, 
 
 To ca' the crack and weave our stock in ; 
 
 And there was muckle fun and jokin, 
 
 Ye need na doubt ; 
 At length we had a hearty yokin 
 
 At ' sang about.' 
 
 There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
 Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. 
 That some kind husband had addrest 
 
 To some sweet wife ; 
 It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
 
 A' to the life. 
 
 I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel. 
 What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 39 
 
 Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
 
 Or Seattle's wark ! " 
 They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
 
 About Muirkirk. 
 
 It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
 And sae about him there I spier't ; 
 Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 
 
 He had ingine. 
 That name 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 Tiviotdale, 
 
 He had few matches. 
 
 Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
 
 Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and 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 an' rough, 
 Yet crooning to a body's sel, 
 
 Does weel enough. 
 
40 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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 frae prose, 
 
 To mak a sang ? " 
 But, by your leaves, my learned foes. 
 
 Ye 're maybe wrang. 
 
 What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
 Your Latin names for horns an' stools; 
 If honest nature made you fools, 
 
 What sairs your grammars 
 Ye'd better ta'en 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 ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 4 1 
 
 Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
 
 At pleugh or cart, 
 My Muse, though haniely in attire. 
 
 May touch the heart. 
 
 for a spunk O Allan's glee. 
 
 Or Ferguson's, the bauld an' slee. 
 Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
 
 If I can hit it ! 
 That would be lear eneugh for me. 
 
 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. 
 But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
 
 I'm on your list. 
 
 1 winna blaw about mysel. 
 As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 
 
 But friends, an' folks 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 — Gude forgie me ! 
 For monie a plack they wheedle frae me. 
 
 At dance or fair ; 
 Maybe some ither thing they gie me 
 
 They weel can spare. 
 
42 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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' rhymin-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 an' friendship, should give place 
 
 To catch-the-plack ! 
 I dinna like to see your face, 
 
 Nor hear your crack. 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. 
 Who hold your being on the terms, 
 
 " Each aid the others," 
 Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 
 
 My friends, my brothers ! 
 
 But to conclude my lang epistle, 
 
 As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 43 
 
 Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 
 
 Who am, most fervent, 
 While I can either sing, or whissle, 
 
 Your friend and servant. 
 
 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 
 
 OCHIL TREE. 
 
 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
 Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
 Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 
 
 An' unco vain, 
 Should I believe, my coaxin billie. 
 
 Your fiatterin strain. 
 
 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
 I sud be laitli to think ye hinted 
 Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
 
 On my poor Musie ; 
 Tho' in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 
 
 I scarce excuse ye. 
 
 My senses wad be in a creel, 
 Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
 Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 
 
 The braes o' fame; 
 Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, 
 
 A deathless name. 
 
 May, 1785. 
 
44 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 (O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
 
 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
 
 My curse upon your whunstane hearts 
 
 Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 
 The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
 
 Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
 
 Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
 
 As whiles they're like to be my dead, 
 
 (O sad disease !) 
 I kittle up my rustic reed ; 
 
 It gies me ease. 
 
 Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 
 She's gotten bardies o' her ain, 
 Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 
 
 But tune their lays, 
 Till echoes a' resound again 
 
 Her weel-sung praise. 
 
 Nae Poet thought her worth his while, 
 To set her name in measur'd style ; 
 She lay like some unkend-of isle. 
 
 Beside New Holland, 
 Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 
 
 Besouth Magellan. 
 
 Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
 Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 45 
 
 Yarrow an' Tweed, to mony a tune, 
 
 Owre Scotland's rings, 
 While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
 
 Naebody sings. 
 
 Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
 Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ! 
 But, Willie, set your lit to mine. 
 
 An' cock your crest. 
 We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 
 
 Up wi' the best. 
 
 We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells. 
 Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
 Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 
 
 Where glorious Wallace 
 Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 
 
 Frae Southron billies. 
 
 At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
 But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
 Oft have our feerless fathers strode 
 
 By Wallace' side. 
 Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 
 
 Or glorious dy'd. 
 
 O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
 When lintwhites chant amang the buds. 
 And jinkin hares, in amorous whids. 
 Their loves enjoy, 
 
46 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
 Wi' wailfu' cry ! 
 
 Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
 When winds rave thro' the naked tree, 
 Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
 
 Are hoary gray ; 
 Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 
 
 Dark'ning the day ! 
 
 O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 
 
 To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
 
 Whether the summer kindly warms, 
 
 Wi' life an' light. 
 Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 
 
 The lang, dark night ! 
 
 The muse, na Poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
 Adown some trottin burn's meander. 
 
 An' no think lang ; 
 O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 
 
 A heart-felt sang ! 
 
 • 
 
 The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
 Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
 Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 
 
 And I, wi' pleasure. 
 Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
 
 Bum owre their treasure. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 47 
 
 Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither ! " 
 We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
 Now let us lay our heads thegither, 
 
 In love fraternal : 
 May Envy wallop in a tether, 
 
 Black fiend, infernal ! 
 
 While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
 While moorlan' herds like guid, fat braxies ; 
 While Terra Firma, on her axis. 
 
 Diurnal turns, 
 Count on a friend, in faith and practice. 
 
 In Robert Burns. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 
 
 ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 
 WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 
 
 Sept. i-jth, 17S5. 
 
 While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
 To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. 
 Or in the gulravage rinnin scour ; 
 
 To pass the time, 
 To you I dedicate the hour 
 
 In idle rhyme. 
 
 My Musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet 
 
 On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet. 
 
48 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 
 
 Lest they shou'd blame her, 
 
 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 so sturdy, 
 
 Wha, if they ken me, 
 Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 
 
 Lowse hell upon me. 
 
 But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
 Their sighin', cantin' grace-proud faces, 
 Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 
 
 Their raxin' conscience, 
 Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 
 
 Waur nor their nonsense. 
 
 There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast, 
 Wha has mair honour in his breast 
 Than monie scores as guid's the priest 
 
 Wha sae abus'd him; 
 An' may a bard no crack his jest 
 
 What way they've us'd him ? 
 
 See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
 The gentleman in word an' deed. 
 An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 
 
 By worthless skellums, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 49 
 
 An' not a Muse erect her head 
 
 To cowe the blellums ? 
 
 O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
 To gie the rascals their deserts, 
 I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 
 
 An' tell aloud 
 Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 
 
 To cheat the crowd. 
 
 God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be. 
 Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, 
 But, twenty times, I rather would 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 tak religion in their mouth ; 
 They talk o' mercy, grace, an truth, 
 For what ? to gie their malice skouth 
 
 On some puir wight. 
 An' hunt him down, owre right an' ruth. 
 
 To ruin streicht. 
 
50 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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' blotcht an' foul wi' monie a stain, 
 
 An' far unworthy of thy train, 
 
 Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 
 
 To join wi' those, 
 Who boldly daur thy cause maintain, * 
 
 In spite o' 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 ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURA'S. 5 I 
 
 An' some, l)y whom your doctrine's blam'd ; 
 
 (Which gies ye honour,) 
 Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, « 
 
 An' winning manner. 
 
 Pardon this freedom I have ta'en. 
 An' if impertinent I've been, 
 Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 
 
 Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
 But to his utmost would befriend 
 
 Ought that belang'd ye. 
 
 TO JAMES SMITH. 
 
 Friendship! niysterioics ccmc7it of the soul! 
 
 Su'cefner of Life, and solder of Society ! 
 
 I owe thee much. Blair, 
 
 Dear Smith, the slee'st, paukie thief, 
 That e'er attempted stealth or rief. 
 Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 
 
 Owre human hearts ; 
 For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 
 
 Against your arts. 
 
 For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
 And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
 Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 
 
 Just gaun to see you ; 
 An' ev'ry ither pair that's done, 
 
 Mair taen I'm wi' vou. 
 
52 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, 
 
 To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
 
 »She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 
 
 On her first plan, 
 And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 
 
 She's wrote, the Man. 
 
 Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme. 
 My barmie noddle's working prime. 
 My fancie yerkit up sublime 
 
 Wi' hasty summon : 
 Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 
 
 To hear what's comin ? 
 
 Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash ; 
 
 Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash ; 
 
 Some rhyme to court the countra clash. 
 
 An' raise a din ; 
 For me, an aim I never fash ; 
 
 I rhyme for fun. 
 
 The star that rules my luckless lot, 
 
 Has fated me the russet coat. 
 
 An' damm'd my fortune to the groat; 
 
 But, in requit, 
 Has blest me with a random shot 
 
 O' countra wit 
 
 This while my notion's taen a sklent. 
 To try my fate in guid, black prent ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 53 
 
 But still the mair I'm that way bent, 
 Something cries, " Hoolie ! 
 
 I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 
 Ye'll shaw your folly. 
 
 There's ither poets, much your betters. 
 Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
 Hae thought they had ensured their debtors 
 
 A' future ages ; 
 Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, 
 
 Their unknown pages." 
 
 Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs, 
 To garland my poetic brows ! 
 Henceforth Til rove where busy ploughs 
 
 Are whistlin' thrang, 
 An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 
 
 My rustic sang. 
 
 I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
 How never-halting moments speed, 
 Till fate shall snap the brittle thread : 
 
 Then, all unknown, 
 Til lay me with th' inglorious dead. 
 
 Forgot and gone ! 
 
 But why o' Death begin a tale ? 
 Just now we're living sound an' hale ; 
 Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 
 
 Heave Care o'er side ! 
 And large, before Enjoyment's gale. 
 
 Let's tak the tide. 
 
54 SELEC7' POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This life, sae far's I understand, 
 
 Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 
 
 Where pleasure is the magic wand, 
 
 That, wielded right, 
 Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 
 
 Dance by fu' light. 
 
 The magic wand then let us wield : 
 For, ance that five-an '-forty's speel'd, 
 See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 
 
 Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
 Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 
 
 Wi' creepin pace. 
 
 When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, 
 Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ; 
 An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, 
 
 An' social noise ; 
 An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 
 
 The joy of joys ! 
 
 O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
 Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
 Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 
 
 W'e frisk away, 
 Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, 
 
 To joy an' play. 
 
 We wander there, we wander here, 
 We e3^e the rose upon the brier, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 55 
 
 Unmindful that the thorn is near, 
 
 Among the leaves : 
 And tho' the puny wound appear, 
 
 Short while it grieves. 
 
 Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
 
 For which they never toil'd 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 ev'ry sinew brace ; 
 Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 
 
 And seize the prey ; 
 Then cannie, in some cozie place. 
 
 They close the day. 
 
 And others, like your humble servan'. 
 Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin, 
 To right or left, eternal swervin. 
 
 They zig-zag on ; 
 Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin. 
 
 They aften groan. 
 
 Alas! what bitter toil an' straining — 
 But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining ! 
 Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 
 
 E'en let her gang ! 
 Beneath what light she has remaining. 
 
 Let's sing our sang. 
 
56 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 My pen I here fling to the door, 
 
 And kneel, ye Pow'rs ! and warm implore, 
 
 "Tho' I should wander Terra o'er. 
 
 In all her climes, 
 Grant me but this, I ask no more, 
 
 Ay rowth o' rhymes. 
 
 Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, 
 Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
 Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards, 
 
 And Maids of Honour ; 
 An' yill an' whisky gie to Cairds; 
 
 Until 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 gie me real, sterling Wit, 
 
 And I'm content. 
 
 While Ye are pleased to keep me hale 
 I 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 ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 5/ 
 
 I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 
 
 As weel's I may ; 
 Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, 
 
 I rhyme away. 
 
 ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
 Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, an' 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 unletter'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 wise ; 
 Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
 The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
 The rattlin squad : 
 
 1 see you upward cast your eyes — 
 
 Ye ken the road. — 
 
 Whilst I — but I shall hand me there — 
 Wi' you ril scarce gang ony where — 
 Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 
 
 But quat my sang. 
 Content wi' You to mak a pair, 
 
 Whare'er I gang. 
 
58 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 SEE! THE SMOKING BOWL BEFORE US. 
 
 Tune — '■'■Jolly Mortals, fill your glasses:'' 
 
 See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
 Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
 
 Round and round take up the chorus, 
 And in raptures let us sing : 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
 Courts for cowards were erected, 
 
 Churches built to please the priest. 
 
 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, &c. 
 
 With the ready trick and fable. 
 Round we wander all the day ; 
 
 And at night, in barn or stable, 
 Hug our doxies on the hay. 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 Does the train-attended carriage 
 Thro' the country lighter rove ? 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 59 
 
 Does the sober bed of marriage 
 
 f lov 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
 
 Life is all a variorum, 
 
 We regard not how it goes ; 
 
 Let them cant about decorum 
 Who have characters to lose. 
 
 A %, &c. 
 
 Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 
 
 Here's to all the wandering train ! 
 Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 
 
 One and all cry out. Amen ! 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 HALLOWEEN. 
 
 Yes ' let the rich deride., the prortd disdain. 
 The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Upon that night, when Fairies light 
 
 On Cassilis Downans dance, 
 Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 
 
 On sprightly coursers prance ; 
 Or for Colean the rout is ta'en. 
 
 Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
 There, up the Cove, to stray an' rove 
 
 Amang the rocks and streams 
 
 To sport that night ; 
 
6o SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Amang the bonnie, winding banks, 
 
 Where Doon rins, wimpUn, clear, 
 Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, 
 
 An' shook his Carrick spear. 
 Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 
 
 Together did convene. 
 To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 
 
 An' hand their Halloween 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 
 The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 
 
 Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
 Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 
 
 Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin : 
 The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 
 
 Weel knotted on their garten, 
 Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 
 
 Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 
 
 Whyles fast at night. 
 
 Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail, 
 
 Their stocks maun a' be sought ance : 
 They steek their een, an' grape, an' wale, 
 
 For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
 Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 
 
 An' wander'd thro' the Bow- kail, 
 An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 
 
 A runt was like a sow-tail, 
 
 Sae bow't that night. 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 6 1 
 
 Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 
 
 They roar an' cry a' throw'ther ; 
 The vera wee things, toddlin, rin, 
 
 Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
 An' gif the custocks sweet or sour, 
 
 Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
 Syne coziely, aboon the door, 
 
 Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
 To lie that night. 
 
 The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 
 
 To pou their stalks o' corn ; 
 But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 
 
 Behint the muckle thorn : 
 He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 
 
 Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
 But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 
 
 When kiutlin i' the fause-house 
 Wi' him that night. 
 
 The auld guidwife's weel-hoordit nits 
 Are round an' round divided. 
 
 An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 
 Are there that night decided : 
 
 Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 
 An' burn thegither trimly ; 
 
 Some start awa, wi' saucy pride, 
 An' jump out-owre the chimlie 
 
 Fu' high that night. 
 
62 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 • Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 
 
 Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
 But this is Jock, and this is me, 
 
 She says in to hersel : 
 He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 
 
 As they wad never mair part ; 
 Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 
 An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 
 To see't that night. 
 
 Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 
 
 Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, 
 An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 
 
 To be compar'd to Willie : 
 Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, 
 
 An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
 While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, 
 
 'Twas just the way he wanted 
 To be that night. 
 
 Nell had the fause-house in her min' 
 
 She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
 In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 
 
 Till white in ase they're sobbin: 
 Nell's heart was dancin at the view ; 
 
 She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
 Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
 
 Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 63 
 
 But Merran sat behint their backs, 
 
 Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
 She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 
 
 An' slips out by hersel : 
 She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 
 
 An' to the kiln she goes then, 
 Aiv darklins grapit for the banks, 
 
 And in the blue-clue throws then, 
 Right fear't that night. 
 
 An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 
 
 I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
 Till something held within the pat, 
 
 Guid Lord ! but she was quaukin ! 
 But whether 'twas the Deil himsel. 
 
 Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
 Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 
 
 She did na wait on talkin 
 
 To spier that night. 
 
 Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 
 
 "Will ye go wi' me, Grannie ? 
 I'll eat the apple at the glass, 
 
 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 braw new worset apron 
 
 Out thro' that nis^ht. 
 
64 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Ye little Skelpie-limmer's face ! 
 
 I daur you try sic sportin, 
 As seek the foul Thief ony place, 
 
 For him to spae your fortune ? 
 Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 
 
 Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
 For monie a ane has got a fright, 
 
 An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret, 
 On sic a night. 
 
 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 : 
 The simmer had been cauld an' wat. 
 
 An' stuff was unco' green ; 
 An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 
 
 An' just on Halloween 
 
 It fell that night." 
 
 Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 
 
 An' he swoor by his conscience, 
 That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 
 
 For it was a' but nonsense : 
 The auld guidman raught down the pock, 
 
 An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
 Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
 
 Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
 An' try't that night. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 65 
 
 He marches thro' amang the stacks, 
 
 Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
 The graip he for a harrow taks, 
 
 An' haurls at his curpin : 
 An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 
 
 " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
 An' her that is to be my lass, 
 
 Come after me an' draw thee 
 As fast this night." 
 
 He whistl'd up ' Lord Lenox' March,' 
 
 To keep his courage cheery ; 
 Altho' his hair began to arch, 
 
 He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
 Till presently he hears a squeak, 
 
 An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
 He by his shouther gae a keek, 
 
 An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 
 
 Out-owre that night. 
 
 He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 
 
 In dreadfu' desperation ! 
 An' young an' auld come rinnin out, 
 
 An' hear the sad narration : 
 He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
 
 Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
 Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 
 
 An' wha was it but G7'uviphic 
 Asteer that night ! 
 
66 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 
 
 To winn three wechts o' naething; 
 But for to meet the Deil her lane, 
 
 She pat but little faith in • 
 She gies the Herd a pickle nits, 
 
 And twa red-cheekit apples, 
 To watch, while for the barn she sets, 
 
 In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
 That vera night. 
 
 She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw. 
 
 An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
 But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. 
 
 Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
 A ratton rattl'd up the wa', 
 
 An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her ! 
 An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. 
 
 An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 
 Fu' fast that night. 
 
 They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 
 
 They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
 It chanced the stack he faddom't thrice 
 
 Was timmer-propt for thrawin : 
 He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak. 
 
 For some black, grousome Carlin ; 
 An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke. 
 
 Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 
 
 Aff's nieves that night. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 6j 
 
 A wanton widow Leezie was, 
 
 As cantie as a kittlin : 
 But Och ! that night, amang tlie shaws, 
 
 She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
 She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 
 
 An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
 Whare three lairds' lan's met at a burn. 
 
 To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 
 
 Was bent that night. 
 
 Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
 
 As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 
 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't , 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 
 Wi' bickerin, dancin dazzle ; 
 Whyles cookit underneath the braes. 
 
 Below the spreading hazel. 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 Amang the brachens on the brae, 
 
 Between her an' the moon, 
 The Deil, or else an outler Quey, 
 
 Gat up an' gae a croon ; 
 Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool 
 
 Near lav'rock height she jumpit. 
 But mist a fit, an' in the pool 
 
 Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 
 
 Wi' a plunge that night. 
 
68 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
 
 The luggies three are ranged ; 
 And ev'ry time great care is taen, 
 
 To see them duly changed : 
 Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 
 
 Sin' Mar's-year did desire. 
 Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 
 
 He heav'd them on the fire 
 
 In wrath that night. 
 
 Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 
 
 I wat they did na weary ; 
 And unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 
 
 Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
 Till butter'd So'ns, wi' fragrant lunt, 
 
 Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
 Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 
 
 They parted aff careerin 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 
 TO A MOUSE, 
 
 On Turning Her up in Her Nest with the Plough, 
 November, 1785, 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
 O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! • 
 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 69 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Nature's social union, 
 An' justifies that ill opinion, 
 
 Which makes thee startle, 
 At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; 
 What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 A daimen icker in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request : 
 I'll get a blessin wi' the lave. 
 
 And never miss't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
 An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
 
 Baith snell an' keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
 An' weary winter comin fast. 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell, 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 
 
 Out thro' thy cell. 
 
 That w^ee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 
/O SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 
 But house or hald, 
 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
 In proving foresight may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
 
 Gang aft a-gley. 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear ' 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 DUAN FIRST. 
 
 The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
 The Curlers quat their roarin play, 
 An' hunger'd maukin taen her way 
 
 To kail-yards green. 
 While faithless snaws ilk step betray 
 
 Whare she has been. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. /I 
 
 The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
 The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
 And whan the day had clos'd his e'e. 
 
 Far i' the west, 
 Ben i' the spence, right pensiveUe, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 I sat and ey'd the spewuig reek, 
 That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 
 
 The auld clay biggin ; 
 An' heard the restless rattons 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. 
 But stringin blethers 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-sarkit, 
 
 Is a' th' amount. 
 
 I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
 And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
 
72 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
 Or some rash aith, 
 
 That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 
 Till my last breath — 
 
 When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
 And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
 And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 
 
 Now bleezin bright, 
 A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 
 
 Come full in sight. 
 
 Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
 The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; 
 I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 
 
 In some wild glen ; 
 When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 
 
 And stepped ben. 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
 Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows, 
 I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
 
 By that same token ; 
 And come to stop these reckless vows, 
 
 Would soon been broken. 
 
 A "hair-bram'd, sentimental trace," 
 Was strongly marked in her face ; 
 A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Shone full upon her ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 73 
 
 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 peer it ; 
 Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 
 
 Nane else came near it. 
 
 Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
 
 My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
 
 Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling threw 
 
 A lustre grand ; 
 And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 
 
 A well-known land. 
 
 Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
 There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
 Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 
 
 With surging foam ; 
 There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 
 Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
 There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
 Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 
 
 On to the shore ; 
 And many a lesser torrent scuds. 
 
 With seeming roar. 
 
74 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
 
 An ancient Borough rear'd her head ; 
 
 Still, as in Scottish story read, 
 
 She boasts a race, 
 To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 
 
 And polish'd grace. 
 
 By stately tow'r or palace fair, 
 
 Or ruins 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, mark him well ! 
 Bold Richardton'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 sceptr'd Pictish shade 
 Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 75 
 
 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 : 
 This, all its source and end to draw ; 
 
 That, to adore. 
 
 Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy, 
 Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
 Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 
 
 To hand him on. 
 Where many a Patriot name on high, 
 
 And hero shone. 
 
 DUAN SECOND. 
 
 With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
 I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair ; 
 
76 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 
 Of kindred sweet, 
 
 When with an elder Sister's air 
 She did me greet. 
 
 " All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
 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 Genius of this land 
 lias many a light, aerial band. 
 Who, all beneath his high command. 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 As Arts or Arms they understand. 
 
 Their labours ply. 
 
 They Scotia's Race among them share. 
 Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
 Some rouse the patriot up to bare 
 
 Corruption's heart : 
 Some teach the bard — a darling care. 
 
 The tuneful art. 
 
 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore. 
 They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
 Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar, 
 
 They, sightless, stand, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. // 
 
 To mend the honest Patriot lore, 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
 Charm or instruct the future age, 
 They bind the wild, poetic rage 
 
 In energy, 
 Or point the inconclusive page 
 
 Full on the eye. 
 
 Hence, Fullarton, 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, 
 
 The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind. 
 
 The artisan ; 
 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, 
 
 Blythe o'er the hill 
 
y8 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
 Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
 Some soothe the laborer'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 Bard ; 
 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. 
 
 ^^'ith future hope, I oft would gaze, 
 
 Fond, on thy little early ways, 
 
 Thy rudely-caroU'd, chiming phrase, 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
 Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 79 
 
 Or when the North his lieecy store 
 
 Drove thro' the sky, 
 I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 
 Or when the deep green-mantrd Earth 
 Warm-cherish'd ev'ry tiow'ret's birth, 
 And joy and music pouring forth 
 
 In ev'ry grove, 
 I saw thee eye tlie gen'ral 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 strong, 
 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 flame. 
 
 I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
 Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, 
 
 By Passion driven ; 
 
8o SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven. 
 
 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 Colia's plains, 
 
 Became thy friends. 
 
 Thou can'st not learn, nor can I show. 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 
 
 With Shenstone'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 ; 
 
 The' large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 His army-shade, 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
 
 Adown the slade. 
 
 Jd' 
 
 Then never murmur nor repine; 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
 And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
 
 Nor king's regard, 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
 
 A rustic bard. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 8l 
 
 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 tins'" — she solemn said, 
 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. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 
 
 Let not Atttbition mock their useful toil, 
 Their ho7tiely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandetcr hear, with a disdainful smile. 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 My lov'd, my honoured, 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 ; 
 
82 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
 Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I 
 ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 
 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 his labour goes. 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hanu- 
 ward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flitcherin noise an" glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. ^^ 
 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a bra^y new gown, 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
 
 An' each for other's welfare 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 sheers, 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 An' mind their labours wd' an' eydent hand. 
 
 An' 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 might : 
 They never sought in vain that souglit the Lord 
 aright ! " 
 
 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 
$4 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Tells how a neebor lad came 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 mother hears, it's nae wild, worti 
 less rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strapp'n youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the 
 lave. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 
 O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 
 And sage experience bids me this declare — 
 " If Heaven 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." 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 85 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 
 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 distraction 
 wild ! 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple board. 
 
 The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
 The soupe their only Hawkie does afford. 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care, 
 And " Let us worship God 1 " he says, with solemn 
 air. 
 
86 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble " Elgin " beets the heav'nward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays • 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
 How His first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heav- 
 en's command. 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 8/ 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
 Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 While circlins: Time moves round in an eternal 
 sphere. 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
 And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest-: 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 
 
 And proffer up to H.eav'n the warm request, 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily 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. 
 
88 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kinjrs, 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly 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 arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet con- 
 tent ! 
 And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 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-lov'd 
 Isle. 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
 Who dar'd 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 ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 89 
 
 DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Some books are lies frae end to end, 
 And some great lies were never penn'd : 
 Ev'n ministers, 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, 
 Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 
 
 Or Dublin city : 
 That e'er he nearer comes oursel 
 
 's a muckle pity. 
 
 The clachan yill had made me canty, 
 
 I wasna fou, but just had plenty; 
 
 I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 
 
 To free the ditches ; 
 An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 
 
 Frae ghaists an' witches. 
 
 The rising moon began to glowr 
 The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
 To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 
 
 I set mysel ; 
 But whether she had three or four, 
 
 I cou'd na tell. 
 
90 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I was come round about the hill, 
 And todlin down on Willie's 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 foregather. 
 
 That pat me in an eerie swither ; 
 
 An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 
 
 Clear-dangling, hang : 
 A three-taed leister on the ither 
 
 Lay, large an' lang. 
 
 Its statue seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
 The queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
 For fient a wame it had ava. 
 
 And then its shanks. 
 They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 
 
 As cheeks o' branks. 
 
 "Guid-een," quo' I ; " Friend hae ye been mawin. 
 When ither folks are busy sawin ? " 
 It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 
 
 But naething spak ; 
 At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun. 
 
 Will ye go back ? " 
 
 It spak right howe — " My name is Death, 
 But be na fley'd." — Quoth I, "Guid faith, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 9I 
 
 Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 
 
 But tent me, billie : 
 I red ye weel, tak car o' skaith, 
 
 See, there's a gully ! " 
 
 " Gudeman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
 I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
 But if I did, I wad be kittle 
 
 To be mislear'd, 
 I wad na mind it, no that spittle 
 
 Out-owre my beard." 
 
 "Weel, weel ! " says I, " a bargain be't; 
 Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
 We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 
 
 Come gies your news ; 
 This while ye hae been mony a gate, 
 
 At mony a house," 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " quo' he, an' shook his head, 
 " It's e'en 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 near-hand fled, 
 
 Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 
 
 An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. 
 
 To stap or scaur me ; 
 Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade. 
 
 An' faith, he'll waur me. 
 
92 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
 Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
 He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan 
 
 An' ither chaps, 
 The weans haud out their fingers laughin 
 
 And pouk my hips. 
 
 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 
 
 I threw a noble throw at ane ; 
 
 Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain : 
 
 But deil-ma-care, 
 It just play'd dirl on the bane, 
 
 But did nae mair. 
 
 Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
 And had sae fortify'd the part. 
 That when I looked to my dart. 
 
 It was sae blunt, 
 Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
 
 O' a kail-runt. 
 
 I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
 I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurr)^. 
 But yet the bauld Apothecary 
 
 Withstood the shock ; 
 I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 
 
 O' hard whin rock. 
 
 And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
 Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 93 
 
 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 Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
 The Farina of beans and pease, 
 
 He has't in plenty ; 
 Aqua-fortis, 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 clippings, 
 
 And mony mae." 
 
 Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,'' 
 Quoth I, "if that thae news be true ! 
 His braw calf -ward whare gowans grew, 
 
 Sae white and bonnie, 
 Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 
 
 They'll ruin Johnnie ! " 
 
 The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
 And says, " Ye needna 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 
 
 In twa-three year. 
 
94 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
 By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
 This night I'm free to tak my aith, 
 
 That Hornbook's skill 
 Has clad a score i' their last claith, 
 
 By drap and pill. 
 
 An honest wabster to his trade, 
 
 Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-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 WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Poor naked ivrctches, wheresoever yon are.. 
 
 That bide the felting of this fitilcss storm ' 
 
 How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
 
 Your loop'd and windowed raggedness, defend you, 
 
 From seasons such as these ? 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
 Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
 When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r, 
 
 Far south the lift, 
 Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 
 
 Or whirling drift : 
 
 Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
 Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 95 
 
 While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, 
 
 Wild-eddying swirl, 
 
 Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 
 
 Down headlong hurl. 
 
 List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
 I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
 Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 
 
 O' winter war, 
 And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, 
 
 Beneath a scar. 
 
 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 win' 
 
 An' close thy e'e } 
 
 Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
 Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
 The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 
 
 My heart forgets. 
 While pitiless the tempest wild 
 
 Sore on you beats. 
 
 Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
 Dark mufifl'd, view'd the dreary plain ; 
 Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 
 
 Rose in my soul, 
 When on my ear this plaintive strain. 
 
 Slow, solemn, stole — 
 
96 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
 And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
 Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
 Not all your rage, as now, united shows 
 More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
 Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
 Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows ! 
 See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
 Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
 Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
 
 Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
 Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
 Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
 How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side. 
 The parasite empoisoning her ear. 
 With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
 Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
 And eyes the simple rustic hind, 
 
 Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
 A creature of another kind. 
 Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
 Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 
 
 Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
 With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
 
 The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
 Is there, beneath Love's noble name. 
 Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 
 
 To bless himself alone ! 
 Mark maiden-innocence a prey 
 
 To love-pretending snares. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 97 
 
 This boasted honour turns away, 
 
 Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
 Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
 
 Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
 
 She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
 And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking 
 blast ! 
 
 Oh 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-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call. 
 
 Stretched on his straw he lays himself to 
 sleep, 
 While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
 Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap ! 
 Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
 Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
 Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
 But shall thy legal rage pursue 
 
 The wretch, already crushed low. 
 
 By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
 Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
 A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! " 
 
 I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
 
 Shook off the pouthery snaw. 
 And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
 
 A cottage-rousing craw. 
 
98 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But deep this truth impress'd my mind 
 Thro' all His works abroad, 
 
 The heart benevolent and kind 
 The most resembles God. 
 
 THERE WAS A LAD. 
 
 Tune — '■'•Daitity Davie." 
 
 There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
 But whatna day o' whatna style 
 I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
 To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
 
 Robin was a rovin Boy, 
 
 Rantin rovin, rantin rovin ; 
 
 Robin was a rovin Boy, 
 Rantin rovin Robin. 
 
 Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
 Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
 ' Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
 Blew hansel in on Robin. 
 
 The gossip keekit in his loof, 
 Quo' scho, " wha lives will see the proof, 
 This waly boy will be nae coof, 
 I think we'll ca' him Robin. 
 
 He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma'. 
 But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 99 
 
 He'll be a credit till us a', 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin." 
 
 But sure as three times three mak nine, 
 I see by ilka score and line, 
 This chap will dearly like our kin', 
 So leeze me on thee, Robin." 
 
 " Guid faith," quo' scho, " I doubt you, Sir, 
 Ye gar the lassies lie aspar, 
 But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
 So blessings on thee, Robin ! " 
 
 Robin was a rovin Boy, 
 
 Rantin rovin, rantin rovin ; 
 
 Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
 Rantin' rovin' Robin. 
 
 1786. 
 
 THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORN- 
 ING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD 
 MARE, MAGGIE, 
 
 ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL 
 IN THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 A GUID New-Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
 Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
 Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 
 
 I've seen the day, 
 Thou could hae gane like ony staggie 
 
 Out-owre the lay. 
 
lOO SELEC7' POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
 An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, 
 I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie, 
 
 A bonnie gray : 
 He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 
 
 Ance in a day. 
 
 Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
 A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
 An' set weel down a shapely shank, 
 
 As e'er tread yird ; 
 An' could hae flown out-owre a stank. 
 
 Like onie bird. 
 
 It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
 Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere ; 
 He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 
 
 An' fifty mark ; 
 Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 
 
 An' thou was stark. 
 
 When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
 Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
 Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie. 
 
 Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
 But hamel}^ tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 
 
 An' unco sonsie. 
 
 That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
 When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
 An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 
 Wi' maiden air ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. lOI 
 
 Kyle- Stewart I could bragged wide, 
 For sic a pair. 
 
 Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
 An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
 That day ye was a j inker noble 
 
 For heels an' win' ! 
 An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
 
 Far, far behin'. 
 
 When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
 
 An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
 
 How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh. 
 
 An' tak the road ! 
 Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
 
 An' ca't thee mad. 
 
 When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
 We took the road ay like a swallow : 
 At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. 
 
 For pith an' speed ; 
 But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
 
 Where'er thou gaed. 
 
 The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
 Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
 But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle. 
 
 An' gart them whaizle : 
 Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
 
 O' saugh or hazel. 
 
I02 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 
 
 As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
 
 Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 
 
 In guid March-weather, 
 Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 
 
 For days thegither. 
 
 Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
 But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
 An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd briskit, 
 
 Wi' pith an' pow'r, 
 Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, 
 
 An' slypet owre. 
 
 When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
 An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
 I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 
 
 Aboon the timmer ; 
 I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
 
 For that, or simmer. 
 
 In cart or car thou never reestit : 
 
 The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
 
 Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit. 
 
 Then stood to blaw ; 
 But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 
 
 Thou snoov't awa. 
 
 My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
 Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
 Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 
 
 That thou hast nurst : 
 
SELECT FOE MS OF ROBERT BURNS. \0\ 
 
 They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 
 The vera warst. 
 
 Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
 
 An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
 
 An' monie an anxious day, I thought 
 
 We wad be beat ! 
 Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
 
 Wi' something yet. 
 
 And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
 That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
 An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 
 
 For my last fou, 
 A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
 
 Laid by for you. 
 
 We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
 We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
 Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 
 
 To some hain'd rig, 
 Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
 
 Wi' sma' fatigue. 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 
 Let him draw near ; 
 
I04 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 Is there a Bard of rustic song, 
 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
 
 That weekly this 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, life's mad career. 
 
 Wild as the wave ; 
 Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear. 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 The poor inhabitant below 
 
 Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 
 And softer flame, 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low. 
 
 And stain'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. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. IO5 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
 Upon a bonnie day in June, 
 When wearin 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 Caesar, 
 Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
 His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
 Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
 But whalpit some place far abroad, 
 Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. 
 
 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
 Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
 But tho' he was o' high degree. 
 The fient a pride, nae pride had he ; 
 But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
 Ev'n wi' 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. 
 An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
 Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
 
I06 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 An' 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 dike. 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. 
 Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 
 His breast was white, his toiizie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gawcie tail, wi' upward cml. 
 Hung owre his hurdles wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
 Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit ; 
 Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
 An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
 Until wi' dafiin weary grown. 
 Upon a knowe they sat them clown. 
 An' there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o' the creation. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
 What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw. 
 What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 
 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
 His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents: 
 He rises when he likes himsel ; 
 His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. lO/ 
 
 He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ; 
 He draws a bonnie, silken purse 
 As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, 
 The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 
 
 Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling, 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
 An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
 Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie, 
 That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 Our whipper-in, wee blastit vvonner. 
 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 in, 
 I own it's past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh : 
 A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
 Baring a quarry, and siclike, 
 Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A sm3^trie o' wee duddie weans. 
 An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep 
 Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 
 
 An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
 Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
 But, how it comes, I never kend yet, 
 
I08 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
 An' buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies, 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 C/ESAR. 
 
 But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
 How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit ! 
 Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
 They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
 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 tenant 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. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're no sae wretched's ane wad think 
 Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
 They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight. 
 The view o't gies them little fright. 
 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
 They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
 An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. IO9 
 
 The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
 Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : 
 The prattHng 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 an' priests, 
 Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts. 
 Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
 An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
 
 As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
 They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
 When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
 Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 
 
 That merry day the year begins, 
 They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
 The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
 An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill. 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
 The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
 The young anes ranting thro' the house, — 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
 That I for joy hae barket wi' them. 
 
 Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
 Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
 There's monie a creditable stock 
 
no SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O' decent, honest, fawsont folk. 
 Are riven out baith root an' branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
 In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
 Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, 
 For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 
 
 C/ESAR. 
 
 Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
 For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
 Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
 An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
 At operas an' plays parading. 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
 Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
 To Hague or Calais taks a waft. 
 To make a tour, an' tak a whirl. 
 To learn boii ton an' see the worl'. 
 
 There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
 He rives his father's auld entails ; 
 Or by Madrid he taks the rout. 
 To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt ; 
 Or down Italian vista startles. 
 Hunting amang groves o' myrtles : 
 Then bouses drumly German water, 
 To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
 An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
 Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras. 
 For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
 Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. Ill 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 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 themsels wi' countra sports, 
 It wad for ev'ry 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 breaking o' their timmer, 
 Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
 Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
 The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 
 
 But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
 Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
 Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
 The vera thought o't need na fear them. 
 
 CiESAR. 
 
 Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
 
 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' grips an' granes : 
 But human bodies are sic fools. 
 For a' their colleges and schools. 
 That when nae real ills perplex them. 
 They mak enow themselves to vex them ; 
 
112 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
 In Uke proportion, less will hurt them. 
 
 A country fellow at the pleugh, 
 His acre's tilPd, he's right eneugh ; 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : • 
 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
 Wi' ev'n down 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 galloping thro' 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. 
 The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
 As great an' gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
 They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
 Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, 
 They sip the scandal-potion pretty ; 
 Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
 Pore ower the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
 An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
 There's some exceptions, man an' woman; 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 13 
 
 By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
 An' darker gloamin brought the night: 
 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
 The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
 When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
 Rejoic'd they were na incn, but dogs ; 
 An' each took aff his several way, 
 Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1 786. 
 
 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 powV, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 
I 14 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane, 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field. 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed. 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of 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 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. II5 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To mis'ry's brink, 
 Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 TO A LOUSE, 
 
 ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT 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 ye set your fit upon her, 
 
 Sae fine a lady ! 
 Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 
 
 On some poor body. 
 
Il6 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle, 
 
 Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle ; 
 
 There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
 
 In shoals and nations ; 
 Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 
 
 Your thick plantations. 
 
 Now hand ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
 Below the fatt'rels, snug an' 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 nose out, 
 As plump and gray as onie grozet ; 
 
 for some rank, mercurial rozet, 
 
 Or fell, red smeddum, 
 I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 
 
 Wad dress your droddum ! 
 
 1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 
 You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
 Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 
 
 On's wyliecoat ; 
 But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie. 
 
 How daur ye do't ? 
 
 O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
 An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. II7 
 
 Ye little ken what cursed speed 
 
 The blastie's makin ! 
 Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
 
 Are notice takin ! 
 
 O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 It wad frae monie a blunder free us 
 
 And foolish notion : 
 What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 
 
 And ev'n devotion ! 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 MAY, 1786. 
 
 I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
 
 A something to have sent you, 
 Tho' it should serve nae ither 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. 
 
 Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 
 And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
 
 Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 
 And muckle they may grieve ye : 
 
Il8 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 For care and trouble set your thought, 
 Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
 
 And a' your views may come to nought, 
 Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 
 
 I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 
 
 The real, harden 'd wicked, 
 Wha hae nae check but human law. 
 
 Are to a few restricked : 
 But Och ! mankind are unco weak. 
 
 An' little to be trusted ; 
 If self the wavering balance shake, 
 
 It's rarely right adjusted ! 
 
 Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 
 
 Their fate we should na censure, 
 For still th' important end of life 
 
 They equally may answer ; 
 A man mav 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 bosom crony ; 
 But still keep something to yoursel 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony ; 
 Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 
 
 Frae critical dissection ; 
 But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 
 
 Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I I9 
 
 The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
 But never tempt th' illicit rove, 
 
 Tho' naething should divulge it ; 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin, 
 
 The hazard o' concealing ; 
 But Och ! it hardens a' within, 
 
 And petrifies the feeling ! 
 
 To catch dame Fortune's golden smile 
 
 Assiduous wait upon her ; 
 And gather gear by ev'ry wile 
 That's justify'd by honour; 
 V Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
 7y Not for a train attendant ; 
 
 / But for the glorious privilege 
 Of being independent. 
 
 The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 
 
 To hand 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. 
 
 The great Creator to revere. 
 
 Must sure become the creature ; 
 But still the preaching cant forbear, 
 
 And ev'n the rigid feature ; 
 
I20 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 
 
 Be complaisance extended ; 
 An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 
 
 For Deity offended ! 
 
 When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion may be blinded ; 
 Or if she gie a random sting, 
 
 It may be little minded ; 
 But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 
 
 A conscience but a canker — 
 A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven 
 
 Is sure a noble anchor ! 
 
 Adieu, dear, amiable Youth ! 
 
 Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
 May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
 
 Erect your brow undaunting ! 
 In ploughman phase, " God send you speed," 
 
 Still daily to grow wiser ; 
 And may ye better reck the rede. 
 
 Than ever did th' Adviser ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 121 
 
 ' A DREAM. 
 
 Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; 
 But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. 
 
 Oa reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade 
 of June 4, 17S6, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself 
 transported to the Birth-day Levee ; and ia his dreaming fancy, made the follow- 
 ing Address. 
 
 GuiD-MoRNiN to your Majesty ! 
 
 May heaven augment your blisses, 
 On ev'ry new birth-day ye see ; 
 
 A humble Bardie wishes ! 
 My Bardship here, at your Levee, 
 
 On sic a day as this is, 
 Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 
 
 Amang thae birth-day dresses 
 Sae fine this day. 
 
 I see ye're complimented thrang, 
 By mony a lord an' lady ; 
 "God save the King ! " 's a cuckoo sang 
 That's unco easy said ay ; 
 The Poets, too, a venal gang, 
 
 Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
 Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 
 But ay unerring steady. 
 On sic a day. 
 
 For me ! before a Monarch's face, 
 Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
 
122 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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, 
 And aiblins ane been better 
 
 Than You this day. 
 
 ' Tis very true, my sovereign King, 
 My skill may weel be doubted : 
 But Facts are cheels that winna ding. 
 
 An' downa be disputed : 
 Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, 
 
 Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
 And now the third part of the 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 Sire, 
 
 Ye've trusted Ministration 
 To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 
 
 Wad better fill'd their station 
 
 Than courts yon day. 
 
 And now ye've gien auld Britain peace 
 Her broken shins to plaister ; 
 
 Your sair taxation does her fleece 
 Till she has scarce a tester ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 23 
 
 For me, thank God, my life's a lease 
 
 Nae bargain wearing faster, 
 Or, faith ! I fear that with the geese, 
 
 I shortly boost to pasture 
 
 r the craft some day. 
 
 I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
 
 When taxes he enlarges, 
 (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 
 
 A name not envy spairges,) 
 That he intends to pay your debt, 
 
 An' lessen a' your charges ; 
 But, God's sake ! let nae saving-fit 
 
 Abridge your bonnie barges 
 
 An' boats this day. 
 
 Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 
 
 Beneath your high protection ; 
 An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 
 
 And 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. 
 
 Hail, Majesty most Excellent ! 
 
 While nobles strive to please Ye, 
 Will Ye accept a compliment 
 
 A simple Poet gies Ye .'* 
 Thae bonny bairntime Heav'n has lent. 
 
 Still higher may they heeze Ye 
 
124 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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 sails 
 
 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 rattl'd dice wi' Charlie 
 By night or day. 
 
 Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known 
 
 To mak a noble aiver ; 
 Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, 
 
 For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
 There, Him at Agincourt wha shone, 
 
 Few better were or braver ; 
 And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 
 
 He was an unco shaver 
 
 For monie a day. 
 
 For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, 
 
 Name sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
 Altho' a ribban at your lug 
 
 Wad been a dress completer : 
 As ye disown yon paughty dog 
 
 That bears the Keys of Peter, 
 Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 
 
 Or, troth ! ye'll stain the Mitre 
 Some luckless day. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 25 
 
 Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 
 
 Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
 A glorious galley, stem and stern, 
 
 Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
 But first hang out, that she'll discern 
 
 Your hymeneal charter, 
 Then heave aboard your grapple airn. 
 
 An', large upon her quarter. 
 
 Come full that day. 
 
 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 na British boys awa'. 
 
 For Kings are unco scant ay; 
 An' German Gentles are but sma'. 
 
 They're better just than want ay 
 On onie day. 
 
 God bless you a' ! consider now 
 
 Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
 But, ere the course o' life be through, 
 
 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. 
 
126 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 THE LAMENT, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 
 
 Alas', how oft does Goodjiess wound itself, 
 And sweet Affection prove the spri7ig of woe! 
 
 O THOU pale Orb, that silent shines. 
 
 While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
 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 love are all a dream. 
 
 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 pow'r, Remembrance, cease ! 
 Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 
 
 For ever bar returning peace ! 
 
 No idly-feign'd poetic pains. 
 
 My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
 
 No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 
 No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
 
 Home. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 12/ 
 
 The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 
 
 The oft attested Pow'rs above ; 
 The promis'd father's tender name : 
 
 These were the pledges of my love ! 
 
 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 hear 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 soothe, 
 
 Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 
 
 Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 
 
 Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd. 
 Your dear remembrance in my breast, 
 
 My fondly-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 ! 
 
128 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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, western main. 
 
 And when 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, chief. 
 
 Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
 Ev'n day, all-bitter brings relief. 
 
 From such a horror-breathing night. 
 
 O ! thou bright Queen, who o'er th' expanse 
 
 Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! 
 Oft hast thy silent-marking glance 
 
 Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
 The time, unheeded, sped away. 
 
 While love's luxurious pulse beat high. 
 Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 
 
 To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 
 
 O ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 
 
 Scenes, never, never to return ! 
 Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 
 
 Again I feel, again I burn ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 29 
 
 From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 
 Life's weary vale Til wander thro' ; 
 
 And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 
 A faithless woman's broken vow. 
 
 A PRAYER — O THOU DREAD POWER. 
 
 Lying at a reverend friend's house one night, the author left the following verses 
 in the room where lie slept. 
 
 O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 
 
 I know Thou wilt me hear ; 
 When for this scene of peace and love, 
 
 I make my prayer sincere. 
 
 The hoary Sire — the mortal stroke. 
 
 Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ; 
 To bless his little filial flock, 
 
 And show what good men are. 
 
 She, who her loving offspring eyes 
 
 With tender hopes and fears, 
 O, bless her with a mother's joys. 
 
 But spare a mother's tears ! 
 
 Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 
 
 In manhood's dawning blush ; 
 Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 
 
 Up to a parent's wish. 
 
130 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
 
 With earnest tears I pray, 
 Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 
 
 Guide Thou their steps alway. 
 
 When soon or late they reach that coast. 
 O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
 
 May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
 A family in Heaven ! 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE BANKS OF AYR. 
 
 Tune — " Roslin CastleP 
 
 The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
 Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
 I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
 The hunter now has feft the moor. 
 The scattered coveys meet secure, 
 While here I wander, prest with care, 
 Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 
 
 The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
 By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
 Across her placid, azure sky, 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
 Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
 I think upon the stormy wave. 
 
SELECT rOEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 13I 
 
 Where many a danger I must dare, 
 Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
 'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
 Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear. 
 The wretched have no more to fear : 
 But round my heart the ties are bound, 
 That heart transpierc'd with many a wound : 
 These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
 To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
 Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
 The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 
 Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
 Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! 
 My peace with these, my love with those — 
 The bursting tears my heart declare. 
 Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 
 And leave auld Scotia's shore .? 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 
 Across th' Atlantic's roar .? 
 
132 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
 
 And the apple on the pine ; 
 But a' the charms o' the Indies 
 
 Can ndver equal thine. 
 
 I hae sworn by the Heavens to 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 Mary, 
 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 1 
 
 The hour, and the moment o' time ! 
 
 PRAYER FOR MARY. 
 
 Tune — " Blue Botuiets:'' 
 
 Powers celestial, whose protection 
 Ever guards the virtuous fair. 
 
 While in distant climes I wander. 
 Let my Mary be your care : 
 
 Let her form sae fair and faultless. 
 Fair and faultless as your own ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURKS. 1 33 
 
 Let my Mary's kindred spirit 
 
 Draw your choicest intluence down. 
 
 Make the gales you waft around her 
 
 Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
 Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 
 
 Soothe her bosom into rest : 
 Guardian angels, O protect her, 
 
 When in distant lands I roam ; 
 To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 
 
 Make her bosom still my home. 
 
 MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 
 
 Tune — " The deuks dang dcr my daddy." 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
 Shall ever be my Muse's care ; 
 Their titles a' are empty show ; 
 Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
 Aboon the plain sae rusliy, O, 
 I set me down wi' right good will. 
 To sing my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine. 
 Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
 
134 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The world then the love should know 
 I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, &c. 
 
 But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
 And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
 But while my crimson currents flow 
 I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, &c. 
 
 Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
 I know her heart will never change, 
 For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
 My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, &c. 
 
 For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
 For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
 That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
 Around my Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, &:c. 
 
 She has my heart, she has my hand. 
 By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
 Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
 I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 Fareweel the glen sae bushy, O ! 
 Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
 To other lands I now must go, 
 To sing my Highland la§sie, O ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. I 35 
 
 LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. 
 
 This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
 I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 
 
 October twenty-third, 
 A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
 Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 
 
 I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 
 
 I've been at drucken writers' feasts. 
 Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 
 
 Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
 I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. 
 When mighty Squireships of the quorum 
 
 Their hydra drouth did sloken. 
 
 But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin ; 
 A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 
 
 Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
 An sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
 Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 
 
 As I look o'er my sonnet. 
 
 But, O for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
 To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 
 
 And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
 When goavan, as if led wi' b ranks. 
 An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks. 
 
 He in the parlour hammer'd. 
 
136 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I sidling sheltered in a nook, 
 An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 
 
 Like some portentous omen ; 
 Except good sense and social glee, 
 An' (what surprised me) modesty, 
 
 I marked nought uncommon. 
 
 I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
 The gentle pride, the lordly state. 
 
 The arrogant assuming ; 
 The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
 Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 
 
 Mair than an honest ploughman. 
 
 Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
 Henceforth to meet with unconcern 
 
 One rank as weel's another ; 
 Nae honest worthy man need care 
 To meet with noble youthful Daer, 
 
 For he but meets a brother. 
 
 THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 Tune — " Ettrick Banks P 
 
 'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green. 
 On every blade the pearls hang ; 
 
 The zephyrs wanton 'd round the bean. 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
 
 In every glen the mavis sang, 
 
 All nature listening seem'd the while : 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 3/ 
 
 Except where green-wood echoes rang, 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 With careless step I onward stray'd, 
 
 My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
 When musing in a lonely glade, 
 
 A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
 Her look was like the morning's eye, 
 
 Her hair like nature's vernal smile. 
 Perfection whisper'd passing by, 
 
 " Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! " 
 
 Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
 
 And sweet is night in Autumn mild. 
 When roving thro' the garden gay. 
 
 Or wandering in a lonely wild : 
 But Woman, Nature's darling child ! 
 
 There all her charms she does compile ; 
 Ev'n there her other w^orks are foil'd 
 
 By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 O, had she been a country maid, 
 
 And I the happy country swain, 
 Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 
 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
 Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 
 
 With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 
 Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
 
138 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 
 Or downward seek 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, 
 
 With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 Tune — '■'■Miss Forbes^ s Farewell to Banff.'''' 
 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 
 
 The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
 Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
 
 But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
 Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 
 
 Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle. 
 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 birdies dumb, in with'ring 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, sweet Ballochmyle ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 39 
 
 1787. 
 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 Edina ! Scotia's 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 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 Hiirh wields her balance and her rod ; 
 There Learning with his eagle eyes, 
 
 Seeks Science in her coy abode. 
 
 Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. 
 
 With open arms the stranger hail ; 
 
 Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 
 Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
 
 Attentive still to Sorrow's wail. 
 Or modest Merit's silent claim : 
 
I40 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And never may their sources fail ! 
 And never Envy blot their name ! 
 
 Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 
 
 Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
 Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 
 
 Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
 Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
 
 Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
 I see the Sire of Love on high, 
 
 And own his work indeed divine ! 
 
 There watching high the least alarms. 
 
 Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
 Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 
 
 And mark'd with many a seam)- scar : 
 The pond'rous 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 tears, 
 
 I view that noble, stately dome. 
 Where Scotia's kings of other years, 
 
 Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
 Alas, how chang'd 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 ! 
 
 Wild beats my heart, to trace your steps, 
 Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I4I 
 
 Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
 
 Old Scotia's bloody lion bore 
 Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 
 
 Haply my sires have left their shed, 
 And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar. 
 
 Bold-following where your fathers led ! 
 
 Edina ! Scotia's 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 flow'rs. 
 
 As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
 And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
 
 I shelter in thy honoured shade. 
 
 EPIGRAM AT ROSLIN INN. 
 
 My blessing on ye, sonsie wife, 
 
 I ne'er was here before : 
 Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife — 
 
 Heart could not wish for more. 
 Heaven keep you clear o' sturt and strife, 
 
 Till far ayont fourscore. 
 And while I toddle on thro' life, 
 
 I'll ne'er gae by your door! 
 
142 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MRS. SCOTT. 
 
 GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE, ROXBURGSHIRE. 
 GUIDWIFE, 
 
 I MIND it weel, in early date, 
 
 When I was beardless, young and blate, 
 
 An' first could thresh the barn. 
 Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
 An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 
 
 Yet unco proud to learn : 
 When first amang the yellow corn 
 
 A man I reckon'd was. 
 And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
 Could rank my rig and lass. 
 Still shearing, and clearing 
 
 The tither stooked raw, 
 Wi' claivers, an haivers, 
 Wearing the day awa. 
 
 Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
 That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
 Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make. 
 
 Or sing a sang at least. 
 The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 
 
 Amang the bearded bear, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I43 
 
 I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
 An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
 No nation, no station. 
 
 My envy e'er could raise ; 
 A Scot still, but blot still, 
 I knew nae higher praise. 
 
 But still the elements o' sang 
 
 In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 
 
 Wild floated in my brain ; 
 Till on that har'st I said before. 
 My partner in the merry core, 
 
 She rous'd the forming strain : 
 I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 
 
 That lighted up my jingle, 
 Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
 That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
 I fired, inspired. 
 
 At ev'ry kindling keek, 
 But bashing, and dashing, 
 I feared aye to speak. 
 
 Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
 Wi' merry dance in winter days, 
 
 An' we to share in common : 
 The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
 The saul o' life, the heav'n below. 
 
 Is rapture-giving woman. 
 Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 
 
 Be mindfu' o' your mither: 
 
144 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 She, honest woman, may think shame 
 That ye're connected with her, 
 Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
 That slight the lovely dears ; 
 To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
 Ilk honest birkie swears. 
 
 For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
 Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 
 
 Thanks to you for your line : 
 The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
 By me should gratefully be ware ; 
 
 'Twad please me to the nine. 
 I'd be more vauntie o' my hap. 
 
 Douce hingin' owre my curole, 
 Than ony ermine ever lap. 
 Or proud imperial purple. 
 
 Farewell then, lang heal then, 
 
 An' plenty be your fa' : 
 May losses and crosses 
 Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 
 
 R. Burns. 
 
 March, 1787. 
 
 COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 
 
 Tune — "■O'er the water to Charlie P 
 
 Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 
 
 Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
 I'll gie John Ross another bawbee. 
 
 To boat me o'er to Charlie. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 45 
 
 We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
 We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
 
 Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
 And live or die wi' Charlie. 
 
 I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
 
 Tho' some there be abhor him : 
 But O, to see auld Nick gaim hame, 
 
 And Charlie's faes before him ! 
 
 I swear and vow by moon and stars, 
 
 And sun that shines so early, 
 If I had twenty thousand lives, 
 
 I'd die as aft for Charlie. 
 
 We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
 We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
 
 Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
 And live or die wi' Charlie ! 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE 
 
 ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 
 
 " Here lies Robert Fergussoft, Poet, 
 Born September t,ih, 1751 — 
 Died \6th October, 1774." 
 
 No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
 " No storied urn nor animated bust ; " 
 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 
 
146 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate, 
 Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd. 
 
 Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State, 
 
 And thankless starv'd what they so much admir'u. 
 
 This humble tribute with a tear he gives, 
 A brother Bard, he can no more bestow : 
 
 But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 
 A nobler monument than Art can show. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. 
 
 Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 
 
 Nor idle texts pursue : 
 ' Twas guilty sinners that he meant, 
 
 Not A?igels such as you ! 
 
 THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? 
 
 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
 And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
 Come let us spend the lightsome days 
 In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 Bonnie lassie, &c. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 47 
 
 The little birdies blythely sing, 
 While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
 Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
 In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 Bonnie lassie, &c. 
 
 The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
 The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
 O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
 The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 Bonnie lassie, &c. 
 
 The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
 White o'er the linns the burnie pours. 
 And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
 The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 Bonnie lassie, &:c. 
 
 Let fortune's gifts at random flee. 
 They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. 
 Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
 In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 Bonnie lassie, &c. 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER 
 TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 
 
 My Lord, I know your noble ear 
 
 Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
 Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 
 
 Your humble slave complain, 
 
148 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 
 
 In flaming summer-pride, 
 Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 
 
 And drink my crystal tide. 
 
 The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, 
 
 That thro' my waters play, 
 If, in their random, wanton spouts, 
 
 They near the margin stray ; 
 If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 
 
 I'm scorching up so shallow. 
 They're left the whitening stanes amang, 
 
 In gasping death to wallow. 
 
 Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 
 
 As poet Burns came by. 
 That to a bard I should be seen 
 
 Wi' half my channel dry : 
 A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 
 
 Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
 But had I in my glory been, 
 
 He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 
 
 Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 
 
 In twisting strength I rin ; 
 There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 
 
 Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
 Enjoying large each spring and well 
 
 As Nature gave them me, 
 I am, altho' I say't mysel. 
 
 Worth gaun a mile to see. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 49 
 
 Would then my noble master please 
 
 To grant my highest wishes, 
 He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees. 
 
 And bonnie spreading bushes. 
 Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 
 
 You'll wander on my banks. 
 And listen monie a grateful bird, 
 
 Return you tuneful thanks. 
 
 The sober laverock, warbling wild, 
 
 Shall to the skies aspire ; 
 The gowdspink. Music's gayest child, 
 
 Shall sweetly join the choir : 
 The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 
 
 The mavis mild and mellow ; 
 The robin pensive Autumn cheer. 
 
 In all her locks of yellow. 
 
 This, too, a covert shall ensure. 
 
 To shield them from the storm ; 
 And coward maukin sleep secure. 
 
 Low in her grassy form : 
 Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 
 
 To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
 Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat. 
 
 From prone-descending show'rs. 
 
 And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 
 
 Shall meet the loving pair. 
 Despising worlds with all their wealth 
 
 As empty, idle care : 
 
150 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The flow'rs shall vie in all their charm 
 The hour of heav'n to grace, 
 
 And birks extend their fragrant arms, 
 To screen the dear embrace. 
 
 Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 
 
 Some musing bard may stray. 
 And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 
 
 And misty mountain, gray ; 
 Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 
 
 Mild-chequering thro' 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' wat'ry bed ! 
 Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 
 
 My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
 And, for the little songster's nest. 
 
 The close embow'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 ! " 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 151 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS O' INVERNESS. 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness, 
 
 Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
 For e'en and morn she cries, "alas ! " 
 
 And aye the saut tear blins her e'e : 
 " Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 
 
 A waefu' day it was to me ; 
 For there I lost my father dear. 
 
 My father dear, and brethren three. 
 
 Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. 
 
 Their graves are growing green to see ; 
 And by them lies the dearest lad 
 
 That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
 Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
 
 A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
 For monie a heart thou hast made sair. 
 
 That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee." 
 
 CASTLE GORDON. 
 
 Tune — " MoragP 
 
 Streams that glide in orient plains. 
 Never bound by winter's chains ! 
 Glowing here on golden sands, 
 There commix'd with foulest stains 
 
152 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 From Tyranny's empurpled hands : 
 These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
 I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
 Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
 
 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 Gordon. 
 
 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, 
 And find at night a sheltering cave, 
 Where waters flow and wild woods wave. 
 
 By bonnie Castle Gordon. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 53 
 
 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 
 
 Tune — 'T/:^ Shepherd's Wife:' 
 
 A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
 Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
 Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
 
 All 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, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
 
 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 watch'd thy early morning. 
 
154 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
 
 Tune — '•'■Andro and his cuttie gicti." 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 
 Blythe was she but and ben : 
 
 Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
 And blythe in Glenturit glen. 
 
 By Ochtertyre grows the aik, 
 
 On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 
 
 But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
 Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
 Blythe, &c. 
 
 Her looks were like a flow'r jn May, 
 Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 
 
 She tripped by the banks of Ern 
 As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
 Blythe, «Scc. 
 
 Her bonnie face it was as meek 
 As onie lamb's upon a lea ; 
 
 The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
 As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
 Blythe, &c. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 55 
 
 The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
 And o'er the Lowlands I have been ; 
 
 But Phemie was the blythest lass 
 That ever trod the dewy green. 
 Blythe, &:c. 
 
 BANKS OF DEVON. 
 
 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. 
 Mild 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. 
 
156 SELECT rOEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1788. 
 I LOVE MY JEAN. 
 
 Tune — "yl//5^ Admiral Gordon'' s Strathspey." 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly Hke the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And monie a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair : 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 
 
 Tune — '■^ Afy Love is lost to meP 
 
 O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill. 
 Or had of Helicon my fill. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 57 
 
 That I might catch poetic skill, 
 
 To sing how dear I love thee ! 
 But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
 My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
 On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 
 
 And write how dear I love thee. 
 
 Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
 For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
 I could na sing, I could na say, 
 
 How much, how dear, I love thee. 
 I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
 Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
 Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 
 
 By Heaven and Earth I love thee ! 
 
 By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
 
 The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
 
 And aye I muse and sing thy name — 
 
 I only live to love thee. • 
 
 Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
 Till my last weary sand was run ; 
 
 Till then — and then I'd love thee. 
 
 M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong. 
 
 The wretch's destinie : 
 M'Pherson's time will not be long 
 
 On yonder gallows tree. 
 
158 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
 
 Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
 He play'd a spring ajid danc'd it round, 
 
 Below the gallows tree. 
 
 Oh, what is death but parting breath ? 
 
 On monie a bloody plain 
 I've dar'd his face, and in this place 
 
 I scorn him yet again ! 
 
 Sae rantingly, &c. 
 
 Untie these bands from off my hands, 
 And bring to me my sword ! 
 
 And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
 But I'll brave him at a word. 
 Sae rantingly, &c. 
 
 • I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 
 
 I die by treacherie : 
 It burns my heart I must depart 
 And not avenged be. 
 
 Sae rantingly, &c. 
 
 Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 
 
 And all beneath the sky! 
 May coward shame disdain his name, 
 
 The wretch that dare not die ! 
 Sae rantingly, &c. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I 59 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to mind ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
 And auld lang syne 1 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp ! 
 
 And surely I'll be mine ! 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 And pou'd the gowans fine ; 
 
 But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt, 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn, 
 From morning sun till dine ; 
 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
l60 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURN'S. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty here ! 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ! 
 And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Up in the morning's no for me, 
 
 Up in the morning early ; 
 When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 
 
 The drift is driving sairly ; 
 Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 
 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
 A' day they fare but sparely ; 
 
 And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 Up in the morning, &c. 
 
 MY BONNIE MARY. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
 
 That I may drink before I go, 
 A service to my bonnie lassie. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. l6l 
 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody; 
 But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 1789. 
 ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 
 
 WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 
 
 \AfrJl, 1789.] 
 
 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 wan*d'rer of the wood and field. 
 
 The bitter little that of life remains ; 
 
 No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
 To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 
 
1 62 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. 
 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. 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
 The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
 I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
 
 And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless 
 fate. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 Your locks were like the raven. 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is beld, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And monie a cantie day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither : 
 Now we maim totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go. 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 63 
 
 THE HAPPY TRIO. 
 
 Tune — " Willie brciv'd a peck maittP 
 
 O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
 
 And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
 Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
 
 Ye wad na find in Christendie. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We are na fou, we're nae that fou, 
 
 But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
 The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
 
 And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 
 
 Here are we met, three merry boys, 
 Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 
 
 And monie a night we've merry been, 
 And monie mae we hope to be ! 
 We are na fou, (S:c. 
 
 It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
 That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
 
 She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 
 But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
 'Ve are na fou, &c. 
 
 Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
 
 A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
 Wha first beside his chair shall fa'. 
 
 He is the King among us three ! 
 We are na fou, &c. 
 
164 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Tune — "Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff P 
 
 Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget .'' 
 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity cannot efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
 
 The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 65 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my inem'ry wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
 The birth-place of valour, the country of worth : 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
 Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
 
1 66 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 Ellisland, 2\st Oct., 1789. 
 Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
 And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
 I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 
 
 Wad bring ye to : 
 Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye. 
 
 And then ye'll do. 
 
 The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
 And never drink be near his drouth ! 
 He tald mysel by word o' mouth, 
 
 He'd tak my letter ; 
 I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth. 
 
 And bade nae better. 
 
 But aiblins honest Master Heron 
 Had, at the time, some dainty fair one, 
 To ware his theologic care on, 
 
 And holy study ; 
 And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on. 
 
 E'en tried the body. 
 
 But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
 I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
 Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 
 
 Ye'll now disdain me ! 
 And then my fifty pounds a year 
 
 Will little gain me. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 67 
 
 Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
 Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
 Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 
 
 Ye ken, ye ken, 
 That Strang necessity supreme is 
 
 'Mang sons o' men. 
 
 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
 
 They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 
 
 Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 
 
 I need na vaunt, 
 But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 
 
 Before they want. 
 
 Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
 I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
 Not but I hae a richer share 
 
 Than monie ithers ; 
 But why should ae man better fare, 
 
 And a' men brithers ? 
 
 Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
 Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
 And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 
 
 A lady fair ; 
 Wha does the utmost that he can, 
 
 Will whyles do mair. 
 
 But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
 
 (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
 
l68 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 To make a happy fire-side clime 
 
 To weans and wife, 
 That's the true pathos and sublime 
 
 Of human life. 
 
 My compliments to sister Beckie; 
 
 And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
 
 I wat she is a daintie chuckle, 
 
 As e'er tread clay ! 
 
 And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 
 
 I'm yours for ay. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PERE- 
 GRINATIONS THRO' SCOTLAND, 
 
 COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 
 
 Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
 Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; — 
 If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
 
 I rede you tent it : 
 A chiel'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. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 69 
 
 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, Lord save's ! colleaguin 
 
 At some black art. — 
 
 Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer. 
 
 Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour. 
 
 And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 
 
 Warlocks and witches, 
 Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
 
 Ye midnight bitches. 
 
 It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
 And ane wad rather fa'n than fied ; 
 But now he's quat the spurtle-blade. 
 
 And dog-skin wallet. 
 And taen the — Antiquarian trade, 
 
 I think they call it. 
 
 He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
 Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets. 
 Wad hand the Lothian s three in tackets, 
 
 A towmont gude ; 
 And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 
 
 Before the Flood. 
 
 Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
 Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender ; 
 That which distinguished the gender 
 O' Balaam's ass ; 
 
170 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 
 Weel shod wi' brass. 
 
 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 guUie. — 
 
 But wad ye see him in his glee, 
 For meikle glee and fun has he, 
 Then set him down, and twa or three 
 
 Gude fellows wi' him ; 
 And port, O port ! shine thou a wee. 
 
 And then ye'll see him ! 
 
 Now, by the Powr's 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 ! " 
 
 TAM GLEN. 
 
 Tune — '•'■The mucking 0' Gcordic's byre!''' 
 
 My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
 Some counsel unto me com len'. 
 
 To anger them a' is a pity ; 
 
 But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I/I 
 
 I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
 
 In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 
 What care I in riches to wallow, 
 
 If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 
 
 There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
 
 " Guid-day to you," brute ! he comes ben : 
 
 He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
 
 But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 
 
 My minnie does constantly deave me. 
 And bids me beware o' young men ; 
 
 They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
 But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 
 
 My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
 He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 
 
 But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
 O wha will I get but 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 Halloween I was waukin 
 My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 
 
 His likeness cam up the house staukin — 
 And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! 
 
 Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 
 
 I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
 Gif ye will advise me to marry 
 
 The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 
 
172 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1790. 
 TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Of Brorvnyis and of Bogilis full is this Brtkc. 
 
 Gawin Douglas. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street, 
 And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
 As market-days are wearing late, 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
 An' getting fou and unco happy, 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
 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 Tam o' Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
 For honest men and bonnie lasses.) 
 
 O Tam 1 hadst thou but been sae wise, 
 An ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
 That frae November till October, 
 Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 73 
 
 That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
 
 Thou sat as lang 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 Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 
 Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
 
 She prophesy'd that, late or soon, 
 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market night, 
 Tam had got planted unco right ; 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
 Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
 And ay the ale was growing better : 
 The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 Wi' 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, 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
 
1/4 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam 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 white — then melts for ever ; 
 Or like the boreal is 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 Tam maun ride ; 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
 And sic a night he takes the road in. 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
 Loud, deep, and lang, 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, 
 Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 75 
 
 Whiles 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 brak'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 Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
 Before him Doon 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-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
 W^i' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
 Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish 'd, 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
 She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
 And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
 
176 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 A winnock-bunker in the east. 
 
 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 the pipes and gart them skirl, 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
 
 Coffins stood round like open presses. 
 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 
 And by some devilish cantraip slight 
 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new-cutted frae the 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 gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie 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 ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. IJJ 
 
 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 Tarn, O Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
 Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen ! 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
 That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 
 
 But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
 Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, 
 Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, 
 There was ae winsome wench and walie. 
 That night enlisted in the core, 
 (Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
 And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle 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 tho' sorely scanty, 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
 Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie. 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
 
178 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 
 
 But here my muse her wing 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 fidg'd fu' fain, 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
 And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
 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' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 
 
 Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
 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 darena cross. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I/Q 
 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 The fient a tail she had to shake 
 For Nannie, far before the rest. 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
 But left behind her ain gray 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 mother's son, take heed ; 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
 Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 
 
 ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 
 
 A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS 
 IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 
 
 But now his radiant course is run, 
 For Matthew'' s co2irse was bright ; 
 
 His soul was like the glorioiis S7tn, 
 A matchless, Heavenly Light. 
 
 O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
 The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
 Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 
 O'er hurcheon hides, 
 
I So SELECT POEMS OP ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
 Wi' thy auld sides ! 
 
 He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
 
 The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
 
 Thee, Matthew, 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 cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns. 
 
 Where echo slumbers ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest 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 foxgloves fair to see ; 
 Ye woodbines hanging bonilie, 
 
 In scented bow'rs ; 
 Ye roses on your thorny tree. 
 
 The first o' fiow'rs. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. l8l 
 
 At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
 
 Droops with a diamond at his head, 
 
 At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 
 
 I' th' rustling gale, 
 Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 
 
 Come join my wail. 
 
 Afourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
 Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
 Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 
 
 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 for his sake. 
 
 Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
 And when ye wing your annual way 
 
 Frae our cauld shore, 
 Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 
 
 Wham we deplore. 
 
 Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
 
 In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
 
1 82 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 What time the moon, wi' silent glowr, 
 
 Sets up her horn, 
 Wail thro' 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 ; 
 And 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 worth we've lost ! 
 
 Mourn 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 tlight, 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 83 
 
 O Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
 And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
 And hast thou crost 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 thy honest turf I'll wait. 
 
 Thou man of worth ! 
 And weep thee ae best fellow's fate 
 
 E'er lay in earth. 
 
 THE BANKS OF NITH. 
 
 Tune — '■'■ Robie Donna Gorach.'^ 
 
 The Thames flows proudly to the sea. 
 
 Where royal cities stately stand; 
 But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 
 
 Where Cummins ance had high command 
 When shall I see that honour'd land, 
 
 That winding stream I love so dear ! 
 Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 
 
 For ever, ever keep me here ? 
 
 How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 
 
 Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
 
184 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 
 
 Where 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 ! 
 
 1791. 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN 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-owre 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 laverocks wake the merry morn. 
 
 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. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 85 
 
 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 thae sweets amang ; 
 But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 
 
 Maun lie in prison Strang. 
 
 I was the Queen o' bctonie France, 
 
 Where happy I hae been, 
 Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 
 
 As blythe lay down at e'en : 
 And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 
 
 And mony a traitor there ; 
 Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 
 
 And never-ending care 
 
 But as for thee, thou 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 ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
 
1 86 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 
 
 Or turn their hearts to thee : 
 And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 
 
 Remember him for me ! 
 
 Oh ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 
 
 Nae mair light up the morn ! 
 Nae mair, to me, tlie autumn winds 
 
 Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
 And in the narrow house o' death 
 
 Let winter round me rave ; 
 And the next llow'rs that deck the spring, 
 
 Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 
 
 LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
 
 The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 
 By fits the sun's departing beam 
 Look'd on the fading yellow woods 
 
 That wav'd o'er lAigar's winding stream : 
 Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, 
 
 Laden with years and meikle pain. 
 In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
 
 Whom death had all untimely taen. 
 
 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 ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 8/ 
 
 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 reliques o' the vernal quire! 
 Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 
 
 The honours o' the aged year ! 
 A few short months, and glad and gay, 
 
 Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
 But nocht in all revolving time 
 
 Can gladness 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 hold 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 so many changefu' years, 
 
 On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
 I wander in the ways of men, 
 
 Alike unknowing and unknown : 
 Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 
 
 I bare alane my lade o' care. 
 For silent, low, on beds of dust, 
 
 Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 
 
1 88 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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 : 
 In weary being now I pine. 
 
 For a' the life of life is dead, 
 And hope has left my aged ken. 
 
 On forward wing for ever fled. 
 
 Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 
 
 The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
 Awake, resound thy latest lay. 
 
 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 ; 
 Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye. 
 
 No ray of fame was to be found : 
 Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 
 
 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 ? 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 89 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 THE BANKS O' DOON. 
 
 Tune — ^'- The Caledonian Himt-s Delight.'''' 
 
 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'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 
 Departed never to return. 
 
 Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate. 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
190 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Aft 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 luver stole my rose, 
 
 But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 
 Upon a morn in June ; 
 And sae I flourish'd on the morn, 
 
 And sae was pu'd on noon. 
 
 VERSION PRINTED IN THE MUSICAL 
 MUSEUM. 
 
 Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye blume sae fair ! 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae fu' o' care. 
 
 Thou'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
 
 That sings upon the bough ; 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days. 
 
 When my fause luve was true. 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I9I 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the wood-bine twine, 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 
 Frae off its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause luver staw the rose 
 
 But left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 
 
 ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH-SHIRH, WITH BAYS. 
 
 While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
 Unfolds her tender mantle green. 
 
 Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
 Or tunes Eolian strains between ; 
 
 While Summer with a matron grace 
 Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. 
 
 Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
 The progress of the spiky blade ; 
 
 While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
 
 By Tweed erects his aged head, 
 And sees, with self-approving mind. 
 
 Each creature on his bounty fed ; 
 
 While maniac Winter rages o'er 
 
 The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
 
192 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
 Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 
 
 So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
 
 Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
 While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
 
 Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 
 
 AFTON WATER. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
 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 noon 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 ev'ning weeps over the lea, 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 93 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
 As gathering sweet fiow'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. 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
 Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that Fortune grieves him 
 While the star of hope she leaves him 1 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me. 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her, was to love her ; 
 Love but her, and love forever. 
 Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
 Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
 Never met — or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken hearted. 
 
194 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure. 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 1792. 
 THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN. 
 
 The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
 And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
 
 And ilka wife cry'd " Auld Mahoun, 
 We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 
 
 We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
 We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
 
 And monie thanks to the muckle black Deil 
 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. 
 We'll mak our maut," <S:c. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 95 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Tune — '■'■ Kathantie Ogie." 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 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' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
196 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 1 aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for ay the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
 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. 
 
 BESSIE AND HER SPINNIN-WHEEL. 
 
 Tm^^ — ''Bottom of the Punch BowlP 
 
 O LEEZE me on my spinn in- wheel, 
 O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
 Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
 And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
 I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
 While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
 Blest wi' content, and milk and meal, 
 O leeze me on my spinnin-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 spinnin-wheel. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. I97 
 
 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 claver hay, 
 The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
 The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
 Amuse me at my spinnin-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 flarin, idle toys. 
 
 Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
 
 Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
 
 Of Bessie at her spinnin-wheel ? 
 
 BONNIE LESLEY. 
 
 Tune — "7"//^ Collier'' s Boiuiie Dochter." 
 
 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 is, 
 And ne'er made anither ! 
 
198 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURN'S. 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee : 
 
 Tliou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
 And say, "I canna wrang thee." 
 
 The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 
 
 Misfortune sha'na 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. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 
 Duncan Gray came here to woo. 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 On blythe Yule night when we were fou, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
 Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 1 99 
 
 Duncan fieech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
 Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
 Spak o' lowpin o'er a Hnn ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Time and Chance are but a tide, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 Slighted love is sair to bide. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
 For a haughty hizzie die ? 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 Meg grew sick — as he grew well, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Something in her bosom wrings. 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 Maggie's was a piteous case, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
200 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Duncan couldna be her death, 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 Now they're crouse and cantie baith ! 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 1793- 
 GALLA WATER. 
 
 Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
 
 They rove amang the blooming heather ; 
 
 But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 
 Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 
 
 But there is ane, a secret ane, 
 Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 
 
 And I'll be his, and he'll be mine. 
 The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 
 
 Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
 And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 
 
 Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 
 
 We'll tent our flocks by Galla 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. 
 
SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 20I 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 
 Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 
 Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 
 
 Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 
 Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 
 
 Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; 
 Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to me ! 
 
 Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers ; 
 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
 Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 
 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 
 But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
 
 Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ; 
 May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
 
 But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 Tune — '■'■ Bomiie Dundee^ 
 
 True-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
 And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
 
 But by the sw^eet side o' the Nith's winding river. 
 Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
 
202 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
 
 To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
 Grace, beauty, an' elegance, fetter her lover. 
 
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 
 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'. 
 
 THE SODGER'S RETURN. 
 
 Tune — "r//^ Mill Mill O." 
 
 When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. 
 
 And gentle peace returning, 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
 
 And mony a widow mourning : 
 I left the lines and tented field. 
 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
 My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
 
 A poor and honest sodger. 
 
 A leal, light heart was in my breast, 
 My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 20; 
 
 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 aft I courted : 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
 
 Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
 And turn'd me round to hide the flood 
 
 That in my een was swelling. 
 
 Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass, 
 
 Sweet as yon hawthorn 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 — 
 
 Take pity on a sodger ! 
 
 Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 
 
 And lovelier was than ever : 
 Quo' she, A sodger ance I lo'ed. 
 
 Forget him shall I never : 
 Our humble cot, and hamely fare. 
 
 Ye freely shall partake it, 
 
204 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 
 Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 
 
 She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 
 
 Syne pale like onie lily ; 
 She sank within my arms, and cried, 
 
 Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
 By Him who made yon sun and sky, 
 
 By whom true 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 ; 
 Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 
 
 And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
 Quo' she. My grandsire left me gowd, 
 
 A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
 And come, my faithful sodger lad, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 
 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
 But glory is the sodger's prize ; 
 
 The sodger's wealth is honour : 
 The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 
 
 Nor count him as a stranger, 
 Remember he's his country's stay 
 
 In day and hour o' danger. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 205 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 Tune — "Z-ci^'rt« Water :' 
 
 ♦ O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
 That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
 And years sin^ne hae o'er us run, 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
 Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
 Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. ■ 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 
 Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
 
 The bees hum round the breathing flowers ; 
 
 Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
 
 And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
 
 My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
 
 While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
 Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush ; 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
 But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
 Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
 While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
206 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O wae upon you, men o' state, 
 That brethren rouse to' deadly hate ! 
 As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn, 
 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. 
 And Willie hame to Logan Braes ! 
 
 THERE WAS A LASS. 
 
 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 ay she wrought her mammie's wark. 
 And ay 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 fairest flowers. 
 And love will break the soundest rest. 
 
 Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
 The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 20/ 
 
 And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
 And wanton naigies nine or ten. 
 
 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
 He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
 
 And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
 
 Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 
 
 As in the bosom o' the stream 
 
 The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
 
 So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
 Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 
 
 And now she works her mammie's wark, 
 And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
 
 Yet wistna what her ail might be. 
 Or what wad make her weel again. 
 
 But didna Jeanie's heart loup light. 
 
 And didna joy blink in her e'e. 
 As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
 
 Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 
 
 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 o' love : 
 
 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 ? 
 
208 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 
 Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
 
 But stray amang the heather-bells, 
 And tent the waving corn wi' me. 
 
 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 ay between them twa. 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 
 
 Tune — "//■<?>' ticttie tattieP 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 
 Or to victoria. 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
 See the front o' battle lower ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power 
 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a'coward's grave? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 2O9 
 
 Wha for Scotland's King and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
 Let him on wi' me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 
 But they shall be free ! 
 Lay the proud usurpers low 1 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 
 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 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 furrow'd 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. 
 
2IO SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 
 
 Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies ! 
 
 Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
 What wealth could never give nor take away ! 
 
 Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
 The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll 
 share. 
 
 DAINTY DAVIE. 
 
 Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
 To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ; 
 And now comes in the happy hours, 
 To wander wi' my Davie. 
 
 CHORUS. — Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
 Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
 There I'll spend 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. 
 Meet me, &c. 
 
 When purple morning starts the hare, 
 To steal upon her early fare, 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 211 
 
 Then through the dews I will repair, 
 To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
 Meet me, &c. 
 
 When day, expiring in the west, 
 The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
 I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
 And that's my ain dear Davie. 
 Meet me, &c. 
 
 1794. 
 A VISION. 
 
 Tune — "■Cumnock Psalms.'" 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
 
 Where the wa' flower scents the dewy air. 
 
 Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower. 
 And tells the midnight moon her care ; 
 
 CHCfRUS. 
 
 A lassie, all alone was making her moan, 
 Lamenting our lads beyond the sea : 
 
 In the bluidy wars they fa', and our honour's 
 gane an' a', 
 And broken-hearted we maun die. 
 
 The winds were laid, the air was still. 
 The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
 
212 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The fox was howling on tlie hill, 
 
 And the distant-echoing glens reply. 
 
 The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
 Was rushing by the ruin'd wa'. 
 
 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
 Whase .distant roarings swell and fa'. 
 
 The caiild blae 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. 
 And, by the moonbeam, 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 posy — Libertie ! 
 
 And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
 
 Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear ; 
 
 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 winna ventur't in my rhymes. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS 213 
 
 HARK! THE MAVIS. 
 
 Tune — "C«' the Yowcs to the KjiowesP 
 CHORUS* 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 
 Hark ! the mavis' e'ening sang 
 Sounding Clouden's woods amang, 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
 To the moon sae clearly. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
 Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
 O'er the dewy-bending flowers. 
 Fairies dance sae cheery. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
 Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, 
 
214 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art, 
 Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
 I can die — ^ but canna part, 
 My bonnie Dearie. 
 Ca' the yowes, &c. 
 
 A RED, RED ROSE. 
 
 Tune — ^^Red., red roseP 
 
 My luve is 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. 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve 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 : 
 
 I will luve thee still, my Dear, 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 21 5 
 
 And fare the weel, my only luve, 
 
 And fare thee weel awhile ! 
 And I will come again, my luve, 
 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 MY CHLORIS. 
 
 Tune — '•'■My lodging is on the cold ground P 
 
 My Chloris, mark how green the groves 
 The primrose banks how fair : 
 
 The balmy 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 lighted ha' : 
 The shepherd stops 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 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 
 
2l6 SELECT FORMS OF FOBERT BURNS. 
 
 The shepherd, in the liowery glen, 
 In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 
 
 The courtier tells a liner tale, 
 But is his heart as true ? 
 
 These wild- wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
 That spotless breast o' thine : 
 
 The courtier's gems may witness love — 
 But 'tis na love like mine. 
 
 THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 
 
 Tune — ''■Dainty DavteP 
 
 It was the charming month of May, 
 When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
 One morning, by the break of day, 
 
 The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
 From peaceful slumber she arose. 
 Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
 And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
 
 The youthful, charming Chloe. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Lovely was she by the dawn, 
 
 Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
 
 Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
 The youthful, charming Chloe. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 21 y 
 
 The feather 'd people you might see 
 Perch'd all around on every tree, 
 In notes of sweetest melody 
 
 They hail the charming Chloe; 
 Till, painting gay the eastern skies 
 The glorious sun began to rise, 
 Out-rival'd by the radiant eyes 
 
 Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
 Lovely was she, &c. 
 
 LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHTFE LOCKS. 
 
 Tune — " Rothicmiirchies RantP 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
 Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
 
 Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
 Wilt thou be my Dearie O ? 
 
 Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
 And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
 O wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
 And say thou'll be my Dearie O .^ 
 Lassie wi', &c. 
 
 The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, 
 The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn. 
 The wanton lambs at early morn, 
 Shall welcome thee, my Dearie O. 
 Lassie wi', &c. 
 
21 8 SELECT POEMS OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 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. 
 Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
 And talk o' love, my Dearie O. 
 Lassie wi', &c. 
 
 And when the howling wintry blast 
 Disturbs my Lassie's midnight rest ; 
 Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
 I'll comfort thee, my Dearie O. 
 Lassie wi', «&:c. 
 
 CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. 
 
 Tune — " Lumps o ' Pudding." 
 
 Contented 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 cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 
 
 I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
 But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 219 
 
 My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, 
 
 And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 
 
 A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
 A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' ; 
 When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
 Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 
 
 Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
 Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
 Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain, 
 My warst word is — '" Welcome, and welcome again ! " 
 
 MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
 
 Tune — '■'■There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hameP 
 
 Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays. 
 And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
 While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw ; 
 But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 
 
 The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
 And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn : 
 They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. 
 They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 
 
 Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn, 
 The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn. 
 And thou, yellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', 
 Gie over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 
 
220 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
 And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; 
 The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
 Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 
 
 1795- 
 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 dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Our toils obscure, an' a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden-grey, an' a' that ; 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man's a man for a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, an' a' that -. 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
 Is King o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that ; 
 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 221 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 His riband, star, an' a' that, 
 The man of independent mind, 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that. 
 
 Their dignities, an' a' that. 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come 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, an' a' that. 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er. 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 Tune — ^^ Push about the jorum. '^ 
 
 April, 1795. 
 
 Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 
 
 Then let the louns beware, Sir, 
 There's Wooden Walls upon our seas. 
 
 And Volunteers on shore. Sir. 
 
222 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 
 
 And Criffel sink in Solway, 
 Ere we permit a foreign foe 
 
 On British ground to rally ! 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 O let us not like snarling curs 
 
 In wrangling be divided ; 
 Till, slap ! come in an unco loun 
 
 And wi' a rung decide it. 
 Be Britain still to Britain true, 
 
 Amang oursels united ; 
 For never but by British hands 
 
 Maun British wrangs be righted ! 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 The Kettle o' the Kirk and State, 
 
 Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
 But deil a foreign tinkler loun 
 
 Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
 Our Fathers' bluid the Kettle bought, 
 
 And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
 By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 
 
 Shall fuel be to boil it. 
 
 Fal -de ral, «Sz:c. 
 
 The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
 And the wretch his true-born brother, 
 
 Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne, 
 May they be damned together ! 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 223 
 
 Who will not sing, " God save the King," 
 
 Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
 But while we sing, " God save the King," 
 
 We'll ne'er forget The People ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 
 
 Tune — " Where' II honnie Ann lieT 
 
 O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
 Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
 A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
 Thy soothing fond complaining. 
 
 Again, again that tender part, 
 That I may catch thy melting art ; 
 For surely that wad touch her heart, 
 Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 
 
 Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
 And heard thee as the careless wind? 
 Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
 Sic notes o' wae could wauken. 
 
 Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
 O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
 For pity's sake, -sweet bird, nae mair ! 
 Or my poor heart is broken 1 
 
224 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURiVS. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE LAST 
 
 EDITION OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO THE 
 
 LADY WHOM I HAVE SO OFTEN SUNG 
 
 UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS, 
 
 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 
 
 Nor thou the gift refuse, 
 Nor with unwilUng ear attend 
 
 The moralizing Muse. 
 
 Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 
 
 Must bid the world adieu, 
 (A w^orld 'gainst peace in constant arms) 
 
 To join the friendly few. 
 
 Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
 
 Chill came the tempest's lower, 
 (And ne'er Misfortune's eastern blast 
 
 Did nip a fairer flower.) 
 
 Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 
 
 Still much is left behind ; 
 Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 
 
 The comforts of the mind ! 
 
 Thine is the self-approving glow. 
 On conscious Honour's part ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 225 
 
 And, dearest gift of Heaven below, 
 Thine friendship's truest heart. 
 
 The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
 
 With every muse to rove : 
 And doubly were the Poet blest, 
 
 These joys could he improve. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Tune — ^'- The hopeless lover P 
 
 Now spring has clad the groves in green. 
 
 And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
 The furrow'd waving corn is seen 
 
 Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
 While ilka thing in nature join 
 
 Their sorrows to forego, 
 O why thus all alone are mine 
 
 The weary 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 once that careless stream, 
 
 That wanton trout was I ; 
 But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 
 
 Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 
 
226 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 
 
 In yonder cliff that grows, 
 Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 
 
 Nae ruder visit knows, 
 Was mine ; till love has o'er mc past. 
 
 And blighted a' my bloom, 
 And now beneath the withering blast 
 
 My youth and joy consume. 
 
 The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 
 
 And climbs the early sky, 
 Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 
 
 In morning's rosy eye ; 
 As little reckt I sorrow's power, 
 
 Until the flowery snare 
 O' witching love in luckless hour, 
 
 Made me the thrall o' care. 
 
 O had my fate been Greenland's snows 
 
 Or Afric's burning zone, 
 Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 
 
 So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
 The wretch whase doom is, " Hope nac mair! " 
 
 What tongue his woes can tell ! 
 Within whose bosom, save despair, 
 
 Nae kinder spirits dwell. 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 22/ 
 
 1796. 
 ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 
 
 Tune — '■'•Here's a hcaltJi to them that's awa, Hiney.^'' 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers 
 meet, 
 And soft as their parting tear — Jessy' 
 
 Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
 
 Altho' even hope is denied ; 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
 
 Than aught in the world beside — Jessy! 
 Here's a health, cS:c. 
 
 I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
 As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 
 
 But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
 For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
 Here's a health, &c. 
 
 I guess by the dear angel smile, 
 I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
 
 But why urge the tender confession 
 
 'Gainst fortune's cruel decree — Jessy ! 
 Here's a health, &c. 
 
228 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 
 
 Tune — '■'■The Lass of Livingstofie.'''' 
 
 O, WERT thou in the cauld blast, 
 
 On yonder lea, on 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, 
 
 Of earth and air, of earth and air. 
 The desart were a paradise, 
 
 If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
 Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
 
 Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
 The only jewel in my crown 
 
 Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 
 
 POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
 
 In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
 
 Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 
 
 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
 
SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS 229 
 
 And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 
 'Mid a' thy favours ! 
 
 Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
 While loud 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. 
 
 But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
 They're no herd's ballats, Marco's catches ; 
 Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 
 
 O' heathen tatters : 
 I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 
 
 That ape their betters. 
 
 In this braw age o' wit and lear. 
 
 Will nane the Shepherd's whistle fnair 
 
 Blaw sweetly in its native air 
 
 And rural grace; 
 And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 
 
 A rival place .'' 
 
230 SELECT POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
 There's ane ; come forrit, lionest Allan ! 
 Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 
 
 A chiel sae clever ; 
 The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 
 
 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 lasses bleach their claes ; 
 Or trots by hazelly shaws and 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. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL. 
 
 January 25, 1759. 
 1765- 
 
 1766-1777. 
 1768. 
 
 1769. 
 
 1 777-1 784. 
 
 1778. 
 
 1780. 
 
 1781. 
 
 1782. 
 
 1783. 
 February, 1784. 
 
 1 784-1 786. 
 1785. 
 
 1759-1786. 
 
 Birth at Ayr, parish of AUoway. 
 School at Alloway Mill; with Murdock. 
 
 At Mount Oliphant, parish of Ayr (1766). 
 Early associations on the farm. Taught at home 
 
 by his father. 
 Books. Love and song. 
 Jenny Wilson. 
 
 At Lochlea, parish of Tarbolton. 
 
 School at Kirkoswald. 
 
 The Bachelors' Club. 
 
 Flax-dressing at Irvine. 
 
 Finds Fergusson's Poems. 
 
 A Freemason. 
 
 His father's death. 
 
 At Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline. 
 
 Early friends: Gavin Hamilton, Robert Aiken. 
 
 Struggle with Auld Lichts. 
 
 Poetic Springtide. 
 
 Epistles. 
 
 Satirical Poems. 
 
 Descriptive Poems. 
 
 Songs. 
 
 231 
 
232 CHRONOLOGICAL. 
 
 August, 1786. Kilmarnock (first) edition of poems published. 
 
 Literary friendships: Dr. Blacklock, Dugald Stew- 
 art, Dr. Blair, Rev. Mr. Laurie, Mrs. Dunlop. 
 Visits Katrine, meets Lord Daer and Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 
 
 1786-1788. 
 
 November, : 
 
 [786. 
 
 Visits Edinburgh. 
 
 Among the celebrities. 
 
 April, 1787. 
 
 
 Second edition of poems, 
 Travels in Scotland. 
 
 May 
 
 
 Border Tour. 
 
 June. 
 
 
 Returns to Mossgiel. 
 
 First Highland Tour. 
 Second Highland Tour. 
 Third Highland Tour. 
 
 September. 
 
 Returns to Edinburgh. 
 
 
 Johnson's Museum. 
 
 March, 1788. 
 
 Leaves Edinburgh. 
 
 
 I 788-1796. 
 
 1 788-1 791. 
 
 At Ellisland. 
 
 August, 1788. 
 
 Marries Jean Armour. 
 
 
 At Friar's Carse. 
 
 1790. 
 
 Appointed Excise Officer. 
 
 1791-1796. 
 
 At Dumfries. Bank Vennel 
 
 
 Dumfries Volunteers. 
 
 
 Thomson's Collection. 
 
 1792. 
 
 Patriotic Songs. 
 
 1793- 
 
 Visits Galloway. 
 
 1794. 
 
 Removes to Mill Hill Brae. 
 
 
 Failing Health. 
 
 July 21, 1796. 
 
 Death. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. 1773 -1786. 
 
 The most natural divisions into which Burns's work may be divided 
 are 1 773-1 786 and 1 787-1 796. In the first period, which closed with 
 the publication of the first edition of his poems, we have the early love- 
 songs, epistles, satires, and poems humorous and descriptive relating 
 to rural life and manners. These are for the most part in the native 
 Scottish dialect, and are simple, picturesque, and impassioned. In the 
 second period we have mostly songs based upon the early minstrelsy. 
 The occasion of many of these was the publication of Johnson's I\hi- 
 senni, a collection of the best Scottish songs, and later a similar pub- 
 lication by Thomson. To these two works Burns was a frequent 
 contributor. His three Highland tours were productive of the best 
 results in the way of song. He visited the famous Highland fiddlei 
 and composer of Scotch tunes, Neil Gow, at his home on the Braan 
 near Dunkeld. He also met Rev. John Skinner, the author of 77ie 
 Eiuie ivi ' the Crookit Honi, which had suggested to him the poems on 
 Poor Mailie. It was by such intercourse that the old songs of Scotland 
 became so prominent in his work of this period. He thus anticipated 
 Scott in this field, — the one was a re-creator, the other a preserver. 
 Some critics have attempted to decide upon the relative merits of the 
 work in these two periods, but it is unprofitable business, as each 
 is unique and perfect after its kind. 
 
 The work of each of these periods has a local color according as 
 it is related to the three different centres. In the first we have work 
 done at Mount Oliphant, Lochlea, and Mossgiel; in the second, that at 
 
 233 
 
234 NOTES. [1773- 1783] 
 
 Edinburgh, Ellisland, and Dumfries. There is no EngUsh poet, except 
 Wordsworth, whose work is so intimately associated with places. We 
 may understand Dante without a visit to Florence, and Shakespeare 
 even without a visit to Stratford; but Burns is so closely associated 
 with the nature of the people and the beauty of the districts in which 
 he lived, that something of his peculiar charm will be lost unless one 
 appreciates the environment of places he has made classic. 
 
 1773 -1783. 
 
 HANDSOME NELL. 
 
 {Currie, 1800.) 
 
 The poems composed at Mount Oliphant and at Lochlea are not 
 many, but they reveal much that is of importance to the student of 
 Burns. As the child is father of the man the later poems can be 
 understood only by a thorough study of all the influences which were 
 at work to mould the mind and heart of this peasant lad. The most 
 powerful influence was that of love, and it is no wonder that Burns's 
 first poem was a song of love. He tells us that the book most prized 
 by him as a boy was an old song-book, which he carried with him 
 wherever he went, whether he drove the cart, held the plough, tended 
 the cattle, or toiled in the harvest-field. Then, too, his home was 
 filled with influences the best possible for the development of his 
 genius. It was a home of song. By song he was nursed; by it he 
 grew to manhood; and by it his lyric genius was kindled. Not only 
 was his song-craft thus created, but his critic-craft as well; for he says, 
 " I carefully noted the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and 
 fustian." We must not forget that this was a period of severe toil 
 and of the sternest self-denial, — "the cheerless gloom of a hermit 
 with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave." " My brother," says Gil- 
 bert, "at the age of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop of corn, 
 and at fifteen was the principal laborer on the farm." Carlyle has 
 said that "our Scottish son of thunder had, for want of a better, 
 to pour his lightning through the narrow cranny of Scottish song, 
 
[1 773-1 783] NOTES. 235 
 
 the narrowest cranny ever vouchsafed to any son of thunder." Was 
 it so narrow a cranny after all ? 
 
 The circumstances attending the birth of this song are given us in 
 the poet's own words: — 
 
 " You know," he says, " our country custom of coupling a man and 
 a woman together as partners in the labors of the harvest. In my 
 fifteenth summer (1773) my partner was 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 Scottish idiom. 
 She was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. . . . Among her love-inspiring 
 qualities she sang sweetly; and it was her favorite reel to which I 
 attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so pre- 
 sumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, 
 composed by men who read Greek and Latin; but my girl sang a song 
 which was said to be composed by a 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 shear 
 sheep and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had 
 no more scholarship than myself. Thus with me began love and 
 poetry." 
 
 In Burns's Commonplace Book., April, 17S3, we find this poem and 
 the following comment: "There is certainly some connection between 
 love and music and poetry; and therefore I have always thought it a- 
 fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love-composition : — 
 
 *As toward her cot he jogged along, 
 Her name was frequent in his song.' 
 
 For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turn- 
 ing poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song 
 were in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The fol- 
 lowing composition was the first of my performances. The subject of 
 the poem was a young girl (Nellie Kirkpatrick) who really deserved 
 all the praises I have bestowed upon her." Then follows some 
 admirable criticism of the poem, stanza by stanza. "The thoughts 
 in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favorite idea — a sweet, sonsie 
 lass; the last line, however, halts a little." 
 
236 NOTES. [1773-1783] 
 
 Burns called this "puerile and silly;" but if we compare it with 
 the earliest work of other lyric poets, we can see how far he surpasses 
 them all. I do not know of any first poem of any author which has 
 in it such promise and potency of future greatness. This is reason 
 sufficient for inserting it in a collection which aims to be representa- 
 tive. For an admirable discussion of Burns's power as a song-writer, 
 see Shairp's Aspects of Poetry, "Scottish Song and Burns." 
 
 In comparing the high light of this poem with the low light of the 
 ' auld clay biggin' in which the poet was nurtured, Mrs. Oliphant says, 
 "The little scene in the harvest-field balances with its sweet daylight, 
 its first love and first song, the Rembrandt interior of the farmhouse 
 kitchen and its copybooks. ' Puirtith cauld,' such as 'wrecks the 
 heart,' and labors without ceasing — but at the same time warm, 
 natural, hopeful life and poetry and love; a prince could not have 
 more." 
 
 In 1786 Burns presented copies of some of his early poems to Mrs. 
 Stewart of Stair. The manuscript of this poem omits the fifth stanza, 
 and gives the fourth as follows : — 
 
 " But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 
 Good-humored, frank, and free ; 
 And still the more I view them o'er. 
 The more they captive me." 
 
 He afterwards returned to the original form of 1783. 
 
 Although Burns is known chiefly by his verse, his prose is interest- 
 ing for many reasons; but chiefly for its content — the light which it 
 throws upon his life and habits of poetic composition. What interests 
 us in its form is the fact that it reveals imitation rather than creation. 
 He deliberately set about being a good prose-writer, and failed be- 
 cause of this very consciousness of effort. His verse is characterized 
 by spontaneity and grace ; his prose too often by affectation and 
 dress. He says, " I had met with a collection of letters by the wits 
 of Queen Anne's reign, and I pondered over them most devoutly." 
 In his Tarbolton days he piqued himself on his ability to write a billet 
 doux. 
 
[1773-1783] NOTES. 237 
 
 THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 At the time of the previous poem Burns was living at Mount Oli- 
 phant; but on the death of the landlord, who had always dealt kindly 
 with the family, they fell into the hands of a factor (agent) who was 
 severe even to heartlessness. In 1787, ten years after the events of 
 this season. Burns wrote, "My indignation yet boils at the recollec- 
 tion of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening letters which used 
 to set us all in tears." The lease terminated in 1777, when they re- 
 moved to Lochlea in the parish of Tarbolton, on the River Ayr, where 
 they remained seven years. " These seven years," says Gilbert Burns, 
 " brought small literary improvement to Robert; " yet these years gave 
 us some of the songs which have become most certain of immortality. 
 During this time the social instinct in Burns becomes prominent, and 
 is reflected in this poem. The melody of this song floated down from 
 earliest time. Burns from the first laid it down as a rule " ' to sowth 
 the tune' over and over, as the readiest way to catch the inspiration, 
 and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly character- 
 istic of our old Scottish poetry." 
 
 " It is generally believed in the west of Scotland that Annie Ronald 
 was the inspirer of this charming song. The poet was a frequent 
 visitor at her father's house, and Mr. Ronald liked so much the con- 
 versation of his eloquent neighbor that he sat late with him on many 
 occasions." — Cunningham. 
 
 Mr. Douglas says, " Many of the Annies of the district have con- 
 tended for the honor of being the heroine of this poem." 
 
 NOW WESTLIN WINDS. • 
 
 {Kilinaniock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 Burns went to the dancing-school to give his rustic manners "a 
 brush," as he called it. He spent his seventeenth summer at Kirkos- 
 wald, on the Carrick coast, studying mensuration. Here he met a lass 
 
238 NOTES. [1773-1783] 
 
 by the name of Peggy Thomson, \vho became the subject of this 
 poem. "Stepping into the garden," says he, "one charming noon, 
 to take the sun's aUitude, there I met my angel, — 
 
 ' Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
 Herself a fairer flower.' 
 
 It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school." On re- 
 turning to Lochlea he wrote this poem. 
 
 Burns wrote four lyrics in honor of this charmer, of which this is 
 the best. She was alarmed, it is said, when one of the poems ap- 
 peared in print. She was a woman of much higher position than 
 Burns; but she loved his admiration, and led him on, although she was 
 affianced to another. Burns says, " It cost me some heart-aches to get 
 rid of the affair." 
 
 In 1786, when the first edition of his poems was published, he sent 
 a copy to the Kirkoswald Peggy. In it was written: — 
 
 " Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
 Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 
 Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
 Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows." 
 
 In a note to this poem in Burns's manuscript collection, he says: 
 "Poor Peggy! Her husband is my old acquaintance, and a most 
 worthy fellow." 
 
 "Burns was the lyric poet of love, — love in its purest and best 
 form — among a class of unsophisticated people, who have no temp- 
 tation either to poison its purity by secondary respects, or to let it run 
 riot in fields of unreal and unhealthy imagination." — John Stuart 
 Blackie. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson says of this period in Burns's life: " Gal- 
 lantry was the essence of life among the Ayrshire hills as well as in 
 the court of Versailles ; and the days were distinguished from each 
 other by love-letters, meetings, tiffs, reconciliations." " In all this," 
 says Andrew Lang, " Burns is the true representative of every Scot 
 who is a Scot, and of his nation." Burns has received generous treat- 
 ment at the hands of his brother poets in Scotland ; and to see him 
 
[1773-1783] NOTES. 239 
 
 as he is thus viewed by his countrymen, the student should read 
 Cunningham, Hogg, Shairp, Blackie, Carlyle, Wilson, Minto, Veitch, 
 Stevenson, and Lang. 
 
 ^ MY NANNIE O. 
 {Edhibiirgh Ed., 1787.) 
 
 Love-making now becomes still more a passion. "I felt," he 
 says, "as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the 
 parish of Tarl^olton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of 
 the courts of Europe. 
 
 When twenty-one years of age, Burns founded the famous Tarbol- 
 ton Bachelors' Club. The following is from the preamble, which 
 Burns himself wrote : — 
 
 " Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
 Nor gentry does our club afford; 
 But ploughmen and mechanics we 
 In nature's simple dress record. 
 
 *' As the great end of human society is to become wiser and better, 
 this ought, therefore, to be the principal view of every man in every 
 station in life. But as experience has taught us that such studies as 
 inform the head and mend the heart, when long continued, are apt to 
 exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has been found proper to relieve 
 and unbend the mind by some employment or other that may be 
 agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at the same time 
 not so serious as to exhaust them. . . . 
 
 " Impressed with these considerations, we, the following lads in the 
 parish of Tarbolton, resolved for our mutual entertainment to unite 
 ourselves into a club or society under such rules and regulations that, 
 while we should forget our cares and labors, we might not transgress 
 the bounds of innocence and decorum." The first meeting was on 
 Halloween, the nth of November, 1780, when Burns was chosen 
 president, and the question for debate was a very practical one, — of 
 what were the most desirable qualities in a wife. 
 
 Burns also formulated the rules for the government of the society; 
 
240 NOTES. [1773-1783] 
 
 they are, as Professor Blackie says, " judicious and sensible, and 
 contain nothing in the main but what the necessities of profitable dis- 
 cussion and the laws of good order plainly suggest." Rule No. 10 
 is strikingly indicative of the poet's character. It is as follows: — 
 
 " Every man proper for a member of this society must have a 
 frank, honest, open heart, above anything dirty or mean ; and must 
 be a professed lover of one or more of the female sex. In short, the 
 proper person for this society is a cheerful, honest-hearted lad, who, 
 if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as 
 much wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet, is just as happy 
 as this world can make him." 
 
 *' The Nannie who lived among the mosses near the Lugar was 
 a farmer's daughter, of Tarbolton parish, Agnes Fleming by name, 
 and charmed unconsciously the sweet lay, ' My Nannie O,' from 
 the elegance of her person and the melody of her voice. She died 
 unmarried and well advanced in life. When questioned about the 
 poet's attachment, she said, ' Aye, atweel he made a great wark about 
 me.' " — Cunningham. 
 
 Allan Ramsay, to whose inspiration Burns owed so much, has a 
 song by the same name, and composed to the same air; but it is 
 distinctly inferior to that of our poet. Compare the following stanza 
 of Ramsay's poem with the fifth of Burns's: — 
 
 " How joyfully my spirits rise, 
 When dancing, she moves finely O ; 
 I guess what heaven is by her eyes, 
 Which sparkle so divinely O." 
 
 What Professor Blackie says of the poems of this period is strik- 
 ingly true of this one as contrasted with Ramsay's. " In them we 
 discover all the genuine warmth, unaffected simplicity, and easy grace 
 of truthful nature which will often be sought for in vain in the lyric 
 productions of the most accomplished poets of the most refined ages of 
 all countries; nothing conventional, nothing artificial, nothing affected 
 or overstrained." 
 
 " Never was a more manly song." — Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 Burns says, "Whether 'My Nannie O' will stand the test I will 
 
[1773- 1 783] NOTES. 24 1 
 
 not pretend to say, because it is my own; only I can say it was, at the 
 time, genuine from the heart." 
 
 These were the poems which kindled the lyric fire in Wordsworth, 
 and which caused him to pay that touchingly sympathetic tribute to 
 Burns in 1803, when there was so much severity and injustice meted 
 out in the name of criticism : — 
 
 " Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius ' glinted ' forth, 
 Rose Uke a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems, 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved; for he was gone, 
 Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 
 
 And showed my youth 
 How verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth." 
 
 It was fitting that the first-fruits of Wordsworth's earliest visit to 
 Scotland should be dedicated to the memory of the ploughman poet. 
 Written in Burns's favorite metre, they are the finest tribute ever paid 
 to that " darling of the Muses." 
 
 v. Cf. Wordsworth's Memorials of a Tour in Scotland. 
 
 In 1792 Burns wrote to Thomson: — 
 
 " Let me remark to you that in the sentiment and style of our 
 Scotch airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a something we may call 
 the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
 native tongue and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly, apposite." 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 {Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 This tender and delicate song reveals the nature of Burns's trysts 
 with the lasses of Tarbolton in a free and healthful manner, and with 
 nothing of coarseness or rudeness. Burns says of these meetings: 
 " To the sons and daughters of labor and poverty they are matters of 
 
242 NOTES. [ 1 773-1 783 1 
 
 the most serious nature; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen interview, 
 the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their 
 enjoyments." Writing to Mr. Thomson in 1793, he says of this poem: 
 "It is one of my juvenile works. I do not think it very remarkable 
 either for its merits or its demerits." 
 
 Mr. Stopford Brooke says, " The same passion ran through all 
 he said and did. No one felt more keenly than Burns that tingling 
 of the heart which at its highest produces poetry of word and deed." 
 
 Mr. Douglas says of the variety of Burns's objects of interest: 
 *' One might as well try to trace all the originals of Horace's or 
 Herrick's fancy as that of Burns, for when he became famous even 
 married women contended to have sat to him for their portraits. The 
 passion is more lively than intense, their charm is in the field breeze 
 that blow^s through them as freshly as in the old days of Chaucer." 
 
 " Song drooped and fell, and one 'neath northern skies, 
 With southern heart, who tilled his father's field, 
 Found Poesy a-dying, bade her rise 
 And touch quick Nature's hem, and go forth healed. 
 
 On life's broad plain the ploughman's conquering share 
 
 Upturned the fallow lands of truth anew, 
 And o'er the formal garden's trim parterre 
 
 The peasant's team a ruthless furrow drew." 
 
 William Watson. 
 
 It was by such lyrics as these that Burns purified the atmosphere 
 of Scottish song. Before his time the melodies had been filled with 
 " moral plague " against which, says Thomas Aird, " all the preach- 
 ers in the land could not avails The only way was to put something 
 better in its stead. This inestimable something better Burns gave us." 
 This should be- borne in mind by all who may hear the moralizings 
 of those would-be critics who sip the cup of scandal, and exultingly 
 pass it around the board, crying, " What good critics are we ! " Mr. 
 Stopford Brooke, in his introduction to the Golden Book of Coleridge, 
 shows his indignation at such treatment of poets. " How wicked it 
 has been ! It has turned men's eyes away from the permanent and 
 noble in them to the transcient and the commonplace. The reverence 
 
[1773-1783] NOTES. 243 
 
 due to their work has been lowered, and this is an injury to mankind. 
 It is the worst of immoralities." Mrs. Oliphant savs, "The medicine 
 of this fresh and simple nature was what sick poetry wanted to restore 
 the noblest of the arts. No woman of that day, in any language (un- 
 less it were the Katchens and Friederikas, by whom Goethe was edu- 
 cating himself to all the varieties of emotion in the depths of Germany), 
 had such exquisite homage offered to her as had Mary Morison, whoever 
 she may have been; and it is a curious thing to realize that, in all the 
 English-speaking races, there was not one but this Ayrshire rustic to 
 whom that mystery of pure and perfect feeling was revealed." 
 
 For a similar feeling from a singer who has often been called unim- 
 passioned, see Wordsworth's Lucy Poei/is. 
 
 '■ She dwelt among the untrodden ways." 
 "Three years she grew in sun and shower." 
 " Strange fits of passion have I known." 
 " I travelled among unknown men." 
 
 The Lucy of these poems is as unknown as the Mary of those of 
 
 Burns. 
 
 " But who his human heart has laid 
 
 To Nature's bosom nearer ? 
 
 Who sweetened toil Uke him, or paid 
 
 To love a tribute dearer?" 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 *' As he was thus the poet of the poor, anxious, cheerful, working 
 humanity, so he had the language of low life. He grew up in a rural 
 district, and he has made the Lowland Scotch a Doric dialect of 
 fame." — Emerson. 
 
 WINTER, A DIRGE. 
 
 {Kihuarnock Ed., i-jS6.) 
 
 William Burns was now in failing health. The brothers grew 
 flax on their farm; and Robert went to Irvine (1781) to learn to dress 
 it, and thereby increase their profits. Irvine was frequented by a 
 rough, adventurous class. Burns was depressed and melancholy. He 
 
244 NOTES. [1 773- 1 783] 
 
 sought relaxation among sailors, and their friendship did much mis- 
 chief. He was robbed by his partner in trade, his shop was burned, 
 and he returned seven times more disheartened than before. 
 
 This poem is the natural outcome of these experiences. Alluding 
 to the subject of the poem, he says, " Such is the peculiar pleasure 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. It is my best season for devotion; my mind is 
 wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous lan- 
 guage of the Hebrew bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' In 
 one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortune, I composed the 
 following." 
 
 Professor Veitch says, "We ought to be thankful to the poet for 
 his precious susceptibilities, for thus the world came to know that 
 there was a new link of communion between the pure soul of man 
 and the universe of God." 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 {_Edi7ibitrgh Ed., 1787.) 
 
 This poem belongs to the same period as the former, and carries 
 a similar revelation. It was most unfortunate that such experiences 
 came at a time when Burns was on the threshold of a great future. 
 Hawthorne says in the Alarble Faun, " As these busts in the block 
 of marble, so does our individual fate exist in the limestone of time. 
 We fancy that we carve it out ; but its ultimate shape is prior to all 
 our action." 
 
 We do not know the human heart sufficiently well to pronounce 
 judgment, but we can pity and be sympathetic. 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass 
 
 Called ' work,' must sentence pass, 
 
 Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 
 
 But all the world's coarse thumb 
 
 And finger failed to plumb, 
 
 So passed in making up the main account. 
 
[1773-1783] NOTES. 245 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be packed 
 
 Into a narrow act, 
 
 Fancies that broke through language and escaped; 
 
 All I could never be, 
 
 All men ignored in me, 
 
 This I was worth to God whose wheel the pitcher shaped." 
 
 Browning. 
 
 " Let those who never erred forget 
 His worth, in vain bewailings ; 
 Sweet Soul of Song! I own my debt 
 Uncancelled by his failings." 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 Alluding to his broken spirit at this time, Burns says, " In this 
 wretched state, 'the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I 
 hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in 
 one of which I composed this prayer." 
 
 John Stuart Blackie says of this poem, "The man who could feel 
 and write thus was not far from the best piety of the Psalms of 
 David." 
 
 " It is the religious element in Burns that fuses and kindles all the 
 rest, that makes him the voice of the race at its best when he is at his 
 best." — E. Charlton Black. 
 
 " With shattering ire and withering mirth 
 He smote each worthless claim to worth. 
 The barren fig-tree cumbering earth 
 
 He would not spare. 
 Through ancient lies of proudest birth 
 He drove his share." 
 
 William Watson. 
 
 Cf. Cowper, Olncy Hymns : — 
 
 " God moves in a mysterious way." 
 Cf. Chatterton: — 
 
 " O God, whose thunder shakes the sky." 
 
246 NOTES. [1 773- 1 783] 
 
 THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE. 
 {Kiliiianiock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 This is one of Burns's most characteristic poems, one in which his 
 pecuHar inimitable moral humor first displayed itself. 
 
 Gilbert gives us the circumstances attending the inception of the 
 poem: " Robert had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two 
 lambs from a neighbor, and she was tethered in a field adjoining the 
 house at Lochlea. He and I were going out with our teams, and our 
 two younger brothers to drive for us at midday, when Hugh Wilson, a 
 curious-looking, awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with much 
 anxiety in his face with the information that the ew,e had entangled 
 herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Poor Mailie was set 
 to rights; and when we returned from the plough in the evening, he 
 repeated to me Death and Dying Words.'''' 
 
 Carlyle says, " The humor of this piece is as fine as that of Sterne, 
 yet altogether different, — original, peculiar, the humor of Burns." 
 
 It is worthy of note that the idea of brotherhood with animal 
 nature, which now is universal, began at the close of the last century 
 with the two contemporaries, Cowper and Burns, and was carried to 
 its finest illustration in Cowper's Task., Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, 
 and Wordsworth's Hart Leap Well. 
 
 L. 6. " Hughoc was an odd, glowran, gapin' callan " (R. B.). 
 
 POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 The date of this poem is not known; but because of its relation to 
 the preceding I've placed it here, notwithstanding it bears evidence 
 of the poet's later freedom and force. 
 
 These poems were probably suggested to Burns by Skinner's 
 Ewie zui' the crookit horn. 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant says, " Every influence around him entered into his 
 soul. Its door stood open night and day to receive everything that 
 
[1784] NOTES. 247 
 
 was weak and wanted succor, to admit everything that was lovely and 
 noble. In all the world there was not a created thing shut out from 
 his sympathy. He is like a god in his tender thoughtfulncss, his 
 yearning for the welfare of all." 
 
 Dr. Curivie says that in preparing the poem for the press Burns 
 substituted the present sixth stanza for the following : — 
 
 " She was nae gat o' runted rams, 
 Wi' woo like goats, and legs like trams; 
 She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs, 
 A famous breed." 
 
 Fairlie was the first place in Ayrshire where the poet's father in 
 early manhood obtained employment as a farmer or gardener. 
 
 1784. 
 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O. 
 
 {^Edinburgh Ed., 17S7.) 
 
 This poem appears in Burns's Covnnonplace Book under August, 
 17S4, and was first printed in the Edinburgh Edition. " It was not 
 printed in the Kilmarnock Edition," says Cunningham, " from a fear 
 that the daring compliment to woman in tlie last verse might give 
 offence. The rich incense of this strain was not offered at the shrine 
 of high-born beauty by a poet pruned and starched and perfumed to 
 fit him for the service, but by a homely, hearty, country hind, fresh 
 from the plough, inspired only by the charms of the bonnie lasses 
 around him." 
 
 The last stanza was probably written while Burns was in Edin- 
 burgh, as it does not appear in the manuscript. 
 
 In his Coninionplace Book Burns wrote, " Young men are divided 
 into grave and gay. The grave are those who are goaded on by the 
 love of money, and whose darling wish is to make a figure in the 
 world. The gay are the jovial lads whose heads are capable of all 
 the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed by all the deli- 
 
248 NOTES. [1784] 
 
 cacies of feeling. This fragment will enable any one to determine 
 which of these classes I belong to." 
 
 Burns's son Robert used to repeat a stanza added by himself, 
 which is of interest as related to the last stanza of the poem : — 
 
 " Frae man's ain side the form was made 
 That a' God's wark surpasses O; 
 Man only Ices his ain heart's bluid 
 Wha dearly Iocs the lasses O." 
 
 EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 Burns's father died in February, 1784; but before this sad event 
 happened, Gilbert and Robert had leased of Gavin Hamilton a small 
 farm at Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchline. In evidence of Robert's 
 determination to do his best, we have the following words of his: " I 
 read farming books, I calculate crops, I attend markets; and, in short, 
 in spite of the Devil, the world, and the flesh, I should have been 
 a wise man; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, 
 the second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops." 
 
 From the autumn of 1784 to the autumn of 17S6, when he went to 
 Edinburgh, "the fountains of poetry were unsealed within, and flowed 
 forth in a continuous stream." It was during these years at Mossgiel 
 that his genius reached its height, and that his frailties became most 
 marked. 
 
 When we consider the nature of Burns, and his environment, it seems 
 but natural that love-poetry should be his earliest ■jvork, that it should 
 be distinguished for depth of passion and lyric grace, and that when 
 his life became more complex by reason of sad experience, the storm 
 and stress should change not only the subject of his work, but the form 
 and spirit as well. Variety is now the characteristic where before there 
 had been almost monotony; and we have satirical poems, epistles, and 
 poems descriptive of the habits of all animate life. 
 
 In the face of this sadness and seriousness of life. Burns began to 
 take the measure of his own nature, and to find solace in the compan- 
 
[1784] NOTES. 249 
 
 ionship of those who had sympathy with him; hence the epistles which 
 are so full of revelations of his real life, — biographical in their richness 
 and completeness. 
 
 The best known of his friends was David Sillar, the son of a Tarbol- 
 ton farmer. He was schoolmaster at Irvine, and something of a poet, 
 having published a volume of verse. One stanza of a poem addressed 
 to Burns is as follows: — 
 
 " Great numbers on this earthly ba' 
 As soon as death gies them a ca' 
 Permitted are to slide awa' 
 
 And straight forgot. 
 Forbid that this should ever fa' 
 
 To be your lot." 
 
 He was an associate of Burns in the Bachelors' Club. Gilbert says, 
 " It was, I think, in the summer of 1784, when, in the interval of hard 
 labor, Robert and I were weeding in the garden, that he repeated to 
 me the principal part of the epistle. I was much pleased with it, and 
 was of the opinion that it would bear being printed." 
 
 Chambers's description of the farmhouse at Mossgiel is interesting 
 as related to the work done there. " The house is very small, consist- 
 ing of only two rooms, a but and a ben, as they are called in Scotland. 
 Over these, reached by a trap stair, is a small garret, in which Robert 
 and his brother used to sleep. Thither, when he returned from his 
 day's work, the poet used to retire, and seat himself at a small deal 
 table, lighted by a narrow skylight in the roof, to transcribe the verses 
 which he had composed in the fields. His favorite time for composi- 
 tion was at the plough." Mrs. Begg, the poet's sister, after the pul;li- 
 cation of the poems, used to say that when the boys had gone to the 
 fields she would climb to the little room and search the table-drawer for 
 the verses. 
 
 The Scotch people are worshippers of Burns; and a pilgrimage to the 
 Land of Burns will be made interesting and instructive by the frequent 
 memorials, and the zeal with which his countrymen vie with each other 
 in doing justice to their darling poet. Monuments are erected at Ayr, 
 Kilmarnock, Edinburgh, Dumfries, Dundee, Glasgow, and Aberdeen. 
 
250 NOTES. [1784] 
 
 Naturally enough the largest number of memorials are at Ayr : the 
 house in which he was born, the Tarn o' Shanter Inn, and the monu- 
 ment, are familiar to most readers of the poet. In 1891 a statue was 
 erected, and in 1895 the last of the four panels was put in place. This 
 panel was the gift of the Scotch in America, and represented contribu- 
 tors from twelve States. It was unveiled by Mr. Wallace Bruce, and 
 represents the parting of Burns and Highland Mary. The other three 
 panels represent Tam o' Shanter at the Auld Brig o' Doon, The Cot- 
 ter's Saturday Night, and the Jolly Beggars. Dr. Burrell of New 
 York made the presentation speech, in which he claimed that Burns 
 was an American in love of political and religious liberty, and in his 
 devotion to the poor and the oppressed. 
 
 From Sidney Colvin's Letter's of Keats, we learn that Keats visited 
 Ayrshire in 18 18. He wrote two sonnets there, one at the tomb of 
 Burns, and the other at the birthplace. From the latter I quote : — 
 
 " My pulse is warm with thine owa barley-bree, 
 My head is Hght with pledging a great soul, 
 
 My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, 
 Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; 
 
 Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, 
 Yet can I ope the window-sash to find 
 
 The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er." 
 
 ii. II. From Allan Ramsay. 
 
 viii. 9. Meg : Margaret Orr. Davie did not win her. 
 
 viii. 10. Ji^'^ii ■' Jean Armour. Burns first met this girl — the 
 daughter of a Mauchline master-mason — at a ball with which the 
 Mauchline Races closed in the year 1 784. In the same set danced 
 Jean and the Ayrshire lad, when a dog came upon the floor and 
 followed them about. This produced some merriment, which caused 
 Burns to say that he wished any of the lassies loved him as well as 
 his dog did. Soon after this, while Jean was bleaching clothes on 
 the village green, Burns and his dog came along, and the latter ran 
 across the clothes ; whereupon Jean asked the master if he had found 
 any one to love him as much as his dog did. " This, of course," says 
 Professor Blackie, " was an oblique female way of saying that, in point 
 
[1784] NOTES. 251 
 
 of affection to such a master, she could vie with the dog. And at that 
 moment the spark was kindled we have seen grow to a flame in the 
 Epistle to Davie." The courtship continued through 1785, and early 
 in 1786 they were clandestinely married. Cf. Fareivell to (he Banks 
 of Ayr. 
 
 Charles Kingsley, in comparing the faces of the four men whom 
 he considered the most significant of modern times, — Shakespeare, 
 Raffael, Goethe, and Burns, — wrote, " We question whether Burns 
 be not, after all, if not the noblest, still the most lovable, the most like 
 that which we should wish that of a teacher of men to be. Burns's 
 face must have been a face like that of Joseph of old, of whom the 
 rabbles relate that he was qiobbed by the Egyptian ladies whenever he 
 walked the streets. The magic of that countenance, making Burns at 
 once tempter and tempted, may explain many a sad story." 
 
 SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 
 
 {Sillar''s Poems, 1789.) 
 
 The world has assented to the judgment of Gilbert in regard to the 
 previous poem, — " that it would bear printing; " but in regard to this 
 one it has had less satisfaction because of the somewhat carelessly free 
 spirit manifested in parts of it. The two poems are good illustrations 
 of the varying moods common to Burns. 
 
 ii. I. One manuscript of the previous poem is headed, "An 
 Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, Lover, Ploughman, and Fiddler." 
 
 iv. 4. Burns was a member of the fraternity of Masons. 
 
 After the issue of Burns's first edition, Davie published a volume, 
 and put this poem in as an introduction. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 There seems to be some uncertainty in regard to the date of this 
 and the two previous poems. Some editors put them in 1 785, but 
 the authority of Gilbert Burns ought to be conclusive in the matter. 
 He says, " It was, I think, in the winter of 1784, as we were going 
 
252 NOTES, [1784] 
 
 with cart for coals to the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
 particular spot) that Robert first repeated to me the Address to the 
 Deii:' 
 
 In this poem we see the influence of "Jenny Wilson." " In my 
 infant days," says Burns, " I owed much to an old woman who visited 
 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, can- 
 traips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This 
 cultivated the latent seeds of poesy, but had so strange an effect upon 
 my imagination that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes 
 keep a lookout in suspicious places." This is indeed a tribute to one 
 of those unconscious elements in education which we in these days 
 of methods and examinations may do well to consider. Wordsworth 
 has said : — 
 
 " Our childhood sits, 
 
 Our simple childhood sits upon a throne 
 
 Tliat hath more power than all the elements. 
 
 Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, over ours, 
 
 And they Diust have their food." 
 
 "Burns indeed lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all 
 realms of being; nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him. 
 The very Deil he cannot hate with right orthodoxy." — Carlyle. 
 
 Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson says, " His humor comes from him in 
 a stream so deep and easy that I will venture to call him the best 
 of humorous poets. He turns about in the midst to utter a noble 
 sentiment, or a trenchant remark on human life, and the style changes 
 and rises to the occasion." 
 
 In 1793 Burns wrote to Miss B of York, " As I am a sturdy 
 
 believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of 
 that old author of mischief, the Deil. It is well known that he has 
 some kind of shorthand way of taking down our thoughts." 
 
[1785] NOTES. 253 
 
 1785. 
 
 HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 {Stewart and Meikle's Tracts, 1799O 
 
 This was the anmis niirahiles in the life and work of Burns. The 
 ease with which he threw off immortal poems would seem to confirm 
 the opinion that he was a child of nature merely, and that he had not 
 schooled himself by severe artistic discipline ; yet we know that he 
 studied his models as carefully as did Dryden or Pope. Almost every 
 one of his poems had its precedent, both in form and metre, in Ram- 
 say, Fergusson, or the old ballads. "It is an excellent method in a 
 poet," he says in one of his letters, " and what I believe every poet 
 does, to place some favorite classic author, in his walks of study and 
 composition, before him as a model." And again he writes, " I have 
 no doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn the muse's trade, is a 
 gift bestowed by him ' who forms the secret bias of the soul ;' but I as 
 surely believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit of industry, 
 labor, attention, and pains." This is a good illustration of what Ruskin 
 says about art and the artist, — that every great work of art is pro- 
 duced without effort, and yet infinite labor and pains must go into the 
 acquiring the habit, the disposition, the delight, of which art is the 
 expression. 
 
 Professor Minto says, " The old conception of the Ayrshire 
 ploughman-poet undoubtedly was that his poetry had no historical 
 connection ; that it stands apart as a unique phenomenon, entirely 
 unconnected with the main stream of English poetry; that the peasant- 
 poet owed everything to nature, and nothing to books; that he was a 
 high-priest of poetry, without literary father or mother. . . . The 
 theory does injustice to Burns as an artist, and is at variance with the 
 plain facts of his life." — Literature of the Georgian Era, p. 343. 
 
 Burns's art is "of the people, by the people, and for the people, a 
 joy to the maker and the user." 
 
 The Scottish people have always been noted for their disposition to 
 see clearly and feel deeply on questions of Church and State. The- 
 ological controversy has played a prominent and strikingly sii?nificant 
 
254 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 part in their history. Finns would not have been a true son of Scotia 
 had he not reflected both of these characteristics. In the struggle 
 which arrayed New Lights against Old Lights, Liberals in matters of 
 religion against Conservatives, he was to be found in the thick of the 
 combat, wielding the broad-sword of humor and satire with startling 
 effects. The Old Lights, in refusing to countenance anything like 
 gayety, and by neglecting to discriminate between simple, innocent 
 recreation and sin, had invited the contempt of all right-minded 
 people. 
 
 It has often been insinuated, if not openly asserted, that Burns was 
 not a religious man; but the sympathetic reader of his poetry can find 
 no ground for such implication, for he sees that it is charged with the 
 spirit of our common religious nature. Professor Blackie rightly says, 
 " Burns was not only a Scotsman breathing the religious atmosphere 
 of the west, and brought up with pious care in a religious family, but 
 he was personally a religious man to a degree which the cursory reader 
 of his works would never suspect." " No poet since the Psalmist of 
 Israel," says Andrew Lang, "ever gave the world more assurance 
 of a man. Burns was — 
 
 'Dowered with the hate of hate, 
 The love of love, the scorn of scorn.' 
 
 He had said, — 
 
 ' My name is Fun, your crony dear, 
 
 The nearest friend ye hae ; 
 And this is Superstition here, 
 And that's Hypocrisy.'" 
 
 Burns's friends, Aiken and Hamilton, had both incurred the cen- 
 sure of the Old Lights, the latter because he had allowed his servant 
 to do some simple necessary work on Sunday, and for the offence 
 was denied the right of baptism for his child. He appealed to the 
 Presbytery of Ayr, and was opposed by a priest, Father Auld, and an 
 elder by the name of William Fisher. Hamilton had Robert Aiken 
 as counsel, and he won the cause. It was after this defeat that the 
 muse heard Holy Willie at his devotions. Burns could not stand by 
 and see men who had befriended him in time of need treated as 
 
[1785] NOTES. 255 
 
 culprits by such hypocrites as this Fisher, who strained at gnats and 
 swallowed camels; he misapplied the alms money, and death came 
 to him in a ditch, the result of a drinking bout. Allan Cunningham 
 says, "It is related by John Richmond of Mauchline, that when he 
 was a clerk in Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns came in one morning, 
 and said, ' I have just been making a poem; and if you will write it, 
 John, I'll repeat it.' He accordingly repeated I/oly IViilic's Prayer. 
 Hamilton came in, read it, and ran laughing with it to Robert Aiken; 
 and he was delighted with it." 
 
 This poem fell like a bombshell in the camp of the Old Lights. 
 Burns says, " It alarmed the Kirk Session so much that they held 
 several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any 
 of it might be pointed against profane rhymers." The battle was 
 continued at intervals, until Burns had sent volley after volley of the 
 hot shot of brilliant and scathing satire against this decayed theological 
 fortress. 
 
 Professor Blackie thinks that these productions may have done harm 
 to Burns, by estranging from him some truly reverent people, but that 
 they did much good to the mass of his countrymen, because they were 
 the means of reforming many abuses. 
 
 By such attacks upon the ecclesiastical stronghold as are revealed 
 in this and the two following poems. Burns became the admiration of 
 some and the terror of others. Divines feared to preach before such 
 an auditor. 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd says, " As a result of these poems, it was 
 felt by all that national manners were once more in the hands of a 
 national poet." " Who can praise them too highly,'* says Andrew 
 Lang, " who admire in them too much the humor, the scorn, the 
 wisdom, the unsurpassed energy and courage? " 
 
 " We cannot but rejoice," says Stopford Brooke, " at the way 
 in which he flayed alive William Fisher, ' The Holy Willie ' of the 
 poem; his life was as immoral as his death was vile." 
 
 If Burns could not always distinguish between evil and the doer 
 of evil, he surely intended to hate only the hateful act and the motive 
 that made it thus. 
 
 Charles Kingsley says, "Consider what contradiction between faith 
 
256 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 and practice must have met the^eyes of the man before he could write 
 with the same pen — and one as honestly as the other — llie Cotter^ s 
 Saturday A'ight and Holy lVillie''s Prayer. In these poems of his is 
 to be found a truer history than any anecdote can supply of the things 
 which happened to himself, and of the most notable things that went 
 on in Scotland between 1759 and 1796." 
 
 Burns's love of God, of man, and nature, of life in all its simple 
 and rich manifestation, his hatred of all pretence, all deceit, all moral 
 sanctimony, — these are the things which the world will never cease to 
 praise. 
 
 " Not Latimer, not Luther, struck more telling blows against false 
 theology than did the brave singer. The Confession of Augsburg, the 
 Declaration of Independence, the French Rights of Man, are not more 
 weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns." 
 — Emerson. 
 
 Mr. Douglas says, " These poems comprise a sheaf which some 
 of the admirers of the poet's softer moods would fain pluck out, and 
 cast like tares into the oven. They fail to see that, for good or ill, 
 they represent as essential a phase of his genius as the lighter charac- 
 ters of Catiterbury Tales do that of Chaucer. Burns's religious satires 
 are an inalienable part of his work." 
 
 '* Holy lVillie''s Prayer is a satirical crucifixion, — slow, lingering, 
 inexorable. He hated Hypocrisy, he tore her holy robe; and for the 
 outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him while he lived, nor has it yet 
 learned to forgive him." — Alexander Smith. 
 
 " Holy Willie'' s Prayer is appalling reading; but the opening stan- 
 zas, the most terrible of all, are neither more nor less than a fearless 
 and unshrinking statement of the doctrine of salvation as it was under- 
 stood by the party satirized." — Walker. 
 
 " The Scotland of Burns was as Puritan in principle as the ideal 
 Israel of the Prophets, and as lax in practice as the ideal Florence 01 
 Bocaccio." — Lang. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 257 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID. 
 
 {Edinburgh Ed., 1787.) 
 
 In March, 1784, Burns wrote to Mr. Riddel, " I have often noticed, 
 in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the 
 worst, has something good about him, though very often nothing else 
 than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that 
 virtue. For this reason no man can say in what degree any other per- 
 son, besides himself, can be with strict justice called wicked. Let any 
 one, of the strictest character for regularity of conduct amongst us, ex- 
 amine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not 
 from any care or vigilance, but from want of opportunity, or some ac- 
 cidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of 
 mankind he has escaped because he was out of the line of such temp- 
 tation; and how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, be- 
 cause the world does not know it 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." 
 
 This is, indeed, common sense, which, after all, is the basis of 
 ethics. It is the key-note in the modern poets, — Wordsworth, Ten- 
 nyson, and Browning. 
 
 " This is pre-eminently one of those poems whose lines become 
 ' mottoes of the heart.' " — W. C. Douglas. 
 
 Professor Shairp says, " Who on the text, ' He that is without sin 
 among you, let him first cast a stone,' ever preached such a sermon as 
 Burns in his Address to the Unco Gziid^^l 
 
 In Rob the Ranter he had stated his ethical creed : — 
 
 " The heart aye's the part aye 
 That keeps us richt or wrang." 
 
 Alluding to his father's teaching, he says: — 
 
 " He bade me act a manly part, 
 Though T had ne'er a farthing, O, 
 For without an honest, manly heart 
 No man was worth regarding, O." 
 
258 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 vii., viii. " Nothing can be better," says Stopford Brooke, " than 
 his Add}-ess to the Unco Gtiid, oi' The Rigidly Righteous ; these Hnes 
 are steeped in the spirit of Christianity." 
 
 Charles Kingsley, in speaking of Burns's honesty and frankness 
 about sacred things, says, " It has been with the workingmen who 
 read him a passport for the rest of his writings; it has allured them to 
 listen to him when he spoke of high and holy things, while they would 
 have turned with a distrustful sneer from the sermon of the sleek and 
 comfortable minister." 
 
 " Burns had a passionate faith in God and man. He sinned, but he 
 believed. He was not a good man, but he was a very real one. Like 
 David, though a sinner, he was a preacher, and not merely a literary 
 artist." — E. Charlton Black. 
 
 Lowell says that, better than to write what will reach only the few, 
 it is — 
 
 " To write some earnest verse or line, 
 Which, seeking not the praise of art, 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the untutored heart." 
 
 vii. 5. To this verse Robert Louis Stevenson adds: — 
 " One? Alas ! I fear every man and woman of us is ' greatly dark ' 
 to all their neighbors, from the day of birth until death removes them, 
 in their greatest virtues as well as in their saddest faults; and we, who 
 have been trying to read the character of Burns, may take home the 
 lesson, and be gentle in our thoughts." 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Cunningham in 1792 Burns wrote, " Will you or 
 can you tell me why a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
 narrow and illiberalize the heart? " 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
 
 {Kihnarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 Burns everywhere reveals his indebtedness to his early teachers; 
 and in this poem it is to his mother, whom he is said to have resembled 
 in " bright eyes and intelligent looks," in ease and grace of manner. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 259 
 
 She was wont to interest her children by singing to them old ballads, 
 and by telling them old tales of which her memory was full. The one 
 which Burns listened to with the most intense feeling was The Life 
 and Age of Man, which began with: — 
 
 " Upon the sixteen hundred year 
 
 Of God, and fifty-three, 
 Frae Christ was born, who 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 was made to mourn." 
 
 That Burns in his twenty-sixth year returned to this old tune, and 
 enforced a moral from a bit of his own experience, is another striking 
 tribute to the unconscious forces in his education. 
 
 The incident out of which the poem grew was the following, given 
 in The Land of Biwns : — 
 
 " Near the old bridge of Barskimming Mill lived a decrepit old 
 man named Kemp. He had a trim, sonsie daughter Kate, who had 
 attracted this ' Laureate of Love.' One evening he came from Mauch- 
 line to see her, and found the old man mourning because his cow was 
 lost. Kate had gone in search of the stray; so Burns started after 
 Kate, and on his way met a young man who had come upon the same 
 errand, — to see Kate. Burns said to him, ' Baith she and the cow's 
 lost, and the auld man is perfectly wild at the want o' them.' They 
 both then joined in the search; and Burns's companion noticed that 
 he was very sober for a time, when suddenly he turned and walked 
 rapidly toward Mauchline. The next time they met, Burns said, ' I 
 owe you an apology for my silence during our walk, and for leaving 
 you so abruptly.' — ' Oh,' said he, ' Robin, there is no occasion, for I 
 supposed some subject had occurred to you, and that you were think- 
 ing, and perhaps composing something on it.' — 'You were right, 
 Miller,' said the poet; ' and I will now read you what was chiefly the 
 work of that evening.' And he read ]\hin was IlLide to jMonrn. 
 What an admirable illustration of literature as the child of life! 
 Burns began his Commonplace Book (1783) with this comment upon 
 
260 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 the relation of his poetry to his life: " As I am but little indebted to 
 scholastic education, and bred at the plough-tail, my performances 
 must be strongly tinctured with my unpolished, rustic way of life ; but 
 it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature, 
 to see how a ploughman thinks and feels under the pressure of love, 
 ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, how- 
 ever diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much 
 alike on all the species." 
 
 "Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen. 
 He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees fill their hives ; 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 His power survives." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 " For 'mid an age of dust and dearth, 
 Once more had bloomed immortal worth. 
 There in the strong splenetic North, 
 
 The spring began. 
 A mighty mother had brought forth 
 A mighty man." 
 
 W. Watson. 
 
 "To the wretched, out of the Bible there is no such solace as the 
 poetry of Burns." — Alexander Smith. 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 
 
 (^Kihnarnock Ed., 17S6.) 
 
 The occasion of this song was simple and natural. It was the cus- 
 tom of the peasantry of Scotland to gather for social festivity at each 
 other's houses. The women carried their rock or distaff, and com- 
 bined work with their gossip. Gilbert Burns says, " It was at one of 
 these rockings, at our house, when they had twelve or fifteen young 
 people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song beginning, ' When I 
 upon thy bosom lean,' was sung, and we were informed who was 
 the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first Epistle to Lapraik.'''' 
 As in New England the farmer's were wont to gather in the fall 
 
[1785] NOTES. 261 
 
 for husking their neighbors' corn or for an apple-paring, so wool was 
 spun for the neighbors in Scotland. Lapraik was a lover of the Muse, 
 who lived at Dalfram, near Muikirk; but, having lost his property, 
 Burns advised him to publish his poems. They were printed by John 
 Wilson, Kilmarnock, 1788. Burns dressed up Lapraik's poem here 
 alluded to, and sent it to Johnson's Museum. 
 
 " Since the time of Burns," says Stopford Brooke, " our poetry has 
 not only been the poetry of man and of nature, but also of passion. 
 And it sprang clean and clear out of the natural soil of a wild heath, 
 not out of a cultivated garden." 
 
 Mr. Ernest Rhys, in objecting to the judgments upon Burns given by 
 Carlyle, Shairp, and Arnold (especially to the opinion of Arnold that 
 Burns was not a classic), says, " Not a classic? Then the term can 
 avail us little, I imagine, in lyrical poetry. If passion, fancy, wit, im- 
 agination, irresistibly musical, set to the lyric note by a born master of 
 words, cannot procure that praise, then the lyric art must exist for other 
 ends, and the term be confined to the schools." 
 
 xiv. I. Allan: Allan Ramsay. 
 
 xviii. I. Mauchline race : The race-course at Mauchline was not 
 far from Burns' s farm. 
 
 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 
 
 {Kilinaruock Ed., 17S6.) 
 
 William Simpson was a schoolmaster in the village of Ochiltree, 
 and was one of the " rhyming crew," more deserving of praise than 
 many whom Burns encouraged. 
 
 iii. 3. Gilbertjield : William Hamilton of Gilbertfield. 
 
 iv. I. O Fergusson : Cf. Inscription on the tombstone of the 
 Poet Fergusson. 
 
 vi. I. A2ild Coila : The district of Kyle. 
 
 viii. 5. WJdle Ir^oin^ Lugar, Ayr, and Doon. " I am hurt," 
 Burns says in his memoranda, " to see the other towns, rivers, woods, 
 and haughs of Scotland immortalized in song, while my dear native 
 country, the ancient bailleries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, have 
 
262 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 never had one Scottish poet of eminence to make the fertile banks of 
 Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the 
 heathy, mountainous source and winding sweep of the Doon, emulate 
 Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed." It is everywhere evident to the 
 careful reader of Burns that he desired, above all things, to make the 
 Lowlands as renowned in song as the Highlands had been. 
 
 xviii. 6. Robert Burns. Mr. Douglas says that this is the solitary 
 instance of the poet writing his name with one syllable prior to April 
 14, 17S6. 
 
 " He keeps himself throughout," says Stopford Brooke, " to 
 Scottish subjects ; his scenery is entirely Scottish, his love of liberty 
 concentrates itself round Scottish struggles ; his muse is wholly un- 
 trammelled. For Scotland's glory and Scotland's beauty 
 
 * I kittle up my rustic reed, 
 It gies me ease.' 
 
 And nothing can be better or brighter than the lines in which he ex- 
 presses this written to W. Simpson." 
 
 " In his poetry is to be read clearly the lyric chronicle of all that 
 went to make up the most moving tale of Robert Burns, which is surely 
 to be read, if at all, only with sympathy and tears." — Mr. Ernest 
 Rhys. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 
 {Cromek, 180S.) 
 
 It was fortunate that the New Lights had such a champion as Burns, 
 — a man who would not " give up to party what was meant for man- 
 kind." He did not indulge in personal abuse for the love of it, but 
 only when it was the sole means of defending those whom he loved, and 
 who M'ere persecuted for having opinions of their own. His rallying to 
 the support of the Rev. John M'Math is a notable instance of his love 
 of justice. M'Math was a preacher of the New Light, and was often 
 complimented in Burns's poetry. If the spirit here breathed is not that 
 of the Sermon on the Mount, I do not know where to find it. 
 
 vi. I, 2. These lines were repeated in the dedication of the poet's 
 works to Gavin Hamilton. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 263 
 
 ix. In a rule of the Bachelors' Club we find the same sentiment : 
 " No haughty, self-conceited person, who looks upon himself as supe- 
 rior to the rest of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, worldly 
 mortal, whose only wish is to heap up money, shall upon any pretence 
 whatever be admitted." 
 
 xi. In his Commonplace Book, October, 1785, we find this: " Let 
 my pupil as he tenders his own peace, keep up a warm, regular inter- 
 course with the Deity." 
 
 A recent letter from Dr. Edward Everett Hale contains the follow- 
 ing: " Burns was distinctly and definitely a religious man, and could 
 not have written much which he did, had he not been so." 
 
 Mr. Ernest Rhys, in his little volume. The Lyrical Poems of Burns, 
 says, " It has been the common responsibility of his biographers to 
 point out how differently he might have lived, how much more wisely 
 he might have ordered his days. More wisely, perhaps, but not so 
 well. There is a diviner economy in these things than we have come 
 to allow." 
 
 " He came when poets had forgot 
 How rich and strange the human lot ; 
 How warm the tints of hfe ; how hot 
 
 Are Love and Hate ; 
 And what makes Truth divine, and what 
 Makes manhood great." 
 
 W. Watson. 
 
 •' I stand where I am set apart to minister to men in sacred things; 
 but I feel as though Robert Burns stood on the same level, and was or- 
 dained of God to be a minister of sacred things to the human race." — 
 Henry Ward Beecher. 
 
 TO JAMES SMITH. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 17S6.) 
 
 James Smith, a merchant in Mauchline, was a man of taste and 
 good sense, as were most of the friends to whom Burns addressed epis- 
 tles. In 1788 Burns writes to him for one of his best printed shawls, 
 saying that he wishes the first present to his wife should be the work of 
 
264 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 one whose friendship he counted on as a " life-rent lease." Smith 
 died a few years before Burns. 
 
 In this poem we have the first intimation of Burns's intention to 
 print his works. It was about this time that he took upon himself the 
 name of Poet. " He wrote it in his books, and wrought it in his 
 rhymes," says Cunningham. He changed the spelling of his name 
 from Burness to Burns because he preferred the shorter form. 
 
 If we compare this " exhilarating enumeration of the enjoyments of 
 youth and their successive extinction in age," with the poems of Words- 
 worth written in youth, we find the fundamental difference in the nature 
 of the two poets, — the one intense and fervid, giving his passion the 
 loose rein; the other intense and contemplative, with passion under the 
 power of the will. 
 . Where the one sings — 
 
 " When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,' 
 Then farewell vacant, careless roamin' ; " 
 
 the other believing that 
 
 "All that is at all, 
 Lasts ever, past recall." 
 
 sings — 
 
 " So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 Or let me die." 
 
 Each singer sounds his own note, clear and strong, in the great 
 symphony; and each is necessary for the complete chorus. 
 
 Allan Cunningham thinks this epistle is the best of all for "the 
 singular ease of the verse; the moral dignity of one passage, the wit 
 and humor of a second, the elegance of compliment in a third, and 
 the life which animates the whole." He says that stanza xiv. was 
 frequent on the lips of Burns in his dark days. 
 
 "How much better to understand a poet like Burns, whose heart 
 was great, too great, indeed, for its narrow environment, — to under- 
 stand him, than take to condemning him for what his condition and 
 
[1785] NOTES. 265 
 
 opportunities being what they were, he could no more help than the 
 fire can refrain from kindling." — Ernest Rhys. 
 
 xxiii. I. Dempster. George Dempster, a distinguished patriot 
 and M.P. 
 
 "SEE! THE SMOKING BOWL BEFORE US." 
 
 FROM THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 
 {^Stewart and Meikle^s Tracts, 1799.) 
 
 The occasion of the musical drama, The .Jolly Beggars, again 
 brings Burns and his friend Smith before us, now in a situation such 
 as Shakespeare would have delighted in, and which we are sure our 
 poet enjoyed to the utmost; for he had, like Shakespeare, a divine 
 rage for humanity in every shape, and liked to have a taste of it in all 
 its forms. 
 
 The two cronies were walking by Poosie Nansie's alehouse one even- 
 ing, when they heard the sound of " meikle fun and jokin." On 
 entering, they found a company of wandering vagrants assembled, — 
 
 " Wi' quaffing and laughing, 
 They ranted and they sang; 
 Wi' jumping and thumping, 
 The vera girdle rang." 
 
 The company was composed of a maimed soldier and his female 
 companion, a Highland beggar's consort, a wandering ballad-singer, 
 and other such characters. Burns was delighted with the scenes in 
 which each character acted well his part, and a few days afterwards 
 he wrote 77/^ Jolly Beggars. Scott called it superior to anything of 
 its kind in English poetry for "humorous description and nice dis- 
 crimination of character;" and this song, the concluding ditty of the 
 "cantata," pleased him very much, as it set the company "above all 
 sublunary terrors of jails and whipping-posts." 'The Jolly Beggars was 
 not printed during Burns's life; it first saw the light in a small volume 
 in 1799, and was in 180 1 printed in Glasgow, under the title of Toems 
 Ascribed to Robert Burns, the Ayrshire Bard.'''' 
 
 Matthew Arnold says, " 77/6' Jolly Beggars has a breadth, truth, 
 
266 NOTES. 1785] 
 
 and power which make ihe famous scene in Auerbach's cellar, of 
 Goethe's Faust, seem artificial and tame beside it, and which are only 
 matched by Shakespeare and Aristophanes." 
 
 "The manuscript is now in possession of Mr. Gilbert Burns, a 
 nephew of the poet, Knockmaroon Lodge, County Dublin." — W. C. 
 Douglas. 
 
 " So powerful, so commanding, is the movement of that beggar's 
 chorus, that mcthinks it unconsciously echoed in the brain of our 
 greatest living poet when he conceived the Vision of Sin. You shall 
 judge for yourself. 
 
 ' Drink to lofty hopes that cool, — 
 
 Visions of a perfect state ; 
 Drink we, last, the pubHc fool, 
 Frantic love and frantic hate. 
 
 Drinl: to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
 
 While we keep a little breath ! 
 Drink to lieavy Ignorance, 
 
 Hob and nob witli brother Death.' 
 
 Is not the movement the same, though the modern speaks a wilder 
 recklessness? " — Lang. 
 
 Mauchline, a typical Scotch village, is a place full of associations of 
 Burns. Here was the scene of many a royal festa of the poet and his 
 cronies. The two places of interest are the church, and near it Poosie 
 Nansie's alehouse, — the one associated with Holy Willie, and the 
 other with the Jolly Beggars. If we stay in this place a few days we 
 shall see what Hawthorne saw a halt century ago, "A spectacle of 
 Scotch manners identical with what Burns has given so often, a rol- 
 licking crowd gathered at the alehouse, — 
 
 ' Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 
 O' randie gangrel bodies 
 In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, 
 To drink their orra duddies ; ' 
 
 or,— 
 
 ' Roads clad frae side to side, 
 Wi' monie a wearie bodie, 
 
 In droves that day,' 
 
 going to the Holy Fair." 
 
[1785 j A'OTES. 267 
 
 It is but a mile from Mauchline to the farm at Mossgiel ; and if we 
 wish to see what obstacles lay in the way of the young farmer, we have 
 only to visit this place. The buildings are not attractive in themselves, 
 but their situation is somewhat picturesque. Not far away is the field 
 where he turned down the daisy, and that other field where the " wee 
 cow'rin tim'rous beastie " was so unceremoniously deprived of house 
 and home. — Cf. W. Jolly, Burns at Mossgiel. 
 
 HALLOWEEN. 
 
 {Kihnarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 One of the quaintest and most characteristic of the old Scottish 
 festivals is that of Halloween, the last night of the harvest season. 
 
 Nothing could reveal so clearly as does this poem the nature of the 
 peasantry of the west of Scotland as it manifests itself on the night 
 so prophetic with charm and spell, so ominous with its forebodings, so 
 fateful in its witchery. 
 
 " Of a.' the festivals we hear, 
 Frae Han'sel Munday till New Year, 
 There's few in Scotland lield mair dear, 
 
 For mirth I ween, 
 Or 3'et can boast o' better cheer, 
 Than Halloween." 
 
 "The following poem will by many readers be well enough under- 
 stood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the man- 
 ners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are 
 added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that 
 night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. 
 The fashion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history 
 of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations ; and it may 
 be some entertainment to a philosophic mind if any such should honor 
 the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it, among the more 
 unenlightened in our own." — R. B. 
 
 *'It is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other 
 mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight 
 
268 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that 
 night to hold a grand anniversary." — R. B. 
 
 i. 2. Cassilis Do7unans : "Certain little, romantic, rocky green 
 hills, in the neighborhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis." 
 
 — R. B. 
 
 i. 5. Coleaii : "A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the 
 Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
 country story for being a favorite haunt of fairies." — R. B. 
 
 ii. 4. Cai'rick speiir : "The famous family of that name, the 
 ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of 
 Carrick." — R. B. 
 
 iv. 2. Stocks: "The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each 
 a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out hand in hand, with eyes 
 shut, and pull the first they meet with. Its being big or little, straight 
 or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of 
 all their spells, — the husband or wife. 
 
 v. 5-10. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, 
 or fortune ; and the taste of the custock, that is the heart of the stem, 
 is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, 
 or to give them their ordinary appellation, the I'luits, are placed some- 
 where above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the 
 people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority 
 of placing the j-iints, the names in question." — R. B. 
 
 vi. 2. Stalks f' corn: "They go to the barnyard, and pull each, 
 at three different times, a stalk of o?ts. If the third stalk wants the 
 iap-picklc, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in ques- 
 tion will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid." — R. B. 
 
 vi. 8. Fatise- House : "When the corn is in a doubtful state, it 
 being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, 
 etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
 which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a Fause- House. ^^ 
 
 — R. B. 
 
 vii. I. Nits : " Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name 
 the lad and the lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; 
 and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one 
 another, the course and issue of the courtship will be." — R. B, 
 
[1785] NOTES. ■ 269 
 
 xi. 8. Bliie-cliie. " Whoever would, with success, try this spell, 
 must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, 
 and darkling, throw into \\\fi pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new 
 clue off the old one, and towards the latter end something will hold 
 the thread; demand Wha hands? i.e., who holds? an answer will be 
 returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of 
 your future spouse." — R. B. 
 
 xiii. " Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple 
 before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the 
 time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in the 
 glass, as if peeping over your shoulder." — R. B. 
 
 xiv. Skelpie-lif/imer's face : "A term for female scolding." — R. B. 
 
 xvi. *' Steal out alone and sow hemp-seed, harrowing it in with 
 anything you can find. Repeat all the while, ' Hemp-seed, I sow thee ; 
 and him that is to be my true love come after me and pou thee.' 
 Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the person invoked 
 pulling hemp." — R. B. 
 
 xx.-xxi. " This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and 
 alone. You go to the l>a}-n and open both doors, taking them off the 
 hinges if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear 
 may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instru- 
 ment used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call 
 a wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against 
 the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an apparition will 
 pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, hav- 
 ing both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue marking 
 the employment or station in life." — R. B. 
 
 xxii. " Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bean-stack, 
 and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you 
 will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke 
 fellow."— R. B. 
 
 xxiii. "You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to 
 a south running spring or rivulet, where 'three lairds' lands meet,' 
 and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
 your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and somewhere near 
 midnight an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in 
 
270 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of 
 it." — R. B. 
 
 xxiv. "The finest descriptive passage within small compass to be 
 found in poesy." — Douglas. 
 
 xxvi. "Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water in 
 the other, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person, and lead him 
 to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left 
 hand : if by chance, in the clean water, the future husband or wife will 
 come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the 
 empty dish, it foretells with equal certainty no marriage at all. It 
 is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes 
 is altered." — R. B. 
 
 xxvi. 6. J\Iar''s-year : In 171 5 the Earl of Mar headed an insur- 
 rection. 
 
 xxvii. 5. " Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always 
 the Halloiveen Supper.''' — R. B. 
 
 This poem is modelled after Fergusson's Leith Races. 
 
 "Our Halloween had passed and repassed, in rude awe and laugh- 
 ter, since the era of the Druids; but no Theocritus till Burns discerned 
 in it the materials of a Scottish idyl." — Carlyle. 
 
 " Here he has sketched the Ayrshire peasantry as they appeared in 
 their homes of merriment, painted with a few vivid strokes a dozen 
 distinct pictures of country lads and lasses, sires and dames." — Shairp. 
 
 Cf. Collins's Ode On the Popular Superstitions of the Scottish 
 Highlands. 
 
 TO A MOUSE. 
 {Kiltnarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 One day when Burns was ploughing with a servant by the name of 
 Blane, he turned up this mouse's nest. As the mouse ran away " o'er 
 the stibble," Blane, who held the pettle, or plough-cleaning instru- 
 ment, started after it; but Burns stopped him, saying, " He's done ye 
 no harm." On the evening following this event Burns composed the 
 poem, and woke Blane in the middle of the night to recite it to him. 
 
 No poem of Burns's so well reveals his loving and tender nature. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 271 
 
 It has never received anything but the highest praise; it is inimitable 
 in its pathos and graceful movement. Ever since Burns and Cowper 
 sang their songs of love for their dependent associates, men have real- 
 ized more and more that these beings live a life in which they have a 
 share, and have rights which they are bound to respect. 
 
 " Every poet who, like Burns, increases that larger tenderness of 
 the heart which not only loves men, but hates to give pain to the lower 
 animals, is, so far at least, religious in his poetry." — Stopford 
 Brooke. 
 
 There have been no changes in this poem. " It seems to have 
 issued perfect from the mint of the author's mind when he suddenly 
 stopped the ploughshare's progress on observing the tiny creature's 
 escape across the rig." — W. C. Douglas. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 DUAN FIRST. 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 17S6.) 
 
 We are certain from this poem that Burns had discovered him- 
 self long before the critic-folk saw that a new poetic star had risen, — 
 a star that, "touching earth," was destined "to glorify its humble 
 birth with matchless beams." As life in its outward environment 
 became more and more burdensome and the fruits of his husbandry 
 became more and more uncertain, there seemed to be a witness within 
 that the effect of his life would be to make his native land — 
 
 " Lov'd at home, rever'd abroad." 
 
 It was while brooding upon these things that light came to him by 
 the ingle-nook of the peasant's cot. Ever since that time this little 
 room, with its single window and meagre furnishing, has been a spot 
 sacred to lovers of poetry. 
 
 i. 2. Curlers : Those playing on the ice a game not unlike our 
 hockey. 
 
 X. I. Quoted from To yames Smithy P- 51- 
 
2/2 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 X. 5-6. " This couplet was a great favorite of Dr. Chalmers's." — 
 Douglas. 
 
 xi. 3. Bon7iie yean : When Burns was in trouble with the Armours 
 he changed this to My Bess I zveen, but afterward restored yean. 
 
 XV. 2. Ancient Borough: "Ayr, chartered in thirteenth century." 
 — R. B. 
 
 xvii. 2. A race: "The Wallaces." — R. B. 
 
 xviii. I. Savionr : Sir William Wallace. 
 
 xviii. 2. Richardton : " Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to 
 Sir William Wallace." —R. B. 
 
 xviii. 3. Chief of Sark : "Wallace, laird of Craigie, who fought 
 under Douglass in the famous battle on the banks of the Sark, 1448." 
 — R. B. 
 
 xix. I. Pictish shad: " Coilus, king of the Picts, from whence 
 the name Kyle is said to come." — R. B. 
 
 xxi. 2. Sire and Son : Dr. Matthew Stewart, the celebrated mathe- 
 matician, and his son Dugald Stewart, the metaphysician, who had a 
 villa at Catrine on the Ayr. 
 
 xxii. I. Brydoii^s brave Ward : Colonel Fullerton, who travelled 
 under care of Patrick Brydone. Last six stanzas were not in first 
 edition. 
 
 DUAN SECOND. 
 
 xii. I. Coila : " Burns took this idea from the Scota of Alexander 
 Ross, a Mearns poet." — A. C. 
 
 Coila. "One of the finest of visions which ever dawned on poet's 
 eye." — J. Veitch. 
 
 xii. 3. The branch of Campbells. — W. C. Douglas. 
 
 "A thousand times before now he had been so disquieted, and 
 found no comfort. But the hour had come of self-revelation, and 
 he knew that on earth his name was to live forever." — Christo- 
 pher North. 
 
 Painters and sculptors have attempted to represent their ideal of 
 this lovely visitor. 
 
 xix. 3-6. "This shows that Burns's poems had been widely circu- 
 lated in manuscript before publication." — W. C. Douglas. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 273 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 {Kihnarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 It would be a very difficult task to reflect in these notes the abun- 
 dant and generous praise of this great poem, certainly the best known 
 of all the poet's work. No one has ever alluded to it but in praise 
 both of its spirit and form. It is majestic in its movement and holy in 
 its associations. Of its inception Gilbert says, " Robert had frequently 
 remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly vener- 
 able in the phrase, 'Let us worship God,' used by a decent, sober 
 head of a family, introducing family worship. The hint of the plan 
 and title of the poem were taken from Fergusson's Farvier^s Iiigle.^^ 
 
 Professor Shairp thinks the religion of the poem was that of the 
 poet's father, and not his own; but with this we cannot agree. We 
 insist that Burns was a genuinely religious man, but that he hated 
 shams in religion so much he often discredited what was sincere in 
 his own feelings. That he went sadly astray we are ready to acknowl- 
 edge, but not that he was irreligious. Doubtless Christ was not very 
 attractive to him as revealed by the rigid Calvinist preacher of that 
 time. 
 
 This tribute to his father is merited by all that we know of his life 
 of love and devotion : — 
 
 y "The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 
 
 The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
 
 The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; 
 
 For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 
 
 The ancestors of William Burness were men of character, education, 
 and position; they were deeply religious and nobly patriotic, — stanch 
 Jacobites. They were tenant-farmers of George Keith, the Earl Mare- 
 schal of Scotland. They were natives of Kinkardinshire, or the Mearns, 
 and in 171 5 they joined the Mar men in the Jacobite rising. 
 
 Dunotta Castle, the fortress of the Keiths, was almost impregnable 
 at the time of the Covenanters; there wScott laid the scene of Old A/or- 
 iality. 
 
 In the old churchyard at Glenbervie, not far from Fasque, Glad- 
 
274 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 stone's Scotch home, stand two sculptured table-stones (like those 
 to be seen in King's Chapel Burying-ground, Boston), one to James 
 Burness, and the other to William Burness. The poet's father migrated 
 to Ayrshire and rented seven acres of land in Doonside, which he cul- 
 tivated with his own hands, and upon which he built a modest clay big- 
 gin. He married Agnes Brown, "an Ayrshire lass, of humble birth, 
 very sagacious, with bright eyes, of good manners, and easy address." 
 
 The Burness stock was Norse mingled with Celtic, a race noted for 
 courage and hardihood. A familiar expression in Scotland is, "I'll do 
 my best, and men o' Mearns can do no more." The Browns were 
 Lowlanders, with Saxon influence. From the union of these four 
 races came the genius of Burns, whose noblest monument is The 
 Cotter's Saturday Algkt. 
 
 " Some envious power," says John Stuart Blackie, " assigned to 
 Scotsmen a rugged plot of earth on the chilly edge of the world. But 
 strong hearts, subtlety of thought, unbending wills, untiring hands, 
 and a spark of the fire divine which Prometheus brought from heaven 
 to kindle wise invention, — these are the glorious fairies' gifts that the 
 blessed ones, the givers of all good things, have bestowed on Cale- 
 donia." 
 
 In 17S7, when the poet was making a tour of the Highlands, he 
 had for a guide a lad who had read this poem to some purpose; for he 
 said, *'I like best The Cotter'' s Saturday Night, although it made me 
 greet [weep] when my father had me to read it to my mother." On 
 hearing this. Burns replied, " Well, my callant, I don't wonder at you 
 greeting at reading the poem; it made me greet more than once when 
 I was writing it at my father's fireside." 
 
 It should be mentioned here that it was this poem that gained for 
 Burns one of his most helpful friends, Mrs. Dunlop. After it had been 
 published, 17S6, the edition which contained it came into Mrs. Dun- 
 lop's hands through a friend. This poem so affected her that she 
 despatched a messenger to Mossgiel, a distances of fifteen miles, with 
 a letter to Burns, asking him to send her a dozen copies, and also 
 inviting him to her house as soon as it was convenient for him to come. 
 This friendship lasted, and richly blessed the poet, throughout his life. 
 Almost the last thing he did before his death was to write her. Mrs. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 2/5 
 
 Dvinlop showed this poem to her housekeeper, who wondered that her 
 mistress cared to entertain one so unknown as was Burns ; and the old 
 lady returned it, saying, " Gentlemen and ladies may think muckle of 
 this; but for me, it's naething but what I saw i' my faither's hoose 
 every day, an' I dinna see hoo hae could hae tell't it ony ither way." 
 
 " He threw over the poor," says Stopford Brooke, " the light of God. 
 Every one knows the scene in The Cotter'' s Saturday AHght ; every 
 one has felt how solemn and patriarchal it is." 
 
 " A sketch of family life more pure, more true, or more touching, 
 never was made. Hard must that man's heart have been, and opaque 
 his intellect, who, after reading The Cotter's Saturday NigJit., could 
 have looked with disdainful eyes upon any cottage. Scotland was 
 the first object of the revelation — but after Scotland, mankind." — 
 Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 The humble thatched cottage in which Burns was born, and in 
 which we naturally lay the scene of this poem, still stands, and is the 
 centre of interest to tourists. The birth-room contains interesting relics 
 of the poet. Wilkie, in his famous painting, has reflected the spirit 
 of the scenes in this poem. 
 
 The visitor to Ayrshire will not fail to see many such genuinely 
 human and nobly simple home-scenes. To break bread in one of 
 these modest homes ; to see the standard of virtue and excellence 
 among the sons of toil; to hear the Bible read, and listen to the sing- 
 ing of the songs of Burns; to join in the rural festivities, — is to get 
 close to the heart of things in which our poet was delighted to live and 
 work. It is the most suggestive commentary upon his work which 
 can be imagined, while at the same time it reveals to one the sources 
 of the richness and sweetness, the depth and strength, of Scottish 
 character. 
 
 xvi. 3. Pope's Windsor Forest. — R. B. 
 
 From Fergusson's Farmer's Ingle we take the following character- 
 istic verses. Speaking of the bairnies he says: — 
 
 " In rangles round, before the ingle's lowe, 
 
 Frae gudame's mouth auld-warld tales they hear, 
 
 O' warlocks loupin' round the wirrikow ; 
 
 O' ghaists that win' in glen and kirkyard drear, 
 
 Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shake wi' fear." 
 
2^6 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 " At the Centenary Celebration to be held in Glasgow July 21 of 
 this year (1896), The Cotter'' s Saturday Night is to be recited in the 
 twelve languages into which it has been translated." — Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 
 
 {Edinburgh Eds., 1787- 1794.) 
 
 "The hero of this poem," says Burns, " is John Wilson, school- 
 master in Tarbolton. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professedly 
 a brother of the sovereign order of the ferule, but by intuition and 
 inspiration he is at once apothecary, surgeon, and physician." He 
 had added to his work of schoolmaster that of apothecary, and adver- 
 tised that he would prescribe for the poor sick, gratis. At a Ma- 
 sonic meeting, in the fall of 1785, he made a speech, the vocabulary 
 of which was largely from the Latin medical books. It displeased 
 Burns so much that he shouted, " Have done. Dr. Hornbook ! " On 
 his way home from the meeting. Burns met a man lying by the roadside, 
 and the idea of Death suggested itself; seating himself on the parapet 
 of the bridge near Willie's Mill, he composed this poem, then fell 
 asleep, and when he woke the sun was rising. " These circum- 
 stances," says Gilbert, " he related to me when he repeated the verses 
 to me the next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, and he was let- 
 ting the water off the field beside me." Thus this poem, like 7\i?n 
 O^ Shanter, was struck off at a single heat. It is said that the publica- 
 tion of this poem in the second edition of the poet's works raised such 
 a laugh at the Doctor that he removed to Glasgow. 
 
 iv. 2. Cumnock hills : Southeast of Tarbolton. 
 
 v. 2. IVillie's mill : On the road to Mossgiel, occupied by Wil- 
 liam Muir, a friend of Burns. He was one of the subscribers to the 
 second edition of the poet's works. The place is easily identified at 
 the present time. 
 
 viii. 2. Saivin : "The time of the poem was seed-time, 1785." 
 — R. B. 
 
 xi. 5. " This while: An epidemical fever was then raging." 
 — R. B. 
 
[1785] NOTES. 277 
 
 xiv. 3. Biichan : " Buchan's domestic medicine." — R. B. 
 
 xxi. I. Johnny Ged : " The grave-digger." — R. B. 
 
 The Masonic lodge to which Burns and Dr. Hornbook belonged 
 possesses many letters from the poet. Surely the man who drove 
 such a pointed quill was to be feared by all the quacks of life or art. 
 
 Wordsworth, the most temperate of bards, admired this poem, and 
 said of it, "When Burns wrote his Death and Doctor Hornbook^ he 
 had rarely been intoxicated, or perhaps much exhilarated by liquor; 
 yet how happily does he lead his reader into the track of sensation ! 
 and with what lively humor does he describe the disorder of his 
 senses and the confusion of his understanding, put to the test by his 
 deliberate attempt to count the horns of the moon : — 
 
 ' But whether she had three or four, 
 I cou'd na tell.'" 
 
 Douglas says, " Many a time, in his latter days. Hornbook has been 
 heard, over a bowl of punch, to bless the lucky day when the dominie 
 of Tarbolton provoked the castigation of Robert Burns." 
 
 *' Of his humor, which is merely his love laughing and playing an- 
 tics in very extravagance of joy, what can be said, except that it is the 
 freshest, most original, most delightful, in the world." — Alexander 
 Smith. 
 
 "There are few, if any, satires in the English language more poeti- 
 cal in character. Humor and satire mingle with vigorous narrative. 
 The keynote is struck in the opening scene where the poet, ' canty ' 
 with the 'Clachan yill,' sets his staff to keep him steady, and vainly 
 attempts to count the horns of the moon." — H. Walker. 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 {Edinburgh Ed., 1787.) 
 
 For exquisite rightness there is no poem of Burns's which can 
 surpass this. It is not cold, — an artist's etching, — but alive with the 
 warmth of a genuine human being. It is "dug out of the quarry of 
 genuine humanity," says Wordsworth. 
 
 Speaking of the tender sympathy which lights up the poem, Carlyle 
 
278 NOTES. [1785] 
 
 says, "This is worth a whole volume of homilies on mercy; for it is 
 the voice of Mercy itself. Burns lives in sympathy; his soul rushes 
 forth into all the realms of being; nothing that has existence can have 
 indifference to him." 
 
 "The love that God had for the universe," says Stopford Brooke, 
 " was reflected in the breast of Burns, and so wrought that when he 
 was most full of it, he drew nearest to God. . . . The practical 
 result of much of his poetry in his age was to do similar work to that 
 of Christ." 
 
 "Who could have supposed," says Mrs. Oliphant, "that of all 
 places in the world a fellow-feeling so exquisite, so delicate, so ten- 
 der, was waking under the roof of a clay cottage, and thinking, like 
 heaven itself, of the humblest things, — the sparrows that do not fall 
 to the ground without our Father? " 
 
 Cf. Thomson, Winter. 
 
 " Ah, little think the gay, licentious, proud, 
 Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround ; 
 They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, 
 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; 
 Ah, little think they, while they dance along, 
 How many feel, this very moment, death, 
 And see the sad variety of pain." 
 
 vii. Coleridge applied the moral of these concluding verses to the 
 Ancient Mariner. Cf. As You Like If, Act ii. Scene vii.. Songs i. ii. 
 
 The earliest mention of this poem is that in one of Burns's letters to 
 Mr. John Ballantyne of Ayr, dated Mossgiel, November, 1786. The 
 exact date of composition cannot be fixed. 
 
 Cf. King Lear, Act iii. Scene 2. 
 
 THERE WAS A LAD. 
 
 {Crotnek, 1808.) 
 
 In this nimble poem we have a scene in the north countrie at the 
 birth of a man child. The gossips read his fate, and thus satisfy the 
 curiosity of the fond parents. In an old copy of the song in Burns's 
 handwriting, the first stanza and chorus are as follows: — 
 
[1786] NOTES. 279 
 
 " There was a Birkie born in Kyle, 
 But what na day or what na style, 
 I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
 To be so nice with Davie. 
 
 Leeze me on thy curly pow, 
 
 Bonnie Davie, daintie Davie ; 
 Leeze me on thy curly pow, 
 
 Thous'e ay my daintie Davie." 
 
 By the insertion of Robin we are sure the poet meant this as a fore- 
 cast of his fame. 
 
 i. I. Kyle: central district of Ayrshire. 
 
 1786. 
 
 The year 17S6 is an eventful one for Burns in many ways, but chiefly 
 because of the depth of despair into which he was driven by the un- 
 fortunate incident with the Armours, and because of the delight which 
 came to him by the publication of his poems. Burns lived a life of 
 sharp contrasts ; he was either on the heights or in the depths ; his 
 was never a valley life of calmness and happy serenity. Hamlet-like, 
 he was never happy in that he was not over happy. He was the very 
 button on Fortune's cap, or else he was the soles of her shoe ; he never 
 lived in the middle of her favors. 
 
 THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 
 
 TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE. 
 
 {Kiltnarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 "In this homely but most kindly humorous poem," says Professor 
 Shairp, " you have the whole toiling life of a ploughman and his horse, 
 done off in two or three touches; and the elements of what may seem 
 a commonplace, but was to Burns a most vivid, experience, are made 
 to live forever. For a piece of good graphic Scotch, see how he de- 
 scribes the sturdy old mare in the plough setting her face to the furzy 
 braes." 
 
 In respect of clearness and minute fidelity, the farmer's commen- 
 dation of his " Auld Mare," in plough or in cart, may vie with Homer's 
 smithy of the Cyclops, or yoking of Priam's chariot." — Carlyle. 
 
28o iVOTES. [1786] 
 
 "The Address is an autobiography. The master remembers him- 
 self along with his mare when she was ' dappl't, sleek and glaizie, a 
 bonnie gray,' and he the pride of a' the parishen. The recital of it has 
 brought tears of pleasure to the eyes and humanized the heart of a 
 Gilmerton carter." — Christopher North. 
 
 James Hogg, in chapter ii. of his Memoir of Burns, has some ad- 
 mirable remarks upon the peasantry of Scotland and their relation to 
 the poetry of Burns. " When we consider the genius of Burns," says 
 he, " we see it manifestly moulded and colored by his agricultural life. 
 It was thus that nothing seemed worthy to engross his attention but the 
 feelings and the passions of the heart of man." Again, alluding to 
 the fact that some have thought Burns' s poems irreligious and immoral, 
 he says, "Now, indeed, if this be the case, it is most unaccountable 
 that such compositions should have become universally popular among 
 a grave, thoughtful, affectionate, and pious peasantry, and that the 
 memory of Burns, faulty and frail as his human character was, should 
 be cherished by them with an enthusiastic fondness and admiration, as 
 if they were all bound to him by ties strong as those of blood itself. It 
 would be a gross and irrational libel on the national character of our 
 people to charge Robert Burns with being an immoral and irreligious 
 poet." 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
 
 {Kilmarnock, 1 7S6.) 
 
 This poem is one of the few in which the poet anticipated the possi- 
 bilities of the future. It is the musing of one who was neither ignorant 
 nor careless of his faults and follies. He seemed to discern the de- 
 light with which those who — 
 
 " Sitting on a Prophet's seat, 
 As lords of the Human soul, 
 Would scan him from head to. feet, 
 Were it but for a wart or a mole." 
 
 The prayer he here uttered for the sympathy he himself had given 
 to others was very soon answered in full by one poet whom he had 
 taught — 
 
 " How verse may build a princely throne 
 On humble truth," 
 
[1786] NOTES. 281 
 
 In 1803, when standing by the grave of Burns, Wordsworth 
 
 wrote : — 
 
 " Leaving such unquiet theme 
 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 
 
 Think rather on those moments bright 
 When to the consciousness of right 
 
 His cause was true, 
 When wisdom prospered in his sight, 
 
 And virtue grew." 
 
 In 1 8 16 Wordsworth raised his voice against the spirit of Burns's 
 early biographer. He says, " Plague, then, upon your remorseless 
 hunters after matter of fact. Granting that all which has been raked 
 up to the prejudice of Burns were literally true, how poor would have 
 been the compensation for the deductions made, by this extrinsic 
 knowledge, from the intrinsic efficacy of his poetry, to please and to 
 instruct! Of poets especially it is true, that, if their works be good, 
 they contain within themselves all that is necessary to their being com- 
 prehended and relished. It is probable that Burns would have proved 
 a still greater poet, if, by strength of reason, he could have controlled 
 the propensities which his sensibility 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 accessory influences, 
 which contribute greatly to their effects, would have been wanting." 
 
 Our language does not afford a more temperate, gracious, and wise 
 bit of criticism on the genius and character of Burns. 
 
 "We know his worst sins," says Christopher North, " but we can- 
 not know his sorrows. The war between the spirit and the flesh often 
 raged in his nature, as in that of the best of beings who are made; and 
 no Christian, without humblest self-abasement, will ever read A Bard''s 
 Epitaph.^'' Cf. Wordsworth's Poefs Epitaph, Tennyson's A Poefs 
 Mind, The Poet. 
 
 " Burns does not deceive himself," says Stopford Brooke; " for he 
 has one of the noblest qualities a man can possess, — entire sincerky 
 with himself. It never occurred to him to be untrue." 
 
 " Here is a sincere and solemn avowal; a public declaration frorn 
 
282 NOTES. [1786] 
 
 his own will; a confession at once devout, poetical, human; a history 
 in the shape of a prophecy." — Wordsworth. 
 
 " After a hundred years, the well-known lines of . / BanPs Epitaph 
 present the best and justest view of the significance of Burns's life." 
 — H. Walker. 
 
 Cf. At the Tomb of Burns. William W^atson. 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 17S6.) 
 
 The caustic wit of this poem is directed against the laird who so 
 oppressed the Burns family when they were at INIount Oliphant. See 
 note to The Bigs O^ Barley. 
 
 " Robert had a dog," says Gilbert, "which he called Luath, that 
 was a great favorite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty 
 of some person the night before my father's death. Robert said that 
 he would like to confer such immortality as he could bestow on his old 
 friend. Caesar was merely a creation of the poet's imagination." 
 
 "The old controversy, which is ever new, between rich and poor 
 has never been set forth with more humor and power." — Shairp. 
 
 "He preached a crusade against the selfishness of the rich, but he 
 did not wish the poor to become as the rich. Keep to your own life, 
 he said to them; learn to live it; to live truly and honestly in it; to 
 recognize in it the dignity of man." — Stopford Brooke. 
 
 Charles Kingsley says, " Burns sees around him and above him, as 
 well as below him, an average of men and things dishonest, sensual, 
 ungodly, shallow, ridiculous by reason of their own lusts and passions, 
 and he will not apply to the shams of dignity and worth the words 
 which were meant for their realities. After all, he does but say what 
 every one round him was feeling and thinking — but he said it; and 
 hypocritical respectability shrank shrieking from the mirror of her own 
 inner heart." 
 
 1. 2. Kifig Coil : District of King's Kyle in Ayrshire. 
 
 1. 27. Highland sang: " Cuchullin's dog, in Ossian's Fingal.''^ — 
 R..B. 
 
 "The dogs of Burns are downright dogs, and not, like the horses 
 of Swift, and Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in the shape of 
 brutes." — Dr. Currie. 
 
[1786] NOTES. 283 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 Gilbert says of this poem, as of that To a Mouse, " I could easily 
 find the spot where the incident occurred," 
 
 The moral of the two poems is the same, and comes from the sad- 
 ness in which the poet was then plunged. The Armours, who were 
 enraged at his secret marriage with Jean, were making his life miser- 
 able, and he was planning to go to the West Indies, when his friend, 
 Gavin Hamilton, intimated that he might easily raise the money for 
 the trip by publishing the poems he had lying in his table-drawer. 
 The subscription-list was started and quickly filled; and the poems were 
 given to the printer, accompanied with a characteristic preface which 
 is reprinted in this volume, p. v. 
 
 Mr. Greenshields of Kerse, Lesmahagow, has a manuscript copy 
 of the subscription paper for the first edition of Burns's poems. 
 
 It runs as follows: " April 14, 1786. Proposals for Publishing by 
 Subscription Scottish Poems by Robert Burns. 
 
 " The work to be elegantly printed in one volume octavo, price, 
 stitched, three shillings. As the author has not the most distant 
 mercenary view in publishing, as soon as so many subscribers appear 
 as will defray the necessary expense, the work will be sent to press." 
 Then follow names of sixteen subscribers, who were the means of 
 giving to the world that precious volume. The edition comprised 
 six hundred copies, and it was exhausted in two months. 
 
 A fac-simile of this edition was published in 1886 by Wilson, at 
 Kilmarnock. 
 
 Mr. Andrew Lang asks, " Was it not as unhappy a thing, sir, for 
 you, as it was fortunate for Letters and for Scotland, that you were 
 born at the meeting of two ages and of two worlds, — precisely 
 in the moment when bookish literature was beginning to reach the 
 people, and when society was first learning to admit the low-born to 
 her minor mysteries?" One may be curious to know what Burns's 
 reply to this would have been. I cannot help thinking that he would 
 have said, " It was not so unhappy a thing, sir, as you imply. Al- 
 though I had my share of trials, I had, too, my share of pleasures; 
 
284 NOTES. [1786] 
 
 and not the least among these pleasures was the love and esteem which 
 my printed poems brought me." 
 
 Mossgiel farm is situated on a ridge between the valleys of Ayr and 
 Cessnock, into both of which it looks. The blue sea and the peaks of 
 Arran are in the distance. Across the lovely Ballochmyle are the high- 
 lands of Muirkirk, famous in the days of the Covenanters. In another 
 
 direction — 
 
 " The rising sun o'er Galston Muirs 
 Wi' glorious light is glentin." 
 
 The house has been much altered since Burns's day ; but nature 
 
 remains the same — and yet not the same, for there is no eye to see 
 
 what Burns saw. 
 
 " From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift was won ; 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp was spread 
 On ground which Scottish shepherds tread ! " 
 
 As we stand on the cold and rugged soil of the Mossgiel farm, we 
 feel sure that to wrest from it a respectable revenue would require 
 the " unceasing moil of a galley-slave." The scene is pathetic, but 
 it is lighted by gleams of such manly Christian sympathy as are seen 
 in this poem. The field of the " wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower " 
 is renowned in story. Wordsworth was one of the first to sing of 
 it and its surroundings: — 
 
 " * There,' said the stripling, pointing with much pride, 
 Towards a low roof, with green trees half-concealed, 
 * Is Mossgiel farm ; and that's the very field 
 Where Bums plough'd up the Daisy.' Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rose ; 
 And by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath the random field of clod or stone, 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away ; less happy than the one 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to 
 Prove the tender charm of poetry and love." 
 
 In the early MS. the title of this poem is The Gowan, 
 
[i786] NOTES. 285 
 
 " I see amid the fields of Ayr 
 
 A Ploughman, who, in foul or fair. 
 
 Sings at his task 
 
 So clear we know not if it is 
 
 The lavrock's song we hear, or his ; 
 
 Nor care to ask." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 TO A LOUSE. 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 "A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this 
 poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything 
 but welcome. It appeared in the Kilmarnock Edition of his poems, 
 and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it 
 out of the Edinburgh Edition." — Cunningham. 
 
 Surely the poem was — 
 
 " Wisdom to the wise, 
 And play to them that list to play." 
 
 The last stanza has given the poem immortality, 
 vi. 5. Ltuiardi : Balloon-shaped. Vincent Lunardi made first 
 balloon ascent in Britain in 17S5. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 This epistle was addressed to Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to 
 whom Burns inscribed The Cotlei-'' s Saturday Night. He rose to a posi- 
 tion of honor in the service of his country, being English consul at Riga. 
 
 For an admirable handling of the subject of Burns's life and the 
 lessons to be derived from it, see Theology in the English Poets, Lec- 
 ture xvi. — Stopford Brooke. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 {Kilmarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 If Burns had not feared grave and reverend church elders and doctors 
 of divinity, it was not likely that he would quail whenever he felt called 
 upon to deal with royalty. 
 
286 NOTES. [1786] 
 
 " This poem is marked," says Blackie, "with the manly indepen- 
 dence and gay freedom of a born enemy of all convention. The man 
 who wrote this was stamped by nature for a truth-speaker and a public 
 reprover, in a field where preacher and prophet would either be silent 
 or deliver their message with a tone more than half-ashamed of its 
 audacity." 
 
 iv. 7-9. Loss of the American colonies. 
 
 vii. 3. Get : Child. 9. Allusion to a proposal to reduce navy by 
 sixty-four gunships. 
 
 X. 8. Charlie : Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 
 
 xi. 5. Him : Henry V. 
 
 xi. 7. Sir JoJdi : Falstaff. 
 
 xii. I. Osiiabiirg : Duke of York. 
 
 xiii. I. Breeks : Prince William Henry, who espoused Miss Jordan, 
 a player. 
 
 THE LAMENT. 
 
 {Kil}>iarnock Ed., 1786.) 
 
 The Armours, who were of the Old Light party, were indignant at 
 the secret marriage of their daughter to such a representative of the 
 New Lights ; they refused to sanction it, and sent her to Paisley to 
 avoid seeing him. The church, too, interested itself in the matter, 
 and was no doubt glad to get its old offender in judgment. Burns was 
 greatly agitated, and, in his desperation at this turn of things and at 
 the failure of his farming operations, decided to go to the West Indies. 
 It was under these circumstances that this poem was written. 
 
 " The lark of Scotia's morning sky ! 
 
 Whose voice may sing his praises? 
 With Heaven's own sunHglit in his eye, 
 
 He walked among the daisies, 
 Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong 
 
 He soared to fields of glory ; 
 
 But left his land her sweetest song, 
 
 And earth her saddest story." 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 " For wisdom and for warning the events of his life arc sufficiently 
 familiar; he that runs may read; let him learn, and let him be better. 
 
[i786j NOTES. 28/ 
 
 But I have no sympathy with that vampire-like spirit which disentombs 
 the faults of the illustrious dead to feed the nauseous appetite of itself 
 or others. While I do not regard genius as repealing the law of virtue, 
 neither do I regard it as beyond the law of mercy." — H. GiLES. 
 
 A PRAYER — O THOU DREAD POWER. 
 
 (17S6.) 
 
 Hardly had the first edition of his poems been issued before a second 
 was proposed. Dr. Blacklock had written to Mr. Laurie, the minister 
 of Loudoun, by whom he had been presented with a copy of the first 
 edition, and had warmly praised the poems. Other appreciative crit- 
 icisms followed ; and his Edinburgh friends desired that he should visit 
 that city, and superintend the publication of a second edition. 
 
 Burns was still depressed, and was undecided what his future 
 would be, when Mr. Laurie invited him to his manse at Loudoun. He 
 remained there several days in a smooth and safe harbor. When he 
 came away he left this poem in the room where he had slept. Gilbert 
 says, "Dr. Laurie had several daughters; one of them played; the 
 father and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, the 
 brothers, the poet, and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delight- 
 ful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world." 
 
 " Grace and beauty were altogether absent from the public religion 
 of Burns's day; but private religion, the piety of the heart, has rarely 
 flourished in greater perfection than among the Scottish peasantry of a 
 hundred years ago. If Burns proved the relentless satirist of system- 
 atic Calvinism, he proved also the systematic poet and eulogist of fire- 
 side piety." — H. Walker. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE BANKS OF AYR. 
 {Edittburgh Ed., 17S7.) 
 
 Of this poem Burns says, " My chest was on the road for Greenock", 
 and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Cale- 
 donia — 
 
 ' The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,' 
 
288 NOTES. [1786] 
 
 when a letter from Dr. Blacklock opened new prospects to my poetic 
 ambition." This new prospect was a second edition of his poems, 
 and by it he was deterred from the voyage to Jamaica. Cf. To Dr. 
 Blacklock. 
 
 Professor Walker adds, " I requested Burns to communicate some 
 of his unpublished poems ; and he recited his farewell song to the 
 banks of the Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circum- 
 stances in which it was composed more striking than the poem itself. 
 He had left Dr. Laurie's family after this visit to the reverend friend's 
 house which he expected to be his last, and on his way had to cross 
 a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was strongly affected by 
 parting forever with a scene where he had tasted so much elegant 
 and social pleasure, and depressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
 prospects, the aspect of nature harmonized with his feelings ; it was 
 a lowering and heavy evening in the end of autumn. The wind was 
 up, and whistled through the rushes and long spear-grass which bent 
 before it. The clouds were dreary across the sky, and cold, pelting 
 showers at intervals added discomfort of body and cheerlessness of 
 mind." We can hardly conceive the feelings of the poet at the thought 
 of leaving forever his loved Ayr. 
 
 " Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 
 For honest men and bonnie lasses," 
 
 is divided by the River Ayr, which is spanned by the Twa Brigs : — 
 
 " Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictisli race, 
 The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
 New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
 That he at Lon'on frae ane Adams got." 
 
 The clay cottage in which Burns was born is about two miles from 
 the village. It is a very humble house, with only two rooms, and is 
 now kept as a memorial to the poet, and is filled with relics of his life 
 and work, which are now worth many times their weight in gold. In 
 the birth-room, opposite the inglenook, is a recess in the wall — the 
 bed — hidden by curtains. " Here it was," says Hawthorne, "that 
 Providence was pleased to deposit the germ of the richest human life 
 which mankind then had within its circumference." 
 
[1786] NOTES. 289 
 
 Kirk Alloway, the Burns Monument, and the Doon are all within 
 easy walk of each other. The kirk is a roofless ruin, and the monu- 
 ments are fast yielding to the tooth of time, yet they are safe in the 
 domain of imagination. Bonnie Doon is the most poetic spot in all 
 the Burns country ; here one does not wonder that imagination simple 
 and sweet should wing itself. There is no lovelier spot — even in the 
 charming Wordsworth land — than this quiet and picturesque Doon- 
 side. The monument is a Corinthian-columned structure of much 
 beauty. The most interesting relic here is the two volumes of the 
 Bible which Burns gave to Highland Mary when they plighted troth on 
 the banks of the Nith. From the cupola we get a fine view of the 
 country round, — rivers, woods, and hills, — all of which he loved, 
 and of which he sang. One seems to get very near the heart of Burns 
 in these places, and the impressions become everlasting possessions. 
 
 The Burns statue, erected in 1 891, is the latest addition to the 
 beauties of Ayr. It is life size. The poet, dressed in simple costume, 
 stands with arms crossed, the right hand closely clenched ; he looks 
 toward his birthplace and the banks o' the Doon. 
 
 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? 
 
 {Cnrrie, 1800.) 
 
 It seems that in his despair at the Armour troubles, Burns had 
 sought relief in the friendship of one Mary Campbell, an Ayrshire girl, 
 who was in the employ of Gavin Hamilton. They were at last plighted, 
 and in a somewhat romantic manner. " We met in a sequestered spot 
 on the banks of the Ayr the second Sunday in May, and spent the dny 
 in taking farewell, before she should embark for the Highlands to 
 arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life." 
 
 The lovers stood by the side of the stream, and laved their hands 
 in the water, and holding a Bible between them, they promised to be 
 faithful forever. 
 
 Mary presented her lover with a small, plain Bible, while he re- 
 sponded with two volumes. These two volumes are now in the Burns 
 Monument at Alloway, near Ayr. They bear two inscriptions in the 
 hand of the poet, — one from Lev. xix. 12, "Ye shall not swear by my 
 
290 NOTES. [17S6] 
 
 name falsely, I am the Lord ; " and the other from Matt. v. 33, " Thou 
 shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths." 
 
 This episode in the life of Burns has been the subject of much 
 heated discussion. We must remember that he had been rejected by 
 the Armours as unworthy of their daughter. Burns at times blamed 
 Jean, but it is doubtful if she ever intentionally wronged him. The 
 most charitable treatment of this period in the poet's life is to be found 
 in Blackie's Life of Biiriis. 
 
 What lends all the more pathos to the period is the fact that when 
 his first edition of poems gained for him name and position, the Armours 
 were ready to lay aside their scruples, and to consent to the marriage 
 which they had declared illegal and void. Cf. Note, p. 302. 1 788. 
 
 After their betrothal Mary returned to the Highlands to prepare for 
 the marriage ; and it was during her absence, and when Burns was 
 ready for his departure to the Indies, that this poem and the two fol- 
 lovv'ing were written. 
 
 In sending this to Thomson in 1792, he says, "You must know 
 that all my earlier love-songs were breathings of ardent passion ; and 
 though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a pol- 
 ish, yet that polish to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone 
 cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart which was 
 so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they 
 say of wines, their race." 
 
 The first line of this song was taken from an old Irish one beginning, 
 ♦' Will ye go to Dublin, my Molly? " 
 
 Charles Kingsley, in speaking of the later Scottish song-writers, 
 says, "They seldom really sing; their proses want the unconscious 
 lilt and flash of their old models; they will hardly go (the true test 
 of song) wdthout music — the true test, we say again, of a song. Who 
 needs music, however fitting and beautiful, to the Flowers of the Forest, 
 or to Atild Lang Syne ? " 
 
 PRAYER FOR MARY. 
 
 {Currie, 1800.) 
 
 Familiarity with Burns's life up to this time puts one in an atmos- 
 phere of mind and heart to appreciate such a soul-inspiring song as 
 
[1786J NOTES. 291 
 
 this. Admit that he was suffering from his own indiscretions, yet this 
 does not make the pangs less worthy of sympathy ; and we ought to 
 rejoice that he found rest and comfort in the love of one so simple and 
 so sweet as Mary Campbell. 
 
 MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 
 
 kfison's Museufn, 178S.) 
 
 This song is coined of the same unalloyed gold as the previous one ; 
 and the heroine is Mary Campbell, " the warm-hearted, charming 
 young creature " who had blessed Burns with her generous love. 
 While she was in the Highlands, Burns sent her letters weekly. These 
 somewhat disturbed her family, as gossips had informed them that 
 Burns was a "scoffer at women;" but Mary was loyal, and laughed 
 them to scorn. In one of these letters he sent this poem. The mother 
 learned it by heart, and sang it to her grandchildren, being proud of the 
 song that recorded the charms of her favorite daughter. 
 
 LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. 
 
 {Currie, 1800.) 
 
 Among other Edinburgh men of letters who welcomed Burns's poe- 
 try was Dugald Stewart, the celebrated Scotch metaphysician. He had 
 a country home at Catrine on the Ayr, not far from Mossgiel. On one 
 occasion he invited Burns to dine with him. It was then that he first 
 met a real lord, — a young nobleman. Lord Daer, — who had been a 
 pupil of Dugald Stewart and was then his guest. 
 
 Dugald Stewart writes of the meeting, " Burns's manners were sim- 
 ple, manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
 and worth, but without anything that indicated forwardness, arrogance, 
 or vanity. Nothing was more remarkable than the fluency and precis- 
 ion and originality of his language when he spoke in company." 
 
 This meeting was Oct. 23, only a few days after the death of High- 
 land Mary. Cf. Note to Mary in Heaven. 
 
292 NOTES. [1786] 
 
 THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 {^Ciirrie, iSoo.) 
 
 The incident which gave rise to these lines is characteristic of our 
 poet. He was walking one evening in the grounds of Ballochmyle 
 House, not far from his farm at Mossgiel, when he met a beautiful 
 lady, Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, the daughter of the owner of the 
 estate. He afterwards wrote her and sent a copy of this poem, saying, 
 "The enclosed song was the work of my return home, and perhaps it 
 but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene." 
 
 She took no notice of the letter, and Burns was somewhat disturbed. 
 When Mrs. Dunlop tried to excuse her, he said, " Had a half-wittling 
 lord written the poem, madam, would she have left it unanswered ? " 
 Cunningham says that later the lady was proud of the letter, and 
 pointed out to the admirers of Burns the spot where the poet met her, 
 and where she had a rustic grotto made to commemorate the event. 
 She died unmarried in 1843. Mr. Douglas says he has seen the letter 
 and poem which she preserved in a glass case, and that they now hang 
 in the *'spence," or back-parlor, of the Mossgiel house. 
 
 Hawthorne says, " Henceforth for centuries that maiden has free 
 admittance into the dreamland of beautiful women, and she and all 
 her race are famous." 
 
 THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 {Jolmsoft's ]\Inseu}n, 1790.) 
 
 Tins song was a tribute to Maria Whiteford, daughter of Sir John 
 Whiteford. It was written as a farewell to the family residence. It 
 is said that the ancestor of the Whitefords suggested to Scott the char- 
 acter of Sir Arthur War dour in The Antiqua7y. The seat of Professor 
 Dugald Stewart was at Catrine in Ayrshire. This was a favorite resort 
 of the poet. 
 
[1787] NOTES. 293 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. 1787-1796. 
 
 1787. 
 
 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 
 {Edinburgh Ed., 17S7.) 
 
 Burns set out for the metropolis on the 27th of November, and his 
 journey was a sort of triumphal progress. The farmers in the vicinity 
 of Covington, Lanarkshire, had agreed to signal his arrival with a white 
 flag hung from a pitchfork on a corn-stack. As it was hoisted, they 
 came running from all directions to see the author of the new volume 
 of poems. They met him at a late dinner, when he increased their 
 admiration for him by his ready wit and gentle humor. He reached 
 Edinburgh on the 28th, and went to live with an old cronie at Baxter's 
 Close, Lawnmarket. 
 
 Mrs. Alice Cockburn, the gifted author of fve Seen the Sniilhig of 
 Fortune Beguiling, then very aged, wrote of Burns's arrival, " The 
 town is at present all agog with the Ploughman Poet, who receives 
 adulation with native dignity." 
 
 The story of his Edinburgh reception must be read in the biography. 
 It is interesting and instructive, not only as a revelation of the nature 
 and the art of the poet, but as a picture of the life of an aristocratic 
 and cultured metropolis in the presence of simple and unaffected 
 genius. 
 
 This chapter in Burns's life introduces us to what may be called 
 the second period of his literary work. It was indeed a critical time 
 for a young man who had never been beyond the limits of Ayrshire; 
 but the native strength and beauty of his simple and graceful manner 
 was everywhere apparent, and enabled him to stand firm in the midst 
 of the whirl of fashionable entertainment, and the convivialities of 
 tavern life. The gentry did themselves credit by honoring such a 
 character, and we must believe that they received a lesson in culture 
 
294 NOTES. [1787] 
 
 from this rustic ploughman which was very wholesome indeed. We 
 cannot think that their attitude towards Burns was entirely or mainly 
 selfish, as has sometimes been represented; for the quick-witted youth 
 would have readily detected any " crooking of the pregnant hinges of 
 the knee," and would have launched his shafts at the pretenders. 
 Instead of this, we find him praising the sincerity and heartiness of 
 his welcome. The Caledonian Hunt, a society of nobility and gentry 
 interested in the sports of manly men, subscribed for the second edi- 
 tion of the poems, and Burns very courteously dedicated the edition 
 to them. While he was being feted by wealth and culture, by repre- 
 sentatives of the University, by the magnates of the Bench and the 
 Bar, and by the Scottish nobility, he did not forget to pay honor at 
 the shrines of simple artless poesy : he visited Canongate Churchyard, 
 and knelt at the lowly grave of Fergusson; he found the shop of 
 Allan Ramsay and reverently entered. 
 
 Dugald Stewart says, "The attentions he received from all ranks 
 and descriptions of persons would have turned any head but his 
 own." Scott, then a lad of fifteen, met him at Professor Fergus- 
 son's, and wrote, "As for Burns, I may truly say, '■Virgilitim vidi 
 taut urn.'' I would have taken the poet, had I not known who he 
 was, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, — 
 the douce gicdenian, 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 (I say literally glowed) 
 when he spoke, with feeling and interest. I never saw such another 
 eye in a human head." 
 
 Mr. James T. Fields compares Burns with our own Hawthorne in 
 personal appearance, and in the general impression made by his ease 
 and grace of manner. He says, "I remember to have heard, in the 
 literary circles of Great Britain, that since Burns no author had ap- 
 peared there with a finer face than Hawthorne's. Old Mrs. Basil 
 Montague told me, many years ago, that she sat next to Burns at 
 dinner when he appeared in society in the first flush of his fame, after 
 the Edinburgh Edition of his po'^ms had been puV)lished. She said 
 among other things that, although the company consisted of some of 
 
[1787] NOTES. 295 
 
 the best bred men in England, Burns seemed to her the most perfect 
 gentleman among them. She noticed particularly his genuine grace 
 and deferential manner toward women." 
 
 This poem is a graceful tribute to the Modern Athens as it was in 
 the winter of 1786 and 1787, — to her beauty and grandeur, her 
 noble history and present prosperity, her strong men and beautiful 
 women. 
 
 vii. 5-8. Evhi /, etc. George, tenth Earl Mareschal, commanded 
 cavalry at the battle of Sheriffmuir, and was followed by the Burness, 
 his tenants. It is said that Burns's father fought at Culloden. 
 
 Cf. Note to Cotter's Saturday Night. For another description of 
 Edinburgh see Scott's Marmioji, Canto IV., xxx., xxxii. 
 
 Alluding to the fact that had Burns been born a generation earlier 
 he would have taken his place with the unnamed Immortals who left 
 great songs to a little clan, Andrew Lang says: — 
 
 " A quiet life of song, falletitis semita vita, was not to be yours. 
 Fate otherwise decreed it. The touch of a lettered society, the strife 
 with the Kirk, discontent with the State, poverty and pride, neglect 
 and success, were needed to make your genius what it was, and to 
 endow the world with Tatn C Shanter, llie Jolly Beggars, and I/oly 
 Willie's Prayer.'' 
 
 It is no wonder that the Scotsman loves his native land and its 
 beautiful city of Edinburgh, as it reveals the life of the past and the 
 life of the present. Here the race-consciousness is everywhere evi- 
 dent in its originality, its passions, its magnificent variety and conti- 
 nuity. Calton Hill, Castle Crag, and Arthur's Seat stand as sentinels 
 of this grand old city, where the old and new blend in the witchery 
 of romance and in the eloquence of noble sons and fair daughters. 
 The greatest names in her literary history, Burns and Scott, are com- 
 memorated in enduring memorials, the one on Calton Hill, the other 
 in Princes Street under the shadow of the old castle. Mr. William 
 Winter has said, " There is no literature in the world so musically, 
 tenderly, and weirdly poetical as the Scottish literature; there is no 
 place on earth where the imaginative instinct of the national mind has 
 resisted, as it has resisted in Scotland, the encroachment of utility 
 upon the domain of romance; and no city could surpass the physical 
 
296 ' NOTES. ^ [1787] 
 
 fact of Edinburgh as a manifestation of broad ideas, unstinted opu- 
 lence, and grim and rugged grandeur." To see this land is to love it 
 for that which is even more beautiful than any poetry or romance pro- 
 duced there. 
 
 For the reader who has never visited Scotland I recommend William 
 Winter's Gray Days and Gold, Mrs. Oliphant's Royal Edinburgh, and 
 R. H. Stoddard's, Literary Land/narks of Edinburgh. 
 
 EPIGRAM AT ROSLIN INN. 
 KHogg and Rlotheywell, 1S35.) 
 
 One evening when Burns had been entertained till a late hour, he 
 was returning with his friend Nasmyth (the artist, and painter of his 
 well-known portrait), and they wandered about the Pentland Hills 
 until early morn, when they came to the village of Roslyn to breakfast. 
 Mrs. David Wilson kept a little inn, and here they refreshed them- 
 selves so delightfully that Burns left this poem written on a wooden 
 platter. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MRS. SCOTT. 
 
 GUIDVVIFE OF WAUCHOl'E-HOUSE. 
 
 {Eliza Scott''s Poems, iSoi.) 
 
 The lady to whom these lines are addressed was Mrs. Scott, a painter 
 and poet. She had written some stanzas to the bard in which she 
 expressed her appreciation of his work, and concluded thus: — 
 
 " O, gif I ken'd but whar ye baide, 
 I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 
 Twad baud your shoutbers warm and braw, 
 An' douce at kirk or market-sbaw ; 
 Far south as weel as north, my lad, 
 A' honest Scotsman lo'e the ' maud : ' 
 Right wae that we're sae far frae ither ; 
 Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 
 
 Your most obed. E. S." 
 
[1787] NOTES. 297 
 
 The allusion in the third stanza is to the events related in his first 
 
 poem — 
 
 " O, once I lov'd a boiinie lass." 
 
 While on his Border tour in the year following the date of this poem 
 Burns visited Mrs. Scott. 
 
 COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 
 
 Many are the songs in sympathy with the exiled Prince Charles. 
 In the uprising of 1745 many of the women wore the cockade. In 
 one Jacobite song entitled, The Women Are a'' Gane Wud, the chorus 
 is: — 
 
 "The women are a' gane wud 
 
 that he'd bidden awa' ! 
 
 He's turned their heads, the lad, 
 And ruin will bring on us a'. 
 
 1 aye was a peaceable man, 
 
 My wife she did doucely behave; 
 But now do a' that I can, 
 She's just as wild as the lave." 
 
 0''er the Water to Charlie belongs to the same period, and 
 reveals how anxious the Highlanders were to have the Prince come 
 back. In this song by Burns there is the same chorus, and but little 
 that had not been in the old song, while one stanza of that, which he 
 has not retained, is: — 
 
 " I ance had sons, and now I have nane — 
 I bred them toiling sairly; 
 But I would bear them a' again 
 And lose them a' for Charlie." 
 
 Burns's ancestors of Kinkardineshire fought with the Earl Mareschal 
 in 1 71 5, and his father was out with the Jacobites in 1745, so the poet 
 came legitimately by his Jacobinism. 
 
298 NOTES. [1787] 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED BY BURNS 
 TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 
 
 {Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 In paying homage to his early masters, Burns found no memorial to 
 Fergusson, whose Fanner'' s Ingle suggested to him the idea of The 
 Cotter'' s Saturday Night ; and he at once wrote to the managers of the 
 kirkyard of Canongate, asking permission to place a simple stone over 
 the "revered ashes." The request was granted, and the stone was 
 put in place. Under this heading, — 
 
 "HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 
 Bor7t Sept. 5, 1751 — Died October 16th, 1774," 
 
 is to be seen the first stanza of this poem, and on the reverse side is — 
 
 " By Special Grant cf the Managers to Robert Burns, Who erected 
 
 THIS Stone in a Bqrial Place to remain Forever Sacred to 
 
 the Memory of Robert Fergusson." 
 
 Burns's original letter "To the Honorable Baillies of Canongate, 
 Edinburgh," is given by Cunningham from the records of the managers, 
 the last paragraph of which is as follows: — 
 
 " I petition you, then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone 
 over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
 less fame. I have the honor to be, gentlemen, your very humble 
 servant, Robert Burns." 
 
 When in time the ground settled, and the stone was found out of 
 place, the ^sculapian Club of Edinburgh, soon after Burns's death, 
 reset the stone with an additional inscription : — 
 
 to the memory of 
 ROBERT BURNS, THE AYRSHIRE BARD, 
 
 WHO WAS BORN AT DOONSIDE, 
 
 On the 2'ith 0/ January, 1759; 
 
 AND DIED AT DUMFRIES, 
 
 On the 2Tst of Juty, 1796. 
 
 The last two stanzas of this poem were found in Burns's manuscript 
 book. 
 
 " Burns followed and furthered the work of Ramsay and Fergusson 
 
[1787J NOTES. 299 
 
 in turning our literature from Continental themes and so-called classical 
 treatment of them to Scottish scenery and music, and the modes of 
 Scottish life." — J. Veitch. 
 
 Alluding to the fact that Fergusson has not had justice done him, 
 "as the lad who handed the poetic impulse to Burns," Robert Louis 
 Stevenson says, "There is a kind of gaping admiration that would 
 fain roll Shakespeare and Bacon into one to have a bigger thing to 
 gape at, and a class of men who cannot edit one author without dis- 
 paraging all others. Whoever puts Fergusson right with fame, cannot 
 do better than dedicate his labors to the memory of Burns, who will 
 be the best delighted of the dead." 
 
 TO A LADY WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE 
 TEXT DURING SERMON. 
 
 {Croj)iek, 1808.) 
 
 The new Edinburgh Edition of poems published by Creech appeared 
 on 2ist of April, and with the assured success of the enterprise Burns 
 began a series of tours to various sections of his native country. He 
 had as companion for the first tour to the Border, Mr. Robert Ainslie, 
 a young Edinburgh lawyer. They started in May, and on their first 
 Sunday stopped at Duns, where lived the father of Mr. Ainslie, They 
 attended church ; and when the sermon was in progress, and the clergy- 
 man was arraigning the sinners, Burns noticed Miss Ainslie, the sister 
 of his companion, hunting for the text, and at once wrote these lines 
 on a slip of paper and handed them to her. 
 
 THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
 
 {Johnson'' s Hlnseujii, 1788.) 
 
 In June Burns had returned to his old home, Mossgiel, where it is 
 said his mother met him with the salutation, "O Robbie ! " Lockhart 
 says, " Burns had left them comparatively unknown, his tenderest 
 feelings torn and wounded by the behavior of the Armours, and so 
 miserably poor that he had to skulk from the sheriff's officers to avoid 
 arrest for a paltry debt. He returned, his poetical fame established, 
 
300 NOTES. [1787] 
 
 the whole country ringing with his praise." After this visit he went to 
 the West Highlands. " From Glasgow," says Mrs, Begg, " he sent 
 presents to his mother and three sisters, namely, a quantity of mode 
 silk, enough to make a bonnet and a cloak to each, and a gown besides 
 to his mother and youngest sister." 
 
 Aug. 25 he set out for the Highlands with William Nicol, master 
 of the Edinburgh High School. When they came to Aberfeldy he 
 wrote this song as he stood by the Falls. 
 
 HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 
 {Edinburgh Ed., 1793-/ 
 
 At Blair Athole, Burns met his friend Professor Walker, and was 
 warmly welcomed by the duke and his family. On leaving, Burns 
 wrote these lines of thanks in the form of a petition of the stream for 
 shade-trees. The prayer was soon after answered, and beautiful trees 
 adorned the banks. The "angel band" consisted of two sons and 
 four daughters. 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS O' INVERNESS. 
 
 {Johtisoft's Museutn, 1796.) 
 
 The tourists passed on to Inverness, and visited the scenes associated 
 with Macbeth. " As the poet passed slowly over the fatal muir of 
 Drumossie (Culloden), where the closing act of the Rebellion, 1745- 
 1746, took place, the Lament of the Lass 0' Lnverness rose in his 
 fancy." The original MS. is in the British Museum. 
 
 " To what other man was it ever given so to transfigure the country 
 of his birth and love? Every bud and flower, every hill and dale and 
 river, whisper and repeat his name." — George William Curtis. 
 
 " The fire which burns through his poems was not elaborated, 
 spark by spark, from mechanical friction in the closet; it was in the 
 open field, under the cope of heaven, that the poetical Franklin caught 
 his lightnings from the cloud as it passed over him, and he commu- 
 nicated them, too, by a touch with electrical swiftness and effect," — 
 James Montgomery, 
 
[1787] NOTES. 301 
 
 CASTLE GORDON. 
 
 {Citrrie, iSoo.) 
 
 From Inverness they went to Gordon Castle, where lived the 
 duchess who had welcomed Burns to Edinburgh. Here they were 
 hospitably entertained. Burns wrote this song on his return to Edin- 
 burgh. 
 
 Burns wrote in his yonrnal, "The duke makes me happier than 
 ever great man did." 
 
 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 
 
 {JoJuisoii's ]\hisejivi, 1788.) 
 
 The two travellers returned to Edinburgh in September. While 
 in Edinburgh, Burns spent some time at the house of William Cruik- 
 shanks of the Edinburgh High School. This poem is addressed to the 
 daughter of his friend. She was fourteen years old at that time, and 
 could play and sing his songs. 
 
 These poems, and the incidents which occasioned them, remind one 
 of Memorials of a Tour in Scotland hy Wordsworth. 
 
 Mrs. Cockburn writes, "Do you know Burns.-* I am to get a very 
 pretty little thing he calls The Rose-biui. Maybe I'll send it to you 
 next week." 
 
 BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
 {Johtison^s Museum, 17SS.) 
 
 The heroine of this poem was Euphemia Murray of Lintrose, 
 otherwise known as the Flower of Strathmore. Burns met her on 
 his visit to the Highlands, and was impressed with her beauty and 
 cordial good nature. She was one of a small party to accompany the 
 poet on the banks of the Ern to Glenturit, and she pointed out to him 
 many of the beautiful surroundings. 
 
 "I composed these verses," says Burns, "while I stayed at Auch- 
 tertyre with Sir William Murray." Cf. Wordsworth's Yarrow Poevis^ 
 and Borland's Yarrow^ its Poets and Poetry, 
 
;02 NOTES. [1788] 
 
 BANKS OF DEVON. 
 
 {JohnsoJi^s HIusenjH, 17SS.) 
 
 This poem is in praise of a sister of Gavin Hamilton, who lived 
 at Plarvieston on the Devon. 
 
 Burns vv^rote to Miss Chalmers, a cousin of Charlotte the heroine of 
 this poem, after visiting her home, "I am determined to pay Charlotte 
 a poetic compliment if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air. 
 You will see a small attempt on a shred of paper inclosed ; but, 
 though Dr. Blacklock commended it highly, I am not satisfied with it 
 myself. You and Charlotte have given me permanent pleasure which 
 the world cannot give nor take away." 
 
 1788. 
 
 Of the condition of things in Edinburgh in Burns's time Mr. 
 Alexander Smith says, "The literary society of the time was exotic, 
 like the French lily or the English rose. For a generation and more 
 the Scottish philosophers, historians, and poets had brought their 
 epigram from France as they brought their claret, and their humour 
 from England as they brought their parliamentary intelligence." 
 
 Would one think it possible that the presence of the ploughman 
 poet in that metropolis, and the chance publication of his poems 
 there, could change all this.? 
 
 He had enjoyed and suffered in Edinburgh. The flattery and the 
 feasting, the smiles and the speeches, were rated at their true worth. 
 " I have formed many intimacies and friendships here," he says, " but 
 I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage 
 a hundred and fifty miles." The truth of these words was now to be 
 tested. He began to think of home and of a settled purpose in life, 
 now that Edinburgh had done her best, — a best which could not 
 satisfy this proud-spirited peasant. He must have a life of love, even 
 though it be in an humble cottage. 
 
 In the spring of 1788 Burns left Edinburgh, and in March leased 
 the farm at Ellisland, making "a poet's, not a farmer's, choice." 
 The situation of this farm was beautiful for prospect. Located on the 
 western bank of the Nith about six miles from Dumfries, it faced the 
 
[i788] NOTES. 303 
 
 lovely stream and the historic holms and forests of Dalswinton on 
 the east, while on the west were the hills of Dunscore and Corsincon, 
 There was no farmhouse, and he was delayed taking possession until 
 one should be built. 
 
 In the meantime he married Jean, although the earlier marriage 
 having been declared null and void he was under no legal obligation 
 to return to her ; but Burns was not the base man he had been repre- 
 sented to be, and the action, so greatly to his credit, brought peace of 
 mind and gladness of heart. 
 
 " My father put me frae his door, 
 
 My friends they hae disovvn'd me a' ; 
 But I hae ane will take my part — 
 The bonnie lad that's far awa'." 
 
 "The marriage," says PrAfessor Blackie, "was the most honorable 
 and wise act in the life of a great genius, always remarkable for honor, 
 not always for wisdom." 
 
 The feelings of the poet at this time are expressed in letters to Mrs. 
 Dunlop and Mrs. Chalmers. To the former he wrote, "I found a 
 once much loved, and still much loved, female, literally and truly cast 
 out to the mercy of the naked elements; but I enabled her to purchase 
 a shelter." To the latter he says, " I have no cause to repent of my 
 marriage. I have not got polite tittle-tattle, modish manners, and 
 fashionable dress; I am not sickened and disquieted by the multiform 
 curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the handsomest 
 figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest 
 heart in the country. A certain late publication of Scotch poems she 
 has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the country, as she 
 has the finest wood note wild I ever heard." 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that his muse was busy now that he had 
 leased the farm at Ellisland, and had determined upon housekeeping 
 and farming. He had' also been appointed exciseman at fifty pounds 
 a year. This seemed a singular combination of occupations, — farming, 
 chasing smugglers and brewers, and writing poetry. But he was a 
 farmer by choice, an exciseman by necessity, and a poet by nature. 
 
 Cf. To Dr. Blacklock, 1789. 
 
304 NOTES. [1788] 
 
 Burns took possession of the farm in June, and Jean remained at 
 Mauchline until the house should be ready. He was homesick, and 
 wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, "A solitary inmate of an old smoky spence, 
 far from every object I love or by whom I am beloved, nor any ac- 
 quaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I 
 ride on." What a change from the society of Edinburgh gentry ! 
 
 I LOVE MY JEAN. 
 
 {Johnson's ISIuseum, 1790.) 
 
 *' When he was not in Ayrshire in bodily presence," says Shairp, 
 '* he was there in spirit. It was at such a time that, looking up to the 
 hills that divide Nithsdale from Ayrshire, he breathed to his wife this 
 most natural and beautiful of all his love lyrics." 
 
 The tenderness, delicacy, humor, and passion of his songs render 
 them unequalled in the lyrics of the world. It is no wonder that his 
 countrymen sang by turns the Psalms of David and the songs of Burns, 
 for in these as nowhere else are breathed the sentiments and the emo- 
 tions of a common humanity. Both the Hebrew and the Scotch lyrics 
 are the creation and the property of the people; " created by the peo- 
 ple, and for the people, a joy to the maker and the user." 
 
 I am not sure that justice has yet been done Burns in the matter of 
 his loyalty to the sanctity of marriage, but I am sure justice will be 
 done him ultimately. 
 
 By this and the following, O, Were I oji Parnassus' Hill, written 
 at the same period of separation, he placed his Jean in the position of 
 honor in his own life, and made her known wherever the English lan- 
 guage is spoken. 
 
 Only the first two stanzas belong to the early poem; later four more 
 were added, but only the last two of these are worthy of a place with 
 the former. No poet's wife, unless it be Wordsworth's, has received 
 equal praise by her husband. 
 
 Much has been written upon the fact that at one time Burns uses 
 English in his songs, and at another Scotch. Principal Shairp has 
 said that he was unapproachable when he used his own Scotch dialect, 
 
[i788] NOTES. 305 
 
 and that when he wrote in English he was seldom more than third 
 rate. Arnold says that the English naturally turn to the poems in 
 their own language because they read easily, but in them is not the 
 real Burns. The real Burns is in the Scotch poems, in a world of 
 Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners. At the same time 
 he says, " This world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch man- 
 ners is against a poet; it is often a harsh, a sordid, a repulsive world." 
 It is undoubtedly true that Burns is at his best in his own Scottish ; 
 and yet there is one poem. To Alary in Heaven^ which is unsurpassed 
 in strength, grace, pathos, and power, though there is not a single 
 Scotch word in it. It is yet true that pity, playfulness, tenderness, 
 satire, and the natural lilt so characteristic of song, are expressed 
 by Burns through the medium of the Scotch, and not a little of the 
 charm of his work is due to this fact. 
 
 O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 
 {Johnsoft's Museum, 1790.) 
 
 This is another compliment to Mrs. Burns. " The latter half of 
 the second stanza," says Douglas, " has often been instanced as the 
 very perfection of personal description in a love-song." 
 
 i. 7. Corsijicon. A hill at the base of which the Nith enters Dum- 
 friesshire. 
 
 " We'll sing the nicht, Jean Armour's praise, 
 She's worthy o' a sang, 
 For it was Burns her ain guidman 
 That raised her bin the thrang. 
 While bleechin' claes on Mauchline braes 
 
 By Rab she first was seen, 
 When Cupid's darts pierced baith the hearts 
 O' Burns and bonnie Jean. 
 
 Jean was the jewel o' his heart, 
 
 The apple o' his e'e. 
 And little kent that country maid 
 
 That she a queen wad be. 
 For to us'lang she'll reign in sang, 
 
 And gain oor high esteem ; 
 
 She prov'd through life a faithfu' wife, 
 
 Our poet's bonnie Jean." 
 
 George Dobie. 
 
306 NOTES [1788] 
 
 In 1792 Burns wrote to his friend Cunningham, and congratulated 
 him upon his marriage: "Well, then, the scale of good wifeship I 
 divide into ten parts: good-nature, four; good sense, two; wit, one; 
 personal charms, viz., a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
 carriage, all these, one; as for the other qualities belonging to cr 
 attending on a wife, such as fortune, connections, education (I mean 
 education extraordinary), family, blood, etc., divide the two remain- 
 ing degrees among them as you please; only remember that all these 
 minor properties must be expressed by fractions, for there is not any 
 one of them entitled to the dignity of an integej'.'''' 
 
 M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 {Jo/utsoJi's Uluseum, 17S8.) 
 
 " Another wild, stormful song," says Carlyle, " that dwells in our 
 ear and mind with a strange tenacity, is M '' Pherson'' s Farewell, words 
 that we never listen to without a strange, half -barbarous, half-poetic 
 feeling." 
 
 This poem was a result of Burns's third Highland tour. 
 
 M'Pherson was a noted freebooter, "a shaggy Northland Cacus," 
 executed at Banf, November, 1700. His body was buried on Gallow- 
 hill, beneath the gallows tree. His sword and shield were deposited 
 in the Earl of Fife's armory at Duffhouse. When M'Pherson came 
 to the fatal tree he called for his violin, and played the tune to which 
 he has bequeathed his name. He then said he would give the violin 
 to any one who would play the tune over his body at the lyke-wake. 
 As no one answered he broke it over the executioner's head, and 
 flung himself from the ladder. 
 
 M'Pherson when in jail under sentence composed the real lament. 
 The chorus is : — 
 
 " But dantinly and wantonly, 
 And rantinly I'll gae, 
 I'll play a tune, and dance it roun' 
 Below the gallows tree." 
 
 David Herd, Scotlish Soui^s v. I, p. 99, has jueservcd the old ballad. 
 An incident in Tennyson's early life, when he was wont to visit the 
 
[1788] NOTES. 307 
 
 Carlyles at Chelsea, is associated with this poem. " On one occa- 
 sion when the poet stayed late, his hosts dismissed him by singing 
 M"" Phe7' soil's Fare7oell, a tune which Carlyle called ' rough as hemp, 
 but strong as a lion.' The rude tune and stirring words moved 
 Tennyson so much that his ' face grew darker,' and his lips quivered." 
 — Arthur Waugh. 
 
 • AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 {Johnsoit's Museum, 1796.) 
 
 Burns ascribed this song to an old minstrel. He sent it to Mrs. 
 Dunlop, saying " Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven- 
 inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment." The fragment 
 was by Francis Sempill of Beltrees, who died in 16S3. 
 
 A comparison of these songs will reveal the superiority of Burns's work. 
 
 The first stanza of the old is : — 
 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never thought upon, 
 The flames of love extinguished, 
 And freely past and gone ? " 
 
 "The Sempills kept the lamp of Doric song lighted during the 
 seventeenth century." — E. GossE. 
 
 Professor Blackie says, "This poem of Burns's is as characteristi- 
 cally Scottish as the heather on the brae, or the pine-tree in the glen; 
 and the Scot who does not sing it heartily whenever he has a fine 
 social opportunity is a poor creature, though he had all the sym- 
 phonies of Beethoven, and all the Greek of the Athenian dramatists, 
 reeling through his brain." 
 
 Carlyle says, "His songs are already part of the mother-tongue, 
 not of Scotland only, but of Britain, and of the millions that in all 
 ends of the earth speak a British language. In hut and hall, as the 
 heart unfolds itself in many-colored joy and woe of existence, the 
 iiafue, the voice, of that joy and that woe is the name and voice which 
 Burns has given them. 
 
 " Many a glowing image of youthful love he has left us, the best of 
 them as delicate and pure in their passion as ever lyrics were; and 
 
308 NOTES. [1788] 
 
 here (in John Anderson') the circle of fervid verse is completed by 
 the most perfect utterance of old and faithful affection." — Mrs. 
 Oliphant. 
 
 "In songs like Auld Lang Syne,^^ says Shairp, "Burns has ap- 
 proached nearer to the Biblical severity, such as we find in the words 
 of Naomi, or one of the old Hebrew patriarchs, than any other modern 
 poet." 
 
 One needs to hear this song as it is sung in Scotland at the breaking 
 up of a social gathering, then the pulse will beat and the tears start. 
 
 There are two versions to the poem, one in Johnson's Museum, 
 and another in Thomson's collection. In the latter the second stanza 
 as here given comes last, and the last line of the first stanza is: — 
 
 " And days o' lang syne." 
 
 UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
 {Johnson^ s Museum, 17S8.) 
 
 The chorus of this song is old, and only the two stanzas are by 
 Burns. The air is English, and was a favorite with Mary Stuart. 
 
 Burns at another time added four more verses, the last of which is : — 
 
 " The plough stands frozen in the fur, 
 And down the sun comes rarely ; 
 Up in the morning's no for me, 
 Up in the morning early." 
 
 Any one who has ever lived in the country upon a farm can appre- 
 ciate these sentiments. 
 
 " From naked groves nae birdie sings ; 
 The shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings ; 
 The breeze nae od'rous flavor brings 
 
 From Borean cave ; 
 And droyning Nature droops her vi-ings 
 
 Wi' visage grave. 
 Mankind but scanty pleasures glean 
 Frae snowy hill and barren plain 
 When Winter, midst his nipping train 
 
 Wi' frozen spear, 
 Sends drift o'er a' his bleak domain 
 
 And guides the weir." 
 
 Daft Days. — Fergusson. 
 
[1789] NOTES. 309 
 
 MY BONNIE MARY. 
 
 {Johnson's i\It(se7:7H, 1790.) 
 
 It is said that when Burns recited this poem to his brother Gilbert, 
 as a relic of the old minstrelsy, Gilbert said, " It is beautiful, the 
 most heroic of lyrics. O Robert ! if you would write oftener that 
 way, your fame would be sure." The song was written as a com- 
 pliment to a young officer about to go to a foreign shore. His boat 
 lay at Berwick-law, and as he embarked a young lady stood upon the 
 pier bidding him adieu. She is the bonnie Mary of the song. One 
 stanza of the old song by Alexander Lesley, 1 636, reminds one of the 
 first stanza by Burns: — 
 
 " Ye'U bring me here a pint of wine, 
 A server and a silver tassie ; 
 That I may drink before I gang 
 A health to my ain bonnie lassie." 
 
 Some texts give as title to this poem, l^he Silver Tassie. 
 
 ii. 4. 7 'hick : some texts give deep. 
 
 This poem was sent to Mrs. Dunlop with Azild Lang Syne. 
 
 1789. 
 
 For about eight months Burns was busy building the farmhouse, 
 tending his crops, and enjoying the freedom of a citizen of the world. 
 At one time he might be seen on horseback chasing a smuggler, at 
 another angling in the river or musing upon its banks, and again 
 assisting in building a wall. " Did he ever put his hand to the 
 wark?" was asked of one of his hired men. "Ay, that he did, mony 
 a time," was the reply. " If he saw us like to be beat wi' a big stane, 
 he would cry, ' Bide a wee,' and come rinning. We soon found out 
 when he put to his hand; he beat a' I ever met for a dour lift." 
 
 He completed the modest house of kitchen, bedroom, and garret, 
 early in this year, and the business of making it a home began. 
 Armour had given Jean some store of plenishing, and had used his 
 skill as a mason to carve a punch-bowl of Inverary marble for Burns. 
 
3IO NOTES. [1789] 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop gave a beautiful heifer; still another friend gave a 
 plough. Their furniture was ordered in Mauchline, and their servants 
 were hired in Ayrshire. 
 
 " When all was ready," says Shairp, "Burns bade his servant, 
 Betty Smith, take a bowl of salt, and place the family Bible on the top 
 of it, and bearing these walk into the new house, and possess it. He 
 himself, with his wife on his arm, followed." 
 
 ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME. 
 
 {Edinburgh Ed., i793.) 
 
 Burns writes, "One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in 
 the fields sowing some grass-seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a 
 neighboring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
 crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fel- 
 low who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have 
 young ones." 
 
 Burns cursed the man, and at the same time threatened to throw 
 him into the Nith. 
 
 Cunningham says that he once met the man, Thomson, who was the 
 unhappy subject of this poem. He alluded to Burns's threat ; and " I 
 asked," says Cunningham, " ' Could he hae done it ? ' — ' Could he hae 
 done it ! ' exclaimed he with wonder; ' deil a doubt but that he could 
 hae done it; he was mair than a match for most men.' " 
 
 The place where Burns met Thomson is as interesting to the tourist 
 as that other where he turned up the daisy. It was a favorite musing- 
 place of the poet, where he composed 7^am O' Shanter, and many of 
 his loveliest lyrics. The verse-form of this poem, the inverted qua- 
 train, was made popular by Tennyson. 
 
 "No poet ever felt more deeply the sorrows of created things," 
 says Stopford Brooke, " nor stronger anger at their slaughter for 
 sport. The Wounded Hare will live in men's memories when hares 
 ^re no longer shot for sport." 
 
 " This, which is one of the best of the very few good poems which 
 Burns composed in classical English, is no mere sentimental effusion, 
 but expresses what in him was a real part of his nature." — Shairp. 
 
Li 789] NOTES. 311 
 
 Cf. Notes to Banks of Nith^ and Tarn O ' Shanter. 
 Burns, on scaring some waterfowl in Loch-Turit, wrote: — 
 
 " Conscious, 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. 
 
 But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
 A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 
 Glories in his heart humane — 
 And creatures for his pleasure slain." 
 
 iii. This stanza was corrected by Dr. Gregory of Eilinburgh, to 
 whom Burns referred the work for criticism. The original was: — 
 
 " Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; 
 That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed. 
 The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
 The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom warm." 
 
 The original had five stanzas, the following of which (and perhaps 
 the best) was suppressed : — 
 
 " Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe , 
 The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side, 
 Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
 That life a mother only can bestow.'" 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 
 
 {/ohfison'' s Museum, 1790.) 
 
 This subject had inspired poets and painters before Burns gave it 
 new life. The oldest form is: — 
 
 " John Anderson my jo, John, 
 Come in as ye gae by, 
 And ye shall get a sheep's-head 
 Weel baken in a pie; 
 
312 NOTES. [1789] 
 
 Weel baken in a pie, John, 
 
 And haggis in a pat, 
 Jolm Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 Come in an' ye'se get that." 
 
 Another reminds us of Burns : — 
 
 " John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 Frae year to year we've past, 
 And soon that year maun come, John, 
 
 Will bring us to our last : 
 But let nae that affright us, John, 
 
 Our hearts were ne'er our foe, 
 While iu innocent delight we've lived, 
 
 John Anderson my Jo." 
 
 Although Burns took the idea of this song from the old version, it is 
 said that the John of Burns 's poem was a native of Ayrshire and a 
 carpenter by trade. He went to Invernesshire to live, and in declin- 
 ing years was visited by Burns. He lies buried in Fort Augustus 
 churchyard, embosomed in the hills that slope down to Lock Ness. 
 
 "This poem," says Blackie, "bears the same relation to the love- 
 songs of joy that the mellow sweetness of the fruit in autumn bears to 
 the exuberant flush of vegetation in the spring." 
 
 THE HAPPY TRIO. 
 {Johftson' s Museum, 1790.) 
 
 This poem originated from a meeting of Burns, William Nicol, and 
 Allan Masterton, a musician of Dalswinton. Nicol had bought an 
 estate at Laggan known as Willie's Mill, near to Burns's Ellisland 
 home ; and here he spent his vacations. He made some repairs on 
 the house, and when they were completed he celebrated by inviting 
 his two cronies. " We had such a joyous meeting," says Burns, " that 
 Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we would 
 celebrate the business." 
 
 Burns celebrated this night of gayety in the richest and rarest of all 
 bacchanalian songs; it is absolutely without a rival. The house where 
 they met is still standing. 
 
[lySg] NOTES. 313 
 
 So much silly prattle has been uttered about Burns being fond of 
 drink as drink, that the brisk and bristling words of Professor Blackie 
 are deserved, " Only a thin-blooded prig," says he, " or a sour phari- 
 see, will take this poem for an exhibition of the poet's familiar habits." 
 
 " Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconiiock's 
 I'll be his debt twa Mashlum bonnocks, 
 And drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnook's, 
 Nine times a week." 
 
 "When Nanse heard these lines," says Cunningham, "she ex- 
 claimed, ' Nine times a week ! Oh ! sirs, how these rhymers are gi'en 
 to lying; a hen bird might drink a' at a draught he ever drank in my 
 house. I never saw the color o' his coin.' " 
 
 The N^imc est Bibendunt of Horace, — 
 
 "Drink, comrades, drink; give way to mirth," 
 
 is hardly equal to this song of our poet. 
 
 '■'■Willie BreTv'd a Peck t>' Maut rides sovereign at the head of a 
 troop of bacchanalian verses." — George Saintsbury. 
 
 Cf. Horace: Jam veris Comites^zxi^ Tennyson: Will Waterproof ^ s 
 Lyrical Monologue. 
 
 iv. I. first: some texts give last^ as in Currie, 1S13. In 1820 
 Gilbert Burns gave last. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 {Johnson'' s Museum, 1790.) 
 
 It seems almost incredible that this poem, and 6>, Willie Bre7u\i a 
 Peck t>' Ma tit, could have been written about the same time; but Burns 
 was a man of moods, and it is but natural that these moods should be 
 registered in his poetry. Carlyle says, " These poems are little rhymed 
 fragments scattered here and there in the grand unrhymed romance of 
 his earthly existence; and it is only when intercalated in this, at their 
 proper places, that they attain their full measure of significance." They 
 are the precious life-blood of a master spirit, and compel reverence. 
 
 Highland Mary had died on her return to him from the Highlands 
 in the fall of 1786. This sad event had cast him into profound gloom, 
 
314 NOTES. [1789] 
 
 which is revealed more in his prose of that time than in his verse. 
 From that gloom he was partially raised by the event of the first edi- 
 tion of poems and the subsequent visit to Edinburgh. Now, at the 
 anniversary of her death, the old feelings revived, and burst forth in the 
 most plaintive and most pathetic of his love-lyrics. 
 
 Mrs. Burns says, " Robert, though ill, had busied himself all day 
 with the sheaves in the field ; and as he had got much of the crop in, he 
 was in capital spirits. But when the gloaming came, he grew sad about 
 something; he could not rest. He wandered first up the water-side, 
 and then went to the barnyard; and I followed him, begging him to 
 come in, as he was ill, and the air was cold and sharp. He always 
 promised, but still remained where he was, striding up and down, and 
 looking at the clear sky, and particularly at a star that shone like 
 another moon." When he came in he composed these verses. 
 
 Although the poems written in the Scottish dialect are on the whole 
 more compact, more musical, yet what writer of English has ever sur- 
 passed Burns's work in this poem? 
 
 In 1S42 a simple monument was erected over the grave of Highland 
 Mary in the old West Kirkyard, Greenock. It bears this inscrip- 
 tion : — 
 
 TO HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 O Mary! dear departed shade, 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 
 The Burns Club of Greenock have the care of the plot ; and as a 
 consequence are to be seen there the flowers and plants loved by the 
 poet, — the rose, the honeysuckle, and the daisy. 
 
 The poet Campbell writes : — 
 
 " Who that has melted o'er his lay, 
 To Mary's soul in Heaven above, 
 But pictur'd sees, in fancy strong. 
 The landscape and the live-long day, 
 That sinil'd upon their mutual love? 
 Who that has felt forgets the song?" 
 
 Whittier asks ; 
 
 ' But who his human heart has laid 
 
 To Nature's bosom nearer ? 
 Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 
 To love a tribute dearer ? " 
 
[1789] NOTES. 315 
 
 John Stuart Blackie, in advocating the use of Scotch songs in the 
 public meetings of Scotland, says, " If choice were to be made between 
 classical education and Scottish song, I would say at once, burn 
 Homer, burn Aristotle, fhng Thucydides into the sea, but let us by all 
 means on our Scottish hills and by our Scottish streams have Highland 
 Mary, Atild Lang Syne, and Scois IVha luie wi'' Wallace Bled.'''' 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 {Joh>iso7i^s HTusemn, 1790.) 
 
 The chorus of this song is old, the rest is Burns's composition. 
 
 In this poem we see the Celtic element in Burns's nature asserting 
 itself. He loved Ossian, and he had the Gaelic love of nature. Per- 
 haps in no modern Scot has this characteristic revealed itself so promi- 
 nently as in John Stuart Blackie. Although a Lowlander, he not only 
 loved the Highlands, but became the champion of the Crofters against 
 English usurpation. He built him a house on the west coast at Oban, 
 amid the sea and the isles, the moors and the mountains. 
 
 Here is a stanza of Duncan Ban's Ben Dorain, translated by Pro- 
 fessor Blackie: — 
 
 " And sweeter to my ear 
 Is the concert of the deer 
 
 In their roaring, 
 Than when Erin from her lyre 
 Warmest strains of Cehic fire 
 
 May be pouring; 
 And no organ sends a roll 
 So delightsome to my soul, 
 As the branchy-crested race 
 When they quicken their proud pace, 
 And bellow on the face 
 
 Of Ben Dorain." 
 
 For an excellent rendering of the spirit of the Highlands read 
 Blackie 's Lays of the Highlands and Lslands. 
 
 There is nothing more pathetic in Scottish history than the depopu- 
 lating of the Highlands. Entire glens have given up their inhabitants 
 
3l6 NOTES. [1789] 
 
 to make room for the English farmer. Professor Blackie says that he 
 passed the length of one of these glens, and saw only heaps of ruined 
 clachans from which the people had been driven, and at the bottom 
 of the strath on the seacoast he found a city of refuge where the 
 crofters had huddled. He sings: — . 
 
 " Bonnie Strathnavar ! Sutherland's pride, 
 Sweet is the breath of the birks on thy side ; 
 But where is the blue smoke that curled from the glen 
 When thy lone hills were dappled with dwellings of men ? " 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 {Currie, 1800.) 
 
 Dr. Blacklock, the Edinburgh Maecenas, was the first of the 
 literary friends of the poet. It was at his suggestion that the second 
 edition of the poems was issued. His love and esteem were always of 
 the greatest assistance to Burns. His simple and sweet Christian 
 nature made him kindly with his kind, and he viewed the frailties of 
 his fellow-mortals with tenderness and sympathy. Poetry had been to 
 him, in his perpetual blindness, as it was to Coleridge, its own " ex- 
 ceeding great reward. It soothed his aftiictions, it multiplied and 
 refined his enjoyments, it endeared solitude, it gave him the habit of 
 wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that met and 
 surrounded him." He is called in Scotland " the discoverer of Robert 
 Burns." 
 
 On one occasion Burns had sent him a letter by Robert Heron ; 
 but it miscarried, and the good man wrote the following characteristic 
 verses: — 
 
 "Dear Burns, brother of my heart, 
 
 Both for thy virtues and thy art ; 
 
 If art it may be called in thee, 
 
 Which Nature's beauty, large and free, 
 
 With pleasure in thy breast diffuses. 
 
 And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
 
 Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
 
 Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
 
 Or bid the softer passions rise, 
 * And ruthless souls with grief surprise. 
 
[1789] NOTES. 317 
 
 'Tis Nature's voice, distinctly felt 
 Thro' thee her organ, thus to melt. 
 
 Most anxiously we wish to know 
 
 With thee of late how matters go; 
 
 How keeps thy much lov'd Jean her health ? 
 
 What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
 
 Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
 
 And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
 
 Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
 
 And how thy darling infants thrive ? 
 
 For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
 Since I my journey homeward bent. 
 Spirits depressed, no more I mourn. 
 But vigor, life, and health return. 
 No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
 I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
 By turns my book and friend enjoy. 
 And thus my circling hours employ ; 
 Happy, while yet these hours remain, 
 If Burns could join the cheerful train 
 With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent 
 Salute once more his humble servant, 
 
 Thomas Blacklock." 
 
 ii. I. Heron : Author of a history of Scotland, and of a life of 
 Burns. 
 
 iii. 6. "He ventured the soul, and I risk'd the body" {^Jolly 
 Beggars). 
 
 In 1792, in writing to Mrs. Dunlop about his children, Burns said: 
 " I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set of boys that will do 
 honor to my cares and name; but I am not equal to the task of 
 rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor. A girl should always have 
 a fortune." 
 
 Cf, Wordsworth, To the Sons of Burns. 
 
 ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. 
 
 {Edinbiirgh Ed., 1793.) 
 The hero of this humorous poem was a zealous Scotch antiquary, 
 and a lover of wit and wine. Burns met him at Friars-Carse, where 
 
3l8 NOTES. [1790] 
 
 antiquaries were wont to assemble. The two became interested in 
 each other ; and the meeting was a happy one for them, and for all 
 readers of Burns, as it gave us two of his most characteristic poems. 
 
 The burly Scotch of this poem is in striking contrast to the smooth 
 English of To A/ary in Heaven. Scotch was the language of the 
 ♦'ingle creek," the song and the sermon. 
 
 i. 2. Maidenkirk : Kirkmaiden in Wigtonshire, in the south of Scot- 
 land. 
 
 TAM GLEN. 
 (^Johftsoit's Museian, 1790.) 
 
 Of the love-songs of Scotland, Professor Blackie says, " They are as 
 rich and various as the flowers of the field, and poured out from all 
 quarters as spontaneously and as sweetly as the song of the mavis in 
 May. Delicate and daintily sly in its humor, Tai/i Glen is the work 
 of a master hand." 
 
 "This is the title of an old song and older Scottish air. Burns's 
 song no sooner made its appearance than it became a favorite; it was 
 sung in the field and at the fireside. Husbandman as he met husband- 
 man slapped his thigh and said, — 
 
 ' The very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! ' " 
 
 Cunningham. 
 
 1790. 
 
 TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 {Edmburgh Ed., 1793-) 
 
 We have seen that despondency came to Burns with the return of 
 
 autumn. This was due partly to his ill luck as a farmer, but more to 
 
 increasing family cares. 
 
 Although this year yields but little poetry, yet one such work as 
 Tarn 0' Shanler makes it memorable. 
 
 When Burns met Captain Grose at Friars-Carse he invited him 
 to visit Alloway Kirk, and make a drawing of it for his sketches of 
 
[i79o] NOTES. 319 
 
 the Antiquities of Scotland; and he replied, "Write you a poem on 
 the scene, and I'll put in the verses with an engraving of the ruin." 
 
 On the "fitting day and hour" Burns composed this marvellous 
 piece of work. Mrs. Burns tells us that the poem was the work of 
 one day. Burns had spent most of the day by the Nithside, and in 
 the afternoon she joined him with the children. He was "crooning 
 to himself," while she remained at a distance, lest she disturb him; 
 soon attracted by his wild gesticulations, she found him with the tears 
 rolling down his cheeks, reciting these lines: — 
 
 •'Now Tarn, O Tarn! had thae been queans, 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens." 
 
 " I wish you had seen him," says she, " he was in such ecstasy. 
 
 The following notes and comments I condense from the work of 
 Allan Cunningham. The original Tam was one named Douglas Gra- 
 hame, a Carrick farmer. Shanter is the name of a farm which Grahame 
 owned. Burns, when p boy, had met the man often, and had viewed 
 his drinking bouts with his brother-in-law. Tarn's wife discouraged 
 these habits, and often when he returned at evening to his home she 
 lectured him so severely that he would return to the alehouse for the 
 night. 
 
 1. 28. Kirkton Jean : Kirkton is the name of any place where the 
 parish church is located. Jean Kennedy kept a public house at Kirk- 
 oswald. 
 
 1. 32. Alloway's kirk : Here are buried the members of the Burns 
 family. See Wordsworth's poem, At the Gi-ave of Burns, 
 
 1. 206. Brig : Auld Brig o' Doon. 
 
 1. 218. Scarce a stuDip : It is said that once Grahame tied his mare 
 at the door of a public house ; and while he was in the house with his 
 ale, the boys plucked away the hairs of the mare's tail for fish-lines. 
 Grahame attributed this to the work of witches. The witches in the 
 kirk is also based upon an old story common at the times. The Scotch 
 people are as proud of this poem as they are of The Cotter'' s Saturday 
 Night. 
 
 "The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the felici- 
 ties of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer 
 
320 NOTES. [1790] 
 
 aspects of war; nor does he shrink from the company of the passion 
 of love, though immoderate — from convivial pleasures, though intem- 
 perate. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way to these im- 
 pulses of nature, both with reference to himself, and in describing the 
 condition of others. Who but some impenetrable dunce, or narrow- 
 minded puritan in works of art, ever saw without delight the picture 
 which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, 
 Tam o' Shanter? " — Wordsworth. 
 
 " Auld Alloway Kirk " stands not far from the poet's birthplace. 
 It is now roofless; but the walls are strengthened and adorned with the 
 abundant ivy — " fall to prevent, or beautify decay." 
 
 Scott writes in his diary (1825) : "I seem to gain, in buffeting with 
 the wind, a little of the high spirit with which in younger days I used 
 to enjoy a Tam o' Shanter ride through darkness, wind, and rain, the 
 boughs groaning and cracking over my head, the good horse free to 
 the road and impatient for home, and feeling the weather as little as I 
 did." 
 
 Kirkoswald people to this day claim Tam, Kate, Cutty Sark, and 
 Souter Johnny. 
 
 Tam o' Shanter Inn is situated on High Street, Ayr, and has long 
 been a very interesting memorial of the poet. In 1892 it was sold at 
 auction because the Weaver's Incorporation which owned it became 
 extinct, and it then reverted to the Crown. The Town Council asked 
 the Crown to give it to that organization to be kept as a memorial ; 
 but the request was refused, and the inn was put up at public roup. 
 It was bought by Councilman Fraser, for ^^3,190, and has not been 
 diverted from its memorial purposes. 
 
 ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 
 {Edinburg Ed., 1793-) 
 
 Burns lost many friends during this year, and this, added to his 
 other trials, made him very despondent ; but yet he found time and 
 inclination to write noble memorial verses, and to remodel songs for 
 the Museum. '■'■The Elegy 011 Captain I/etuierson,^^ says Burns, "is a 
 
[lygi] NOTES. 321 
 
 tribute to the memory of a man I loved much." The captain was 
 a retired soldier of character and influence. He lies in Greyfriars 
 churchyard, near the monument erected to Duncan Ban. 
 
 Everywhere Burns treats nature as the companion and associate of 
 man. In this poem his appeal to nature is in the spirit of the old 
 Greeks, — in sympathy with the mood of the poet. See Shairp's 
 Poetic Interpretation of Nature^ Btirns, p. 224, and Stopford Brooke's 
 Theology in the English Poets (Burjis). "The poem is full of most 
 truthful references to outward nature ; and the whole is fused with an 
 extraordinary intensity of feeling, paralleled only in the Lycidas of 
 Milton, and the Adonais of Shelley. — J. Veitch. 
 
 THE BANKS OF NITH. 
 
 {Johftsoii's Alitsewn, 1790.) 
 
 In this song the poet breathes the sentiments of one who has left 
 his native heath for the smoke and noise of London. Burns's sympa- 
 thies are universal ; there is nothing in the realm of God's creative 
 works which is not linked to him by these fellow-feelings. 
 
 Cf. Ian Maclaren's Ei the Days of Anld Lang Syne for similar 
 longing for Scotland by one who went to the city. 
 
 Cf. Wordsworth's Reverie 0^ Poor Snsan. 
 
 1791. 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 (Edinburgh Ed., 1793.) 
 
 I AM not able to give the exact date of this poem ; but as Burns's 
 letter acknowledging the receipt of the snuff-box from Lady Winifred 
 Maxwell Constable is dated April 25, 1791, I conclude that this poem 
 belongs to the early days of 179 1. In return for the present, Burns 
 sent this poem. The Maxwells lost many of their estates in the cause 
 of the Stuarts. Here Queen Mary fled after the fatal event of Lang- 
 side. Ruins of the old baronial castle on the Nith are still to be 
 seen. 
 
322 NOTES. [1791] 
 
 "This is one of the greatest triumphs of simple art won through the 
 natural power of contrast, often so mysteriously manifested between 
 nature and our human lot, especially the joy of heaven and earth, and 
 our despondency, or even awful sorrow." — J. Veitch. 
 
 LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
 
 (^Edinburgh Ed., 1793.) 
 
 The noble earl deserves a place beside the gracious Dr. Blacklock 
 among the friends of Burns. The earl first met Burns in Edinburgh, 
 and at once interested himself in his welfare. He introduced him to 
 Creech, the Edinburgh publisher of note, and, as a result, through him 
 was issued the second edition of the poems. In 1787 Burns had 
 written some verses in honor of his patron ; but the earl, from motives 
 of modesty, did not wish them published, and the poet did not pre- 
 serve them. Burns at one time hoped to gain a pension, or post of 
 remuneration, through the earl's influence. He wrote to Dr. Moore, 
 " I had immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the patron 
 from whom all my fame and good fortune took its rise." It was such 
 feeling that inspired this pathetic poem. 
 
 Charles Kingsley says of the age in which Burns wrote, " Looking 
 around him in such a time, with his keen power of insight, his keen 
 sense of humor, what was there to worship? One feels painfully in 
 his poems the want of great characters, and still more painfully that 
 he has not drawn them simply because they were not there to draw. 
 That he has a true eye for what is noble when he sees it, let his 
 Lament for Glencairn testify." 
 
 Burns named one of his sons James Glencairn Burns. He was edu- 
 cated at Christ's Hospital by the earl, and afterwards became captain 
 in the army in India. 
 
 When Burns was ornamenting his farmhouse at Ellisland, he hung 
 the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn over his 
 parlor chimney-piece. Beneath the portrait of the earl he wrote: — 
 
 "Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? 
 And whose that eye of fire? 
 
[i79i] NOTES. 323 
 
 And whose that generous, princely mien 
 
 E'en rooted foes admire ? 
 Stranger! to justly show that brow, 
 
 And mark that eye of fire, 
 Would take his hand, whose vernal tints 
 
 His other works inspire." 
 
 Burns wrote to the sister of the lord, " My clearest existence I owe 
 to the noble house of Glencairn." Had this man lived, Burns would 
 not have died in poverty and want. 
 
 Cf. Tennyson, In the Garden at S7vai7iston. 
 
 THE BANKS O' BOON. 
 
 (^JoJuisoti' s J\Iuseian, 1792.) 
 
 There were three poems on tlie Doon, of which this and the follow- 
 ing are the best. 
 
 VERSION PRINTED IN THE MUSICAL MUSEUM. 
 {Cromek's Reliques, 180S.) 
 
 In sending this poem to a friend, in March, 1 79 1, Burns wrote, 
 " While here I sit sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little country 
 inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and 
 tells me he is going to Ayr. By heaven ! I say to myself, with a tide 
 of good spirits which the magic of that sound, ' Auld Toon o' Ayr,' 
 conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Ballantyne." This was 
 the second version, and the one which is usually meant when The 
 Banks d' Doon is mentioned. 
 
 It is in such poems as this that we get the full significance of the 
 Scotch dialect, — its grace and flexibility, its richness in vocal sounds, 
 its warmth and color, its capacity for the finest breath of sentiment, 
 and its atmosphere of homely, hearty melody. I believe that a vital 
 acquaintance with these songs will do much to quicken in the young a 
 love of simple, natural, wholesome music. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson says, "When the English language was 
 becoming more pedantic and inflexible, and English letters more 
 colorless and slack, there was another dialect in a sister country, and 
 a ^different school of poetry. The dialect was written colloquially, 
 
324 A'OTES. [1791] 
 
 which kept it fresh and supple; and although not shaped for heroic 
 flights, it was a direct and vivid medium for all that had to do with 
 social life." 
 
 It is this same dialect which gives to the works of Ian Maclaren 
 their chief charm as prose idyls. 
 
 Another version, the earliest, given by Douglas, is as follows: — 
 
 "Sweet are the banks — the banks o' Doon, 
 
 The spreading flowers are fair, 
 And everything is blythe and glad, 
 
 But I am free o' care. 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 
 
 That sings upon the bough ; 
 Tliou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause Luve was true : 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon 
 
 To see the woodbine twine ; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, 
 
 And sae did I o' mine : 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Upon its thorny tree ; 
 But my fause Luver staw the rose, 
 
 And left the thorn wi' me : 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Upon a morn in June ; 
 And sae I flourished on the morn. 
 
 And sae was pu'd on noon." 
 
 The two versions given here are the accepted versions, but they are 
 made up of the three given by Douglas. 
 
 Many are the rivers which have found immortality in song; but in 
 this poem, the most perfect in any language, the Doon is most fit- 
 tingly enshrined. To stand upon the old Tam O'Shanter bridge in 
 sight of Burns's memorial ; to wander on the banks of this beautiful 
 river in the quiet of the evening, as the scent of the wild-flowers is 
 borne upon the breeze, and the murmur of the stream is the oijly 
 
[i79i] NOTES. 325 
 
 sound to be heard, — puts one in tune with the sense and the soul of 
 the poetry written here. There is no place in the district so attractive 
 to the lover of Burns as this retired spot. 
 
 " Some thirty years ago A. Tennyson went over Burns's ground at 
 Dumfries. When he was one day by Doon side — ' I can't tell how it 
 was, Fitz, but I fell into a passion of tears ' — and A. T. was not given 
 to the melting mood at all " (Edward Fitzgerald to Fanny Kemble). 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. 
 {^Edinburgh Ed., 1793.) 
 
 Burns was invited by the Earl of Buchan to come to the coronation 
 of the bust of Thomson on Ednam Hill, at Dryburgh, on the 22d of 
 September, 1791. The poet was reaping when the invitation came; 
 he stopped work, walked along the Nith, and composed this poem, 
 which he sent to the Earl of Buchan. 
 
 The Earl composed the following for the coronation of the bust of 
 Burns at the foot of a statue of Wallace which he had erected near 
 Dryburgh in 1814 : — 
 
 " Poet of Coila, here at Wallace's feet, 
 
 Thy generous muse, thy manly soul, I greet, 
 Thy soul, now severed from a servile crew, 
 And blest, united to the chosen few ! 
 Too late I found thee, to redeem thy days 
 From bloated joys and ill-directed lays ; 
 But now I come, even with thy setting sun. 
 To see to thee some tardy justice done. 
 Upon thy bust, as once on Thomson's, I 
 Impose this chaplet, with a genial sigh; 
 And may our brave, unconquer'd country's fire 
 Still glow in song, and sparkle from her lyre." 
 
 AFTON WATER. 
 
 {Johiisofts Museum, 1792.) 
 
 LOCKHART says, "This poem Burns sent to Mrs. Stewart of Stair, 
 one of the first to admire his poetry." 
 
 Afton is an Ayrshire stream which flows into the Nith. There has 
 
326 NOTES. [1791] 
 
 been much controversy as to who is the heroine of the song ; but the 
 best evidence points to Highland Mary, who was buried in the kirk- 
 yard at Greenock. 
 
 The following quotation accompanied the original: " I charge ye, 
 O ye daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not up my love — my dove, 
 my undefiled ! The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the sing- 
 ing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land " 
 (R. B.). 
 
 Cf. Yai-ro7v Visited by Wordsworth, for similar spirit. 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 {^Johnson s JlTuseiim, 1792.) 
 
 The close of this year was one of the saddest in the life of our 
 poet. It was now demonstrated that he had made a poet's, not a 
 farmer''s choice. His crops did not yield him any adequate return for 
 the money he had expended. He had used the proceeds remaining 
 from the sale of the second edition of his poems. In August he decided 
 to sell the crops, and give up the lease, and in November the farming 
 business was wound up. 
 
 "It is not without deep regret," says Shairp, "that even now we 
 think of Burns's departure from this beautiful spot. If there was any 
 position on earth in which he could have been happy and fulfilled his 
 genius, it would have been on such a farm." 
 
 He moved to a house in what is now known as Burns Street, near the 
 lower end of Bank Vennel in Dumfries. Here the society was not 
 conducive to regular habits, either of business or art. He was thrown 
 in the company of an idle set, much to the injury of his reputation 
 among the steady-going peasantry. 
 
 "When in Edinburgh, Burns met Mrs. M'Lehose, who was a woman 
 of taste and refinement. She had great appreciation of his poetry, and 
 a lively correspondence resulted; but it lagged somewhat after Burns's 
 marriage. When he heard that slie was about to go to the West Indies, 
 he hastened to her m Edinburgh. This and the poem, A/y A'ajuiie's 
 Acua. were addressed to her. Doubtless one of them refers to this 
 
[1792] NOTES. 327 
 
 parting. Scott said, " These poems contain the essence of a thousand 
 love tales." "The last half of the second stanza (first poem) sug- 
 gested to Byron the motto for the Bride of Abydos."" — Cunningham. 
 
 1792. 
 
 Soon after Burns settled at Dumfries, it happened that Mr. George 
 Thomson, who was making a collection of Scottish songs, desired him 
 to contribute, and to assist in arranging the old songs. Thomson 
 wrote: "For the honor of Caledonia I would fain hope the writer 
 of The Cotter' s Saturday Night may be induced to take up the pen. 
 If so, we shall be able to present the public with a collection infinitely 
 more interesting than any that has yet appeared." Burns replied: 
 "As the request you make to me will positively add to my enjoy- 
 ments in complying with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with 
 all the small portion of abilities I have, strained to their utmost by the 
 impulse of enthusiasm. Only don't hurry me. ... In the honest 
 enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of 
 money, wages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright prostitution of 
 soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall 
 receive as a favor. In the rustic phrase of the season, ' Gude speed 
 the work.' " 
 
 THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN. 
 
 {Johnsofi's Museum, 1792.) 
 
 It is claimed by Lockhart that this poem was the result of an adven- 
 ture Burns once had with smugglers. In February, 1792, a suspicious 
 looking craft was seen in the Solway ; and Burns, as excise officer, 
 watched her until he was satisfied of her mission, when, backed by 
 some dragoons whom he had summoned from Dumfries, he proceeded 
 to board her. The vessel was condemned and sold. While Burns 
 was waiting for the dragoons, whom he had sent a brother gauger, 
 Lewars, to summon, he became indignant at the delay, and expressed 
 himself harshly, when the guard suggested that he put the tardy gauger 
 in the pillory by a song, and he at once composed this. Burns sent 
 four carronades which were captured from the brig to the French 
 
328 NOTES, ' [1792] 
 
 Government. They were stopped at Dover, and Burns was quietly 
 reprimanded for lack of patriotism. 
 Another chorus is: — 
 
 " The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 
 
 The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
 He's danced awa, he's danced awa, 
 He's danced awa wi' the Exciseman." 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 {Geo. Thomson'' s Coll., 1799.) 
 
 In sending this to Thomson, Burns wrote: "The foregoing song 
 pleases myself. I think it is in my happiest manner. You will see at 
 first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the 
 most interesting passages of my youthful days, and I own that I 
 should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would 
 insure celebrity." 
 
 " The poem is an excellent illustration of a certain happy arrange- 
 ment of syllables, without any sameness of jingle at the ends of the 
 lines. There is scarcely a true rhyme in the whole thirty-two verses, 
 and yet the ear is perfectly satisfied with its musical rhythm." — 
 Douglas. 
 
 Among the many interesting events connected with this centenary 
 year in Scotland is that of the dedication of the monument to High- 
 land Mary at Dumbarton, her birthplace. 
 
 BESSIE AND HER SPINNIN-WHEEL. 
 
 { Johnson^ s Mnseuiii, 1792.) 
 
 In matters of political and social economy Burns is in accord with 
 all the great poets who believe more in man than in machines. 
 Goldsmith sang : — 
 
 "A bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied." 
 
[1792] NOTES. 329 
 
 Wordsworth, in The Excursion (Book VIII.), gives a luminous pic- 
 ture of modern industrialism in its tendency to crush individuality in 
 the interest of the machine. The picture is familiar to us. 
 
 " Men, maidens, youtlis, 
 Mother and little children, boys and girls, 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 Within this temple, where is offered up 
 To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 
 Perpetual sacrifice." 
 
 Professor Blackie says, "The Celtic girl who stands by a spinning- 
 machine in some titanic Glasgow manufactory, merely to correct its 
 occasional false strokes, is a much less hearty, a much less noble, and 
 a much less interesting creature in every respect, than the Highland 
 nighean of a hundred years ago in a breezy hill cottage, who could 
 spin and weave with her own hands, and milk the cow, and attend 
 the dairy, and do a half dozen other things beside." 
 
 BONNIE LESLEY. 
 
 {Geo. Thojnsoti' s Coll., 1798.) 
 
 In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 1792, Burns says, '* Such, so delighting 
 and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting, the other day, 
 with Miss Leslie Baillie, your neighbor. Mr. Baillie, with his two 
 daughters, passing through Dumfries the other day on their way to 
 England, did me the honor of calling on me ; on which I took my 
 horse, and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
 spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine when I left them, and 
 riding home I composed this song. You must know there is an old 
 ballad beginning with, — 
 
 ' My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, 
 I'll rowe ye in my plaidie.' " 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 {Geo. Thotiisofi' s Coll., 1798.) 
 
 This rival of the racy and humorous Auld Robin Gray of Lady 
 Barnard, and Come Under My Plaidie^ of McNeil, was sent to Thorn- 
 
330 NOTES. [1793] 
 
 son with these words: " Duncan Gray is that kind of light horse gallop 
 of an air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling force." 
 Cunningham says Wilkie, the artist, made one of his best pictures out 
 of the last four lines of the first stanza. 
 
 ii. 3. Ailsa Craig : a rocky islet in the Firth of Clyde, near Ayr. 
 
 ii. 7. "Hon. Arthur Erskine wrote to the poet, 'This is a line 
 of itself that should make you immortal.' " — Douglas. 
 
 John Stuart Blackie wrote many songs for the Scottish Students^ 
 Song-Book, one of which is a parody on this poem. It alludes to one 
 who had a hard time in his Greek. 
 
 "Saml. Sumph cam' here for Greek. 
 
 Ha, ha, the Greeking o't! 
 Frae Dunnet Head he cam' for Greek. 
 
 Ha, ha, the Greeking o't. 
 Brains he had na unco much, 
 His schoohng was a crazy crutch, 
 But hke the crab he had a clutch; 
 
 Ha, ha, the Greeking o't ! " 
 
 He finally got through, and became a leader in the church: — 
 
 " In the kirk assembly he 
 Sits as big as big can be, 
 Moderator Sam, D.D. — 
 That s the crown o' the Greeking o't ! " 
 
 Burns wrote an earlier song to this tune for Johnson's Museum, but 
 it is much inferior to this. 
 
 1793- 
 
 GALLA WATER. 
 
 {Geo. Thomson^ s Coll., 1793.) 
 
 During this year Burns was busy writing for Thomson. He had 
 now returned to his native language, and with most excellent results. 
 "When Thomson asked for his assistance, Burns replied, " If you are for 
 English verses, there is on my part an end of the matter. Whether in 
 the simplicity of the ballad or the pathos of the song, I can only hope 
 
[1793] • NOTES. 331 
 
 to please myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native 
 tongue." It is doubtless to Burns's visit to the Highlands that we 
 owe this splendid song. He had touched up an old song for the 
 Museum at an earlier date, and the lilt so possessed him that at 
 the sight of the lovely river he burst forth in song. Galla Water 
 rises in Midlothian, and joins the Tweed near Abbotsford. It has had 
 an honored place in song. 
 
 Cf. Yarrow Unvisited, Wordsworth. 
 
 The old song which Burns's version supplanted is worth noting : — 
 
 Chorus — Braw, braw lads o' Gala Water, 
 Bonnie lads o' Gala Water; 
 London lads will ne'er compare 
 Wi' the braw, braw lads o' Gala Water. 
 
 The' barley rigs are fair to see, 
 
 Flocks o' sheep are meikle better ; 
 And oats will shake on a windy day, 
 
 When the lambs will play by Gala Water. 
 Braw, braw lads, etc. 
 
 London lads are black wi' reek, 
 
 Tevi'dale lads are little better; 
 But let them a' say what they will, 
 
 The gree gaes ay down Gala Water. 
 Braw, braw lads, etc. 
 
 There's Blindilee and Torwoodlee, 
 
 And Galashiels that rides the water; 
 But young Ha'tree he bears the gree 
 Of a' the Pringles o' Gala Water. 
 Braw, braw lads, etc. 
 
 Pringle was the laird of Gala Hill, and the name still survives in 
 Galashiels. The tourist by the Waverley route now sees the manu- 
 facturing town of Galashiels where, in the time of this ballad, there 
 was only a few thatched houses on the Selkirk side of the water." 
 — W. C. Douglas. 
 
 When Burns sent this to Thomson in January, he wrote, "Many 
 returns of the season to you, my dear sir. How comes on your publi- 
 cation? Will this be of any service to you? " 
 
 In the chorus of some texts we have There' s prefixed to first verse ; 
 and in the second, Ye wander thro' for They rove amang. 
 
332 NOTES. . [1793] 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 {,Geo. Thomson^ s Coll., 1793.) 
 
 The old song published by Herd, voL ii., p. 140: — 
 
 " Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie, 
 Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame," 
 
 must have suggested these verses. 
 
 Professor Blackie says in his Scottish So7ig, " Of these love-songs of 
 parting, not a fevs^ of the best are by Burns, the fire and force of whose 
 amorous passion, when in full career of enjoyment, was not more sig- 
 nificant of his intensely songful and soulful nature than the deep pathos 
 and delicate tenderness of his strains of bereavement." 
 
 This song is a revision of the following, Burns's first draft: — 
 
 " Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 
 Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; 
 Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie. 
 
 And telt me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 
 Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; 
 
 It was na the blast brought the tear to my e'e : 
 Now welcome the summer, and welcome my Willie, 
 
 The summer to nature, my Willie to me. 
 
 Ye hurricanes rest in the care of your slumbers, 
 
 O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
 Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows. 
 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 
 But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
 
 O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main ; 
 M^y I never see it, may I never trow it, 
 
 But dying believe that my Willie's my ain." 
 
 Both Mrs. Walter Riddel and Mrs. M'Lehose have been mentioned 
 as the heroine of this poem. 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 {Geo. Thomsoti's Coll., 1798.) 
 
 "The heroine of this poem was Jessie Staig, daughter of Provost 
 Staig of Dumfries. She married the son of the Laird of Dalswinton, 
 the poet's old landlord. She died in early life, but her beauty and 
 
 I 
 
[1793] NOTES. 333 
 
 gentleness are still remembered." — Cunningham. She died at the 
 age of twenty-six, and was buried in Dumfries churchyard. 
 
 Burns wrote to Thomson (1793), "One hint let me give you, — 
 whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original 
 Scottish airs, I mean in the song department; but let our national 
 music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild 
 and irreducible to the modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, per- 
 haps, depends a great part of their effect." 
 
 THE SODGER'S RETURN. 
 
 {Geo, Tho7nsotC s Coll., 1793.) 
 
 Scott tells us that when Burns visited Edinburgh, 1 786-1 787, he 
 
 saw him at the house of Professor Fergusson, and that he remembered 
 
 how Burns was affected by a print of Bunbury's representing a soldier 
 
 lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery beside him, and his 
 
 widow, with a child in her arms, standing by. Underneath were these 
 
 lines: — , 
 
 "Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden s plain, 
 
 Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain," etc. 
 
 " He actually shed tears," says Scott, " and asked whose lines they 
 were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered. Burns 
 rewarded me with a look and a word which I still recollect with great 
 pleasure." 
 
 This poem was suggested by Burns seeing an old soldier pass the 
 door of the inn at Brownhill, near Dumfries. He called him in, and 
 got him to tell him stories of war. 
 
 This pathetic ballad makes an excellent setting for the Scots 7vha* 
 hae. For richness and variety of heart experience Burns is a rival 
 of Shakespeare; most of our loves and our tears are reflected in his 
 work. 
 
 The air of this song is taken from one of Ramsay's, "The Mill, the 
 
 Mill, O." 
 
 " Beneath a green shade, I fand a fair maid 
 
 Was sleeping sound and still, O, 
 
 A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove 
 
 Around her wi' good will, O." 
 
334 NOTES. [1793] 
 
 "This poem," says Cunningham, " was sung in every vale, and on 
 every hill, in every cot-house, village, and town." 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 iCurrie, 1800.) 
 
 Burns wrote to Thomson: " Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your 
 bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty vil- 
 lains, who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and 
 lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
 still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recol- 
 lected the air of ' Logan Water. ' If I have done anything at all 
 like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three- 
 quarters of an hour's lucubrations in my elbow chair, ought to have 
 some merit." 
 
 An old song is as follows : — 
 
 " By Logan 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 gane, 
 And fu' o' grief I herd my lane; 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far from me and Logan braes." 
 
 THERE WAS A LASS. 
 
 {Currie, 1800.) 
 
 In his letter to Thomson, Burns says: " I have just finished the fol- 
 lowing ballad, and as I think it in my best style I send it to you. Mr. 
 Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's wood-note wild, is 
 very fond of it." The heroine is Miss M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, and 
 Burns sent the song to the family. Mr. Clarke was a music-teacher in 
 the M'Murdo family. 
 
[i793] NOTES. 335 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 {Jjeo. ThofHsofi's Coll., 1799.) 
 
 When Burns visited Galloway he was accompanied by fellow ex- 
 ciseman Mr. Syme, who preserved a record of the journey. Mr. Syme 
 says that after visiting Mr. Gordon at Kenmure, they passed over the 
 moors to Gatehouse in a wild storm: " The sky was sympathetic with 
 the wretchedness of the soil. It became lowering and dark, the winds 
 sighed hollow, the lightning gleamed, the thunders rolled. The poet 
 enjoyed the awful scene. He spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in 
 meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall. It poured in 
 floods upon us; and what do you think Burns was about? He was 
 charging the English army along with Bruce at Bannockburn." Two 
 days later, when they were returning from St. Mary's Isle to Dum- 
 fries, " he was engaged in the same manner ; and the next day he pro- 
 duced me the address of Bruce to his troops, and gave a copy to 
 Dalzell." This seems explicit enough; but when Burns sent it to 
 Thomson he wrote: *' There is a tradition which I have met with in 
 many places in Scotland, that the old air Hey, tiittie, taitie was Robert 
 Bruce's march at the Battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in yes- 
 ternight's evening walk, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
 theme of liberty and independence which I threw into a kind of Scot- 
 tish ode, fitted to the air that we might suppose to be the gallant royal 
 Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning. The 
 accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated 
 with the glowing ideas of some struggle of the same nature, not quite 
 so ancient, roused my rhyming mania." Burns made the visit to Gal- 
 loway in July. The above letter was dated September, but there seems 
 to be no serious conflict in the two statements. Christopher North 
 says, " We can more readily believe that Burns wrote ' yesternight's 
 evening walk ' to save himself the trouble of entering into any detail 
 of his previous study of the subject, than that Syme told a downright 
 lie." Carlyle says: "This Dithyrambic was composed on horseback, 
 in riding in the middle of a tempest, over the wildest Galloway moor 
 in company with Mr. Syme. So long as there is warm blood in the 
 
33^ NOTES, [1793] 
 
 heart of Scotchmen or man, it will move in fierce thrills under this 
 war ode, the best we believe that was ever written by any man." 
 
 In the original letter by Burns, there is a line of patriotic prose in 
 conclusion: "So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty 
 as he did that day ! Amen " (R. B.). 
 
 If one has ever heard a company of Scotch soldiers sing this noble 
 song, one will not soon forget the thrill and the fervor of it. 
 
 Some texts insert glorious before victorie in fourth verse, and 
 Edward is prefixed to the eighth. In the twelfth. Traitor^ Coward^ 
 is found in place of Let him; in the sixteenth, Caledonian is found 
 in place of Let him ; and in the twentieth, Forward is prefixed. 
 
 SONNET ON HEARING A THRUSH SING. 
 {Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 These lines were written in Burns's favorite resort, — the woods of 
 Cluden by the side of the Nith. " In summer he loved it," says Cun- 
 ningham, "for then the ground was covered with daisies and wild 
 hyacinths, the odor of honeysuckle came from the thorn, and the 
 song of the birds from the romantic groves, which, as with a garland, 
 enclose the ruins of Lincluden ; and in winter he loved to look on the 
 mingling waters of the Cluden and Nith, and see them swelling from 
 bank to brae." Cf. A Vision, p. 21 1. Hark! the Mavis, p. 213. 
 
 There are three clearly marked types of the lyric in English poetry, 
 — the lyric of passion uttering itself in the artlessness of art, coming 
 from the heart and going to the heart ; the lyric of contemplation, deep 
 and impassioned ; and the lyric of careful, deliberate, and pains-taking 
 work ; the lyrics of Burns, Wordsworth, and Gray respectively. 
 
 DAINTY DAVIE. 
 
 {Geo. Thofftson s Coll., 1799.) 
 
 Burns wrote to Thomson, "The words, 'Dainty Davie,' glide so 
 sweetly in the air, that to a Scot's ear any song to it, without Davie 
 being the hero, would have a lame effect." 
 
 Cunningham says, " Dainty Davie is the name of an old merry 
 
[i794] NOTES. 33/ 
 
 song from which Burns has borrowed nothing save the title and the 
 measure. It relates to the adventure of David Williamson, a preacher 
 of the days of the Covenant." 
 
 The pleasure the poet had in the work of ballad-making is seen in 
 a letter to Thomson, April, 1793. 
 
 "You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your 
 publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attach- 
 ment for ballads, your books, etc., ballad-making is now as completely 
 my hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en 
 canter it away till I come to the limit of my race (God grant that I 
 may take the right side of the winning-post!), and then cheerfully 
 looking back on th-e honest folks with whom I have been happy, 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'.'" 
 
 1794. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 (^Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 The ruins of Lincluden, at the junction of the Cluden and the 
 Nith, was a favorite resort of Burns. It was full of historic associa- 
 tions, and suggested to him this vision of Liberty at a time when Eng- 
 land and France were at war. The old Abbey was founded in the 
 reign of Malcolm IV. 
 
 Cf. 'Hark ! the Mavis, and Sonnet on Hearing a Thrush Sing. 
 
 The title of the first lyric, of which this is a revision, was The Alin- 
 ^trel of Lincluden. Burns had as little sympathy with the political 
 cause of England as had Wordsworth. He had once proposed the 
 toast: " May our success in the present war be equal to the justice of 
 our cause." 
 
 Cf. Wordsworth, Prelude. Book X. 315-330. 
 
 " If there did not something else go to the making of literature be- 
 sides mere literary parts, even the best of them, how long ago the old 
 bards and biblical writers would have been superseded by the learned 
 professors and gentlemanly versifiers of later times ! . . . Does any 
 
33^ NOTES. [1794] 
 
 one doubt that the great poets and artists are made up mainly of the 
 most common universal human and heroic characteristics ? Good 
 human stock is the main dependence. No good poet ever appeared 
 except from a race of good fighters, great eaters, good sleepers, and 
 good breeders." — John Burroughs. 
 
 HARK! THE MAVIS. 
 {Ciirrie, iSoo.) 
 
 In 1790 Burns had sent to Johnson's Museum an old song, Gz' the 
 Yowes, retouched and enlarged. On sending this to Thomson, he 
 wrote, " In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on 
 a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the old chorus which I 
 would preserve." Cf. A Vision, a.nd Sonnet on Hearing a Thrush. 
 
 Professor Veitch says, "There is no love-song worthy of the name 
 in all the Scottish songs, in which the passion is not associated with 
 the scenery." 
 
 iii. I. Clouden : A little river near Dumfries. 
 
 A RED, RED ROSE. 
 {Johnson'' s Mjtseurit, 1796.) 
 
 The song that suggested these lines to Burns was written by Lieu- 
 tenant Hinches as a farewell to his sweetheart. The first stanza is : — 
 
 " O fare thee well, my dearest dear, 
 
 Aud fare thee well a while ; * 
 
 But I am coming back again, 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile." 
 
 " This little love-chant has been a universal favorite since it was 
 first given to the world." — Douglas. 
 
 "Only those books are for the making of men into which a man 
 has gone in the making. Mere professional skill and sleight of hand, 
 of themselves, are to be apprised as lightly in letters as in war or gov- 
 ernment, or any kind of leadership. Strong native qualities only 
 avail in the long run ; and the more these dominate over the artificial 
 endowments, the more we are refreshed and enlarged." — John Bur- 
 roughs. 
 
[i794] ' NOTES. 339 
 
 MY CHLORIS. 
 {Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 The heroine of this song, and of the two following, was a flaxen- 
 haired daughter of a farmer at Kemmis Ha', on the banks of the Nith.' 
 Her name was Jean Lorimer. 
 
 " She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall." 
 
 The first song Burns addressed to her (1791) was in the interest 
 of a fellow exciseman, John Gillespie, who was fascinated with her 
 beauty. 
 
 The first stanza is: — 
 
 " Sweet closes the ev'ning on Craigie-burn-wood, 
 And blithely awakens the morrow ; 
 But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood 
 Can yield to me nothing but sorrow." 
 
 She declined John, and married a man who proved to be a worthless 
 fellow ; she refused to live with him, and returned to her parents. 
 Burns had great sympathy for her, and was so much impressed by her 
 beauty that he wrote several songs in her honor. The second song — 
 Poortith Cauld — has an element of the sermon in it, but the others 
 are love lyrics. Here is the last stanza : — 
 
 " How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 
 He woos his simple dearie ; 
 The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
 Can never make him eerie." 
 
 That Burns's admiration for Chloris was concealed from his wife, 
 or that she resented it, is disproven by the following letter, which 
 Burns wrote to Mr. Lorimer : — 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I called for you yesternight, but could not find you. I 
 want you to dine with me to-day. I have two honest Midlothian farmers 
 with me, who have travelled three-score miles to renew old friendship with 
 the poet ; and I promise you a pleasant party, a plateful of hotch-potch, and a 
 bottle of good sound port. Mrs. Burns desired me, yesternight, to beg the 
 favor of Jeany to come and partake with her ; and she was so obliging as to 
 
340 NOTES. [1794] 
 
 promise that she would. If you can come I shall take it very kind. Dinner 
 at three. Yours, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 To Mr. William Lorimer, senior, Farmer, 
 
 Douglas." 
 
 Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: " I like you for entering so candidly 
 and kindly into the story of ^Ma chere aniie.'' Conjugal love is a 
 passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate; but somehow it does 
 not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of 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 modulation of the human soul. 
 On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
 of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which 
 I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song." 
 
 Professor John Stuart Blackie says, "Those who do not understand 
 what Platonic love means may get a better notion of it from this lan- 
 guage of our ploughman bard than from all the dialogues of the great 
 Athenian idealist." 
 
 i. I. This is the reading of the MS. ; but in 1796 Burns changed it 
 to, " Behold, my love," etc. 
 
 i. 4. Jlaxeii hair : Changed \.o Ji owing xw 1796. 
 
 In another song sent to Thomson, 1794, — 
 
 SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A', 
 
 we have — 
 
 " Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
 Her eyes of a darker blue." 
 
 THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 
 {Geo. Thoinsofi's Coil., 1799.) 
 
 In November, 1794, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson of the Musetwi as 
 follows: — 
 
 '• Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in Eng- 
 lish songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs 
 
[i794] NOTES. 341 
 
 of which the measure is something similar to what I want; and with 
 a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm and the air exactly, to give 
 you them for your work. A song which, under the same first verse, 
 you will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany ^ I have cut down for 
 an English dress to your Daintie Davie, as follows." 
 
 Burns's first stanza is almost verbatim from Ramsay's, as is the first 
 half of the second; the rest of Ramsay's is as follows: — 
 
 " Kind Phoebus now began to rise, 
 And paint with red the eastern skies ; 
 Struck with the glory of her eyes, 
 
 He shrinks behind a cloud, — 
 Her mantle on a bough she lays, 
 And all her glory she displays ; 
 She left all nature in amaze. 
 
 And skipp'd into the wood, — 
 
 The bleating flock that then came by, 
 Soon as the charming nymph they spy, 
 They drop their hoarse and rueful cry, 
 
 And dance around the brooks. 
 The woods are glad, the meadows smile, 
 And Forth, which foamed and roar'd erewhile, 
 Glides calmly down as smooth as oil, 
 
 Through all its charming crooks." 
 
 ** Take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised 
 that I have made so much of it." — R. B. 
 
 LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 
 
 {Currte, iSoo.) 
 
 Of this poem Burns wrote, " It has at least the merit of a regular 
 pastoral ; the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, 
 and the winter night are regularly rounded." 
 
 Cunningham says, "Those acquainted with the poet's life and 
 habits of study will perceive that he is of that class of poets who wrote 
 best from what they see ; they look, and talk, and think, till their 
 feelings and fancy rise into the region of poesy, and then empty their 
 hearts into their verse. Dumfries is a small town ; a few steps carried 
 
342 NOTES. [1794] 
 
 Burns to green lanes, daisied braesides, and quiet stream-banks. Men 
 returning from labor were sure to meet him ' all under the light of the 
 moon,' sauntering forth as if he had no aim; his hands behind his 
 back, his hat turned up a little behind by the shortness of his neck, 
 and noting all, yet seeming to note nothing. Yet those who got near 
 without being seen might hear him humming some old Scottish air, 
 and fitting verses to it — the scene and the season supplying the im- 
 agery, and the Jeanies, the Nancies, the Phillies, and the Jessies of 
 his admiration furnishing bright eyes, white hands, and wavy tresses, 
 as the turn of the song required." 
 
 The original as here given had five stanzas ; but some texts give 
 only four, omitting the second, — one of the best stanzas in the song. 
 
 CONTENTED WP LITTLE. 
 
 {Geo. Thomson'' s Coll., 1799.) 
 
 BuRNs's health was now giving way under his stormy experiences ; 
 and he says, " I fear I am about to suffer from the follies of my youth." 
 It was at this time that he wrote this exceedingly optimistic song. 
 He intended it as a true picture of himself ; for when he sent it to 
 Thomson he wished a vignette of his picture to be prefixed to the song, 
 so that "the portrait of my face and the picture of my mind may go 
 down the stream together." 
 
 MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
 
 {Geo. Thomson" s Coll., 1799O 
 
 The heroine of this poem is not known, although it is probably Mrs. 
 M'Lehose. 
 
 Mrs. M'Lehose entertained Burns frequently at her house on Calton 
 Hill, Edinburgh. An intimacy resulted, which is revealed in a long 
 correspondence now published. Of Burns's letters she said, "They 
 are precious memorials of an acquaintance the recollection of which 
 would influence me were I to live till fourscore." 
 
[1795] NOTES. 343 
 
 1795- 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 {C7irrie, iSoo.) 
 
 We now come to the closing years of Burns's poetical work. From 
 the first he had been a revolutionist, and as such he remained to the 
 last. It was natural that he should uphold the principles of the French 
 Revolution with the same zeal that he showed for the great leaders in 
 Scotland's struggles against oppression. This loyalty to right cost him 
 dearly ; yet he was not to be scared nor bought, — he would speak out. 
 On the first day of the new year he gave to the world one of the clear- 
 est and soundest songs on Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity that ever 
 came from mortal lips, — "A soul-animating strain," indeed. When 
 these principles shall become the fundamentals of social and political 
 life, Christianity will have passed from creed to life, in which it first 
 manifested itself. 
 
 The note of the brotherhood of man and the federation of the world 
 came into English poetry as a result of the Revolution ; and the prelu- 
 sive notes to the chorus of the great singers, Burns, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge, were sounded by Cowper and Crabbe, 
 
 "Not in Cowper, not in Crabbe," says Stopford Brooke, "not in 
 any of the after poets, was the deep cry of the Revolution more clearly 
 heard than in this fine song. The practical result of much of Burns's 
 poetry in his age was to do similar work to that of Christ." 
 
 "Stronger words he never wrote," says Professor Shairp. It has 
 been quoted, they say, by Beranger in France, and by Goethe in Ger- 
 many, and is the word which springs up in the mind of all foreigners 
 when they think of Burns." 
 
 Professor Blackie, in concluding his work Scottish Song with this 
 piece, says, " In this song we have the finest combination of practical 
 philosophy, evangelical piety, and political wisdom that ever was put 
 into a popular song. In this song he soars above all party feelings, 
 and merely announces plainly what is the poet's mission, no less than 
 the prophet's, — to preach irom the housetop that there is no respect 
 of persons with God." 
 
344 NOTES. [1795] 
 
 When Burns sent this to Thomson he wrote, "A great critic 
 (Aiken) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive themes 
 for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and conse- 
 quently is no song ; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
 pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." 
 
 "Burns was one of the people, and he spoke for the people. He 
 broke the pathetic silence of the toiling multitudes with a voice so 
 sweet and strong and true that it rang into every heart that longs for 
 freedom and into every home where liberty is dear." — E. Charlton 
 Black. 
 
 THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
 (Currie, 1800.) 
 
 If the previous poem was characteristic of Burns's social creed, this 
 is as characteristic of his loyalty to his native land when that land was 
 threatened from without. As he had not hesitated to show his love of 
 freedom by praising Washington and criticising the Tory ministry under 
 Pitt, so now, when invasion was threatened from France, he showed his 
 patriotism by joining the Dumfries Volunteers; he had fought with the 
 pen, and he was ready to back up his pen with his sword. This act 
 must have disarmed those political pharisees who saw disloyalty in his 
 attitude toward the revolution in France and America. 
 
 " We find him," says Professor Blackie, " in all the dignity of Ker- 
 seymere breeches, short blue coat faced with red, and round hat, en- 
 rolled in the loyal ranks of the Dumfries Volunteers." 
 
 "I remember," says Cunningham, "his swarthy face, his very 
 ploughman stoop, and indifferent dexterity in handling his arms." 
 
 The incident which gave rise to this poem was characteristic and 
 natural. Of course it was expected by the volunteers that whenever 
 there was any patriotic speaking to be done, their soldier-poet would 
 be ready with his wit and wisdom. Accordingly, when at a public 
 dinner, Burns was asked to propose a toast, he rose amid rapturous 
 applause and gave the toast, " Gentlemen, may we never see the 
 French, and may the French never see us," there was the greatest dis- 
 
[1795] NOTES. 345 
 
 appointment. Burns felt disturbed, and when he returned home wrote 
 these verses, 
 
 " This song hit the taste and suited the feelings of the humbler 
 classes. Hills echoed with it; it was heard in every street, and did 
 more to right the mind of the rustic part of the population than all the 
 speeches of Pitt and Dundas." — Cunningham. 
 
 Copies of it in sheet song were distributed to the corps to which 
 Burns belonged. 
 
 i. 5. Corsicon: A hill near the Nith. 
 
 i. 6. Criffel : A mountain near the Nith. 
 
 The MS. of this poem is in the possession of J. Dick, Esq., Stirling. 
 In it the last two verses of each stanza as here given are repeated, with 
 the exception that in the first stanza the seventh verse begins we^ II 
 ne^er permit^ and in the second, the seventh verse begins No ! never. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 
 
 {Geo. Thonison^s Coll., 179S.) 
 
 Quite as much as Wordsworth, Burns was an open-air poet. He 
 had but a small library ; but his shidy was large and airy — nothing 
 less than the woods, the fields, and the streams of his Lowland home. 
 Over these he shed a lustre as unfading as that which the poet of 
 *' plain living and high thinking" cast upon the hills and vales of 
 Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
 
 " Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 
 By Skiddaw seen." 
 
 This pathetic little song is colored with the sombre hue of the set- 
 ting of this mighty orb of song. 
 
 Mr. Matthew Arnold says: " If I were ever asked where English 
 poetry got these three things, its turn for style, its turn for melancholy, 
 and its turn for natural magic for catching and rendering the charm of 
 nature in a wonderfully near and vivid way, — I should say, with some 
 doubt, that it got much of its turn for style from a Celtic source ; with 
 less doubt, that it got much of its melancholy from a Celtic source ; 
 
34^ NOTES. [1795] 
 
 with no doubt at all, that from a Celtic source it got nearly all its 
 natural magic. " 
 
 Mr. Douglas gives the following, which was in pencil MS. in the 
 poet's own hand, — evidently an early draft of this poem. 
 
 ON HEARING A BIRD SING WHILE MUSING ON CHLORIS, 
 
 " Sing on, sweet songster. O' the brier, 
 Nae stealthy hunter-foot is near ; 
 O sootlie a hapless lover's ear, 
 Aad dear as life I'll prize thee. 
 
 Again, again that tender part. 
 That I may learn thy melting art, 
 For surely that would touch the heart 
 O' her that still denies me. 
 
 O was thy mistress, too, unkind, 
 And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
 For nocht but Love and Sorrow joined. 
 Sic notes of woe could wauken. 
 
 The nightingale undoubtedly occupies first place in the affection of 
 poets, and the lark is an easy second ; it is companion " of the plough- 
 man, the shepherd, the harvester — whose nest is in the stubble, and 
 whose tryst is in the clouds." 
 
 Cf, Shelley, Ode to a Skylark; Wordsworth, To a Skylark. 
 
 " Bird of the wilderness, 
 Blithesome and cumberless, 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea I 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 Blest be thy dwelling-place — 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! " 
 
 Hogg. 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 'tis friendship's pledge. 
 
 The fate of Burns's Chloris was a sad one. Her father lost his 
 property, and she became a wanderer. She lived in Edinburgh the 
 last years of her life, and died in 1 83 1. Mr. Douglas gives a letter of 
 hers, in which she says ; — 
 
[1795] NOTES. 347 
 
 " Burns's Chloris is infinitely obliged to Mrs. for her kind 
 
 attention. Ruth was kindly treated by Boaz ; perhaps Burns's Chloris 
 may enjoy similar fate in the fields of men of talent and worth. Mch. 
 2, 1825." 
 
 When Burns sent one of his songs on Chloris to Thomson, he wrote 
 as follows: — 
 
 "The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished 
 a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it 
 in my power to please her so much.'' 
 
 "The great charm of a woman, in Burns's eyes, was always her 
 womanhood, and not the angelic mixture which other poets find in 
 her." — Hawthorne. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 {Geo. Thojnson'' s Coll., 1799-) 
 
 It is interesting to note that when the poet was himself in the 
 depths and facing the inevitable, he possessed the "luxury of exist- 
 ence," — the power to sympathize with those who had been his fellows 
 in suffering. Alexander Cunningham was one of the Edinburgh friends 
 whose love and loyalty were shown throughout Burns's life. He was 
 in turn loved by Burns, who was wont to place him with the Earl of 
 Glencairn, his patron in art. When he suffered by the unfaithfulness 
 of his fair lady, Burns consoled him by sending him many songs, and 
 among them this beautiful lyric. " With these five double stanzas," 
 says Douglas, was sent a song to Chloris; 
 
 O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER, 
 
 " O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 
 
 That blooms sae fair frae haunt o' man ; 
 And bonnie she, and ah, liow dear! 
 It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 
 
 Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 
 
 How pure among the leaves sae green ; 
 But purer was the lover's vow 
 
 They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 
 
348 NOTES. [1795] 
 
 All in its rude and prickly bower, 
 
 That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! 
 But love is far a sweeter flower 
 
 Amid life's thorny path o' care. 
 
 The pathless wild, and wimpling bum, 
 
 Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
 And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
 
 Its joys and griefs alike resign. " 
 
 These poems formed the contents of one sheet transcribed by the 
 poet for his "very much valued friend Mr. Cunningham," on 3d 
 August in 1795, and signed " Coila." It is addressed thus: " To Mr. 
 Cunningham, une bagatelle de I'amitie." 
 
 "On the 20th January thereafter," says Douglas, "the poet, as if 
 just awakened out of a trance, thus addressed Mrs. Riddel : ' The 
 Muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanzas I 
 intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd despairing 
 beside a clear stream,' ' L'amour, toujours I'amour.' He then tran- 
 scribes the three central verses of this poem to Mr. Cunningham with- 
 out variation." 
 
 The last letter he wrote to Mr. Cunningham was on July 10, 1796, 
 only a few days before his death. In it he says: " Alas! my friend, 
 I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ! 
 For these eight or ten months I have been ailing. You would not 
 know me if you saw me ! " 
 
 Alluding to the fact that so many in Burns's time recognized him, 
 and valued him at his true worth, Hawthorne says: — 
 
 "It is far easier to know and honor a poet when his fame has taken 
 shape in the spotlessness of marble, than when the actual man comes 
 staggering before you besmeared with the sordid stains of his daily 
 life. For my part, I chiefly wonder that his recognition dawned so 
 brightly while he was yet living. There must have been something 
 very grand in his immediate presence, some strangely impressive char- 
 acteristic in his natural behavior, to have caused him to seem like a 
 demigod so soon," 
 
[i796] NOTES. 349 
 
 1796. 
 
 ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 
 
 {Geo. Thomsoti' s Coll., 1799.) 
 
 Early in this year Burns went to the shores of the Solway to try 
 the sea-bathing; and while there he met Mrs. Riddel, whom he had 
 not seen for some time. She wrote, " I was struck with his appear- 
 ance on entering the room. He seemed already touching the brink of 
 eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, madam, have you any com- 
 mands for the other world? ' 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. . . . His anxiety for his family 
 seemed to hang heavy on him. ... He said he was well aware that 
 his death would create some noise, and that every scrap of his writing 
 would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation. 
 ... I had seldom seen his mind greater or more collected." This 
 prediction of his was not wide of the mark. What the many-headed 
 beast did the world knows, and is ashamed of. 
 
 He returned to Dumfries in July, and here he died on the 21st. 
 During his last illness he was nursed by a young neighbor lass, Jessy 
 Lewars (Mrs. Burns being ill) ; and surely her ministrations were not 
 without their reward, for this song and the following two have made 
 her name known throughout the world. She was married in 1799 to 
 one Thomson of Dumfries. A family of five sons and two daughters 
 resulted from this union. In 1844, at the Burns festival at Ayr, she 
 and her husband sat next to the relatives of the poet, on the right 
 hand of the chairman. She survived her husband several years, and 
 lived at Maxwelltown, near Dumfries. She died in 1855, and was 
 buried near the mausoleum of the bard. 
 
 " W^e recollect no poet of Burns's susceptibility who comes before 
 Hs from the first and abides with us to the last with a total want of 
 affectation." — Carlyle. 
 
350 NOTES. [1796] 
 
 O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 
 
 (Currie, 1800.) 
 
 Professor Shairp says that one morning the poet told Jessy if she 
 would play to him some favorite tune for which she would like new 
 words, he would try to furnish them. She sat down at the piano, and 
 played over several times the air of an old song beginning thus: — 
 
 " The robin cam' to the wren's nest, 
 And keekit in, and keekit in," 
 
 whereupon Burns composed this beautiful song. 
 
 Mendelssohn composed a melody for the words of Burns's song, 
 which he arranged as a duet. 
 
 Dr. John Brown declared this to be " the most perfect, the finest 
 love-song in our or in any language ; the love being affectionate, 
 more than passionate, — love in possession, not in pursuit." 
 
 There are two classes of poets as related to each individual reader, 
 — those who are admired and revered, and those who are loved. We 
 do not love Homer and ^schylus, Virgil and Dante, Shakespeare and 
 Milton; they are too far away from us; they are not touched with the 
 feeling of our infirmities; but we love Robert Burns, even with all his 
 faults, and possibly because many of them are so like our own. These 
 faults he was not slow to acknowledge, for sincerity was the funda- 
 mental note of his being. He would not wish us to love his faults, 
 nor to forget them, but to profit by them. 
 
 The pathos of these last days at Dumfries is very intense. There 
 is no sadder picture in history than that of this sweet soul crushed 
 under the burden too heavy for it to sustain, and yielding its divine 
 fragrance to the world. 
 
 '"Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels 
 Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day 
 Beside you, and lie down at night by you, 
 "Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep, 
 And all at once they leave you, and you know them ; 
 We are so fooled, so cheated ! " 
 
 Burns's last letters were to his oldest and most loyal friends, — 
 Cunningham, Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Riddel. He does not forget 
 
[i796j NOTES. 351 
 
 to thank them for all the pleasure they have given him. Perhaps we 
 ought not to complain if he did not ; but yet we have to ask why it 
 was that those who knew him, in those days when he shed such a 
 lustre upon the inner circle of the Edinburgh gentry, did not lift 
 a hand to ease him of his great load. Could he but hear the voices 
 which rise upon every hand in this centenary year, from poet, press, 
 and pulpit even, he might praise the early martyrdom which was but 
 for time, while he views the apotheosis which is for eternity. Not the 
 least of his satisfaction would come, I fancy, from the thought that he 
 had influenced other poets. Mr. William Watson has alluded to the 
 passing of Burns and the coining of Wordsworth and Coleridge, as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Bright was his going forth, but clouds ere long 
 
 Whelmed him ; in gloom his radiance set, and those 
 Twin morning stars of the new century's song, 
 
 Those morning stars that sang together, rose." 
 
 Of his death on the 2ist of July, 1796, Alexander Smith writes: — 
 
 "Mighty is the hallowing of death to all — to him more than to 
 most. Farmer no longer, exciseman no longer, subject no longer to 
 criticism, to misrepresentation, to the malevolence of mean natures and 
 evil tongues, he lay there, the great poet of his country, dead too early 
 for himself and for it. He had passed from the judgment of Dumfries, 
 and made his appeal to Time." 
 
 " In his family Burns was the watchful, kindly, diligent father, — 
 not to be spoken of in the same day with the father who neglects his 
 household for himself, who forgets their need, and loses their love ; 
 and the man who degrades him as an habitual drunkard, unable to 
 meet life's daily duties, does not know what he is speaking of." — Dr. 
 Edward Everett Hale, address at the Burns Centennial, Boston, 
 July 21, 1896. 
 
 " We are near the century of Burns's death, and his fame stands 
 beyond question higher than ever; and a fame, let us remember, not of 
 the coteries, but, so to speak, of the equator." — Ernest Rhys. 
 
 Dumfries is the least poetical of the homes of Burns ; yet, notwith- 
 standing all its commonplace, one would as naturally omit going to 
 Stratford in England, as to pass by Dumfries in Scotland. The house 
 
352 NOTES. [1796] 
 
 in which he lived the last few years of his life, and in which he died, 
 July 21, 1796, is a two-story stone house, with nothing to distinguish 
 it from its neighbors. Burns's study and his bedchamber adjoining 
 are upon the second floor. We can hardly believe that from this pro- 
 saic place some of Burns's richest and sweetest songs were given to 
 the world. The old Church of St. Michael's is in a more interesting 
 section of the town, and here in the churchyard is the mausoleum of 
 Burns. It stands over the vault in which rest the bones of the poet, 
 Jean Armour, and some of his children. 
 
 The monument is a sort of Grecian temple with dome and pillars. 
 It was originally open to the weather, but is now enclosed with glass. 
 In the floor is the gravestone which Jean had put upon the poet's 
 grave before the monument was erected. Here is the marble statue 
 of Burns at the plough, as he sees the Vision of the Muse of Cale- 
 donia, and hears her call to join the tuneful choir. If we go into the 
 plain old church, the attendant will point out to us the poet's family 
 pew. 
 
 ** As we leave these somewhat melancholy scenes, we are reminded 
 of the words of Wordsworth : — 
 
 ' Sighing I turned away ; but ere 
 Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear, 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chanted in love that casts out fear 
 By Seraphim.' " 
 
 POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 {Currie, iSoo.) 
 
 The date of this is uncertain. Some place it in 1 791. I have put 
 it the last in this collection because it was found in the poet's manu- 
 script after his death, and because it is a fitting tribute to one of 
 Burns's masters ; but most of all because it breathes the very atmos- 
 phere of our poet's best work : — 
 
 "Tliat charm that can the strongest quell, 
 Tlie sternest move." 
 
[1796] NOTES. 353 
 
 We have already seen Burns paying tribute to Ramsay for his work in 
 restoring and resetting the old songs, as well as for his work in writ- 
 ing new. He is in every way worthy of such tribute ; for by his Tea- 
 Table Miscellany, published in 1724, he did for Scottish poetry what 
 Cowper and Crabbe were to do for English poetry : he brought it 
 back to the business and bosoms of the Scottish peasantry after its 
 wanderings with the poets of the Stuart period. In this poem Burns 
 gives Honest Allan a still higher tribute of restoring the pastoral in his 
 Gentle Shepherd. Here for the first time were revealed the beauty 
 and the power of the pastoral landscape of the Lowlands. 
 
 Where a' the sweets of Spring and Summer grow 
 Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin, 
 The water fa's and makes a singin' din, 
 A pool, breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, 
 Kisses with easy whiris the bord'ring grass; 
 We'll end our washing while the morning's cool; 
 And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, 
 There wash oursells — 'tis healthfu' now in May, 
 And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day." 
 
 Here indeed auld Nature is painted to the nines. 
 
 Cf. Veitch, Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry (Ramsay); 
 Mrs. Oliphant, Royal Edinburgh (Ramsay); Kingsley, Burns and 
 His School. 
 
 Mr. Matthew Arnold, in his lectures on Celtic literature, gives four 
 characteristic modes of treating nature, — the conventional, the faith- 
 ful, the Greek, the magical. He says that in each of the last three 
 the eye is upon the object, " but with a difference; in the faithful way 
 of handling nature, the eye is on the object, and that is all you can 
 say; in the Greek, the eye is on the object, but lightness and bright- 
 ness are added; in the magical, the eye is on the object, but charm 
 and magic are added. In the conventional way of handling nature the 
 eye is not on the object. What that means we all know. We have 
 only to think of our eighteenth century poetry to call up any number 
 of instances." Cf. Sharp, Lyra Celtica. 
 
354 NOTES. [1796] 
 
 " Now he haunts his native land 
 As an immortal youth ; his hand 
 
 Guides every plough ; 
 He sits beside each ingle-nook, 
 His voice is in each rushing brook, 
 Each rustling bough," 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 " I fling my pebble on the cairn 
 Of him, though dead, undying! 
 Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn, 
 Beneath her daisies lying. 
 
 We love him, praise him, just for this; 
 
 In every form and feature, 
 
 Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss. 
 
 He saw his fallen creature." 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 It is said that the Scotch sing by turns the Psalms of David and the 
 songs of Burns. When John Stuart Blackie was dying he asked his 
 servant to sing his favorite psalm, and said, "The Psalms of David 
 and the songs of Burns; but mind, the psalmist first ! " 
 
 Although Burns was a democrat, yet he cherished that symbolism 
 which represented title to greatness. Here is the coat-of-arms which 
 he described in a letter to Cunningham in March, 1792. 
 
 "I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
 arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, proper in base; a shep- 
 herd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath 
 of the colors, a wood-lark, perching on a sprig of bay-tre«, proper for 
 crest. Two mottoes, round the top of crest. Wood notes wild, at the 
 bottom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee bush than nae 
 bield.'' 
 
 "Other poets may be the favorites of a class or a clique; Burns is 
 the favorite of the whole world. The secret of this universal favor 
 is to be found in the fact that he was born in a lowly condition of 
 life, close to our mother earth, and gave utterance to the rudimentary 
 sentiments, the abiding sorrows, and the constant yearnings of human 
 nature." — Alfred Austin, Address at the Unveiling of the Statue 
 to Burns at Irvine, July, 1896. 
 
BURNS IN OTHER TONGUES. 
 
 The works of Burns have been translated into the following lan- 
 guages : — 
 
 German. Flemish. French. 
 
 Swiss. African Dutch. Italian. 
 
 Danish. Friesian, Latin. 
 
 Norwegian. Bohemian. Scottish Gael. 
 
 Swedish. Hungarian. Irish Gael. 
 
 Dutch. Russian. Welsh. 
 
 The Cotter'' s Saturday Night has been translated into twelve lan- 
 guages; yohn Anderson^ eleven; Aidd Lang Syne and A l\Ian''s a 
 Man^ ten; Tavi (9' Shanter, nine; To Mary in Heaven, nine, etc. 
 
 RULES FOR PRONOUNCING SCOTCH WORDS. 
 
 "The ch and gh have always the guttural sound (loch, bught); 
 sound of the English diphthong oo is commonly spelled ozi (mou, fou) ; 
 the French ti, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, 
 is marked oo or tii (loof, guid). The a in genuine Scottish words, 
 except when forming a diphthong (wae), or followed by an e mute, 
 after a single consonant (saut), sounds like broad a in wall. The 
 Scottish diphthong ae always (fae), and ea very often (lear, wean), like 
 French e masculine. Scottish diphthong ey (fey) sounds like Latin 
 ^/." — Burns Glossary. 
 
 Mr. Douglas says, "We are informed that all Burns's Ayrshire and 
 Dumfriesshire countrymen pronounce ane (one) and ajice (once), yin 
 and yince." 
 
 355 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 A', all. 
 
 Abeigh, at a shy distance. 
 
 Aboon, above. 
 
 Abreed, in breadth. 
 
 Ae, otie. 
 
 Aften, often. 
 
 A-gley, off the right line. 
 
 Aiblins, perluips. 
 
 Aik, a7i oak. 
 
 Ain, o^vn. 
 
 Aim, iron. 
 
 Aims, irons. 
 
 Airt, direction. 
 
 Aith, an oath. 
 
 Aiver, an old horse. 
 
 Aizle, a hot cinder. 
 
 Amaist, almost. 
 
 Amang, among. 
 
 An', a7id. 
 
 Ance, once. 
 
 Ane, one. 
 
 Anes, ones. 
 
 Anither, another. 
 
 Ase, ashes. 
 
 Asklent, obliquely. 
 
 Asteer, astir. 
 
 Aught, eight. 
 
 Auld, old. 
 
 Auld's, as old as. 
 
 Ava, at all. 
 
 Awa, away. 
 Ay, always. 
 Ayoiit, beyond. 
 
 Baggie (dim. of hag), the stomach. 
 Bairns, childre7t. 
 Baimtime, a family of children. 
 Baith, both. 
 Ballats, ballads. 
 Ban', band. 
 Banes, bodies. 
 Bardie, dim. of bard. 
 Barmie, of, or like barm. 
 Batts, the baits. 
 Banks, cross-beams. 
 Bauk-en', end of a bank or cross-beam. 
 Bauld, bold. 
 
 Bawk, an open space in a cornfield, gen- 
 erally a ridge left untilled. 
 Beastie, dim. of beast. 
 Bellum, a noise, a7i attack. 
 Bely ve, by attd by. 
 Ben, into the spence or parlor. 
 
 Bicker, a woodett dish. 
 
 Bield, shelter. 
 
 Bien, plentiftd. 
 
 Biggin, building. 
 
 Bill, a bull. 
 
 Billie, a goodfelloav. 
 
 Birdies, dim. of birds. 
 
 Birks, birches. 
 
 Birken, birclien. 
 
 Birken shaw, a small birch wood. 
 
 Birkie, a spirited fellow. 
 
 Bizz, a btistle. 
 
 Bizzies, buzzes. 
 
 Blae, blue. 
 
 ZS1 
 
358 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Blate, shamefaced. 
 
 Blaudin', pelting. 
 
 Blaw, to blow. 
 
 Blaws, blows. 
 
 Bleerit, bleared. 
 
 Bleezin, blazing. 
 
 Blellum, an idle-talking fellow. 
 
 Blether, the bladder. 
 
 Blethers, 7ionsense. 
 
 Bleth'rin, talking idly. 
 
 Blin', blind. 
 
 Blinks, looks smilingly. 
 
 Blinkin , S7nirkittg. 
 
 Blude, blood. 
 
 Bluid, blood. 
 
 Blypes, large pieces. 
 
 Boddle, a small coin. 
 
 Bogles, ghosts. 
 
 Bonnie, beautiful. 
 
 Bonnocks, thick cakes of oatmeal bread. 
 
 Boortrees, elder shrubs. 
 
 Bouses, drinks. 
 
 Bow-kail, cabbage. 
 
 Brae, the slope of a hill. 
 
 Braing't, reeled forivard. 
 
 Brak, did break. 
 
 Branks, a kind of woode^t curb for 
 
 horses. 
 Brattle, a short race. 
 Braw, Jiafidsome. 
 Brawly, perfectly. 
 
 Breastit, did spring up or forward. 
 Yjree, j7iice, liquid. 
 Brent, straight. 
 Brig, bridge. 
 Briskit, breast. 
 Brock, a badger. 
 Brose, oatmeal pottage. 
 Brunstane, brijnsioj/e. 
 Brunt, bitrned. 
 
 Buirdly, strong, imposing-looking. 
 Bum-clock, a beetle. 
 Burdies, damsels. 
 Bure, bore, did bear. 
 
 Burns, streams. 
 
 Bumie, dim. of burti. 
 
 But, without. 
 
 But an' ben, kitchen atid parlor. 
 
 Byre, cow-hotise. 
 
 Ca', to drive. 
 
 Ca's, calls. 
 
 Ca't, called. 
 
 Cairn, rustic inonument, or heap of 
 stones. 
 
 Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 
 
 Callans, boys. 
 
 Caller, fresh. 
 
 Cam, came. 
 
 Cannie, carefully, softly. 
 
 Cantie, in high spirits. 
 
 Cantrip, a char in, a spell 
 
 Cape-stane, cope-stone. 
 
 Carlin, an old woinan. 
 
 Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 
 
 Chapman, a peddler. 
 
 Chiels, young fellows. 
 
 Chimla, chimney. 
 
 Chows, chews. 
 
 Clachan, a hamlet. 
 
 Clap, a clapper. 
 
 Clarkit, wrote. 
 
 Clatter, to talk idly. 
 
 Claut, to s?iatch at, to lay hold of a quan- 
 tity scraped together by niggardli- 
 ness. 
 
 Clautet, scraped. 
 
 Claver, clover. 
 
 Clavers, idle stories. 
 
 Claw, scratch. 
 
 Cleed, to clothe. 
 
 Cleekit, linked themselves. 
 
 Clishmaclaver, idle cottversaiioji. 
 
 Cloot, the hoof. 
 
 Clootie, Satan. 
 
 Clout, to patch. 
 
 Clud, a chntd. 
 
 Coble, a fishing-boat. 
 
GLOSSARY, 
 
 F 
 
 359 
 
 Cog, a wooden dish. 
 Coggie, dim. of cog. 
 Coois, /ools, ninnies. 
 Cookit, that appeared and disappeared 
 by Jits. 
 
 Coost, did cast. 
 
 Coot, ivater/owl. 
 
 Cootie, a ^vooden kitchen dish. 
 
 Corn't, fed with oats. 
 
 Couthie, kifidly, loving. 
 
 Cowpit, tumbled 
 
 Cowt, a colt. 
 
 Crack, a story or Jiarangtie. 
 
 Craig, the throat. 
 
 Craiks, landrails. 
 
 Crambo-jingle, rhyjnes. 
 
 Cranreuch, hoarfrost. 
 
 Craw, to crow. 
 
 Creeshie, greasy. 
 
 Croods, coos. 
 
 Croon, a hollow and continued moan. . 
 
 Crouchie, crook-backed. 
 
 Crouse, gleefully, with spirit. 
 
 Curpin, the crupper. 
 
 Curple, the crupper. 
 
 Cushats, wood-pigeo7LS. 
 
 Custock, the centre of a stem of cab- 
 bage. 
 
 Daimen-icker, afi ear of corn now and 
 
 then. 
 Dappl't, dappled. 
 Darklings, darkling. 
 Daur't, dared. 
 
 Daut, to fondle, to make much of. 
 Dsiv/tit, fondled, caressed. 
 Daurk, a day^s labor. 
 Deave, to deafen. 
 Deil, devil. 
 
 Deil haet, devil a thing. 
 Deleerit, delirious. 
 Ding, to surpass. 
 Dinner'd, dieted. 
 Dirl, a vibrating blow. 
 
 Dizzen, a dozen. 
 
 Donsie, unlucky. 
 
 Dools, sorrows. 
 
 Douce, grave, sober. 
 
 Doure, stubborti. 
 
 Dow, do, can. 
 
 Dowie, low-spirited. 
 
 Drappie, dim. of drap. 
 
 Dreeping, drippiiig- 
 
 Dreigh, tedious. 
 
 Drift, a drove. Fell aff the drift, wan- 
 dered frotn his companions. 
 
 Droddum, tJie breech. 
 
 Drone, the bagpipe. 
 
 Droop-rumpl't, droopiitg to7vard tlie 
 crupper. 
 
 Droukit, wet, drenched. 
 
 Drouthy, thirsty. 
 
 Drumly, muddy. 
 
 Duds, garmejits. 
 
 Duddie, ragged. 
 
 Duddies, garments. 
 
 Dusht, pushed by a ram or ox. 
 
 Een, eyes. 
 
 Eerie, scared, dreading spirits. 
 
 Eild, age. 
 
 Eldritch , frightftd. 
 
 Erse, Gaelic. 
 
 Ettle, design. 
 
 Eydent, diligetit. 
 
 Y2i,fall. 
 
 Fa', lot. 
 
 ¥z.Q,foe. 
 
 Fairin, a prescttt, a reward. 
 
 Y2inA,fo7ind. 
 
 Fash, trouble myself. 
 
 Fash't, troubled. 
 
 Fasten-een, Fastens-even. 
 
 Fatt'rels, ribbon-e^ids. 
 
 Faught, a fight. 
 
 Faulding, /^/d?m^. 
 
 Y2.\x%^,fcdse. 
 
36o 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 G 
 
 Fawsont, seemly. 
 
 Feat, spruce. 
 
 Fecht, tofight. 
 
 Feg, a fig. 
 
 Fell, ^^ _/f^5A ivnncdiately under the 
 skin. 
 
 Fen, a successful struggle, a shift. 
 
 Fend, to keep off. 
 
 Ferlie, to wonder. 
 
 Fetch't, pulled interinittently. 
 
 Fidge, to fidget. 
 
 Y\A.^n-i7i\\\, fidgetting with eagerness. 
 
 Fiel, soft, stnooth. 
 
 Fient, a petty oath. The fient a, the devil 
 a bit of. 
 
 Fillie, a filly. 
 
 Y It, foot. 
 
 Fittie-lan, the near horse of tlie hind- 
 most pair in the plough. 
 
 Flainen, fla7i7iel. 
 
 Flatt'rin, flattering. 
 
 Fleech'd, supplicated. 
 
 Fleesh, a fleece. 
 
 Fley'd, scared. 
 
 Flichterin', fluttering. 
 
 Flingin-tree, a flail. 
 
 YYiskii, fretted. 
 
 Flit, remove. 
 
 Fodgel, squat or plump. 
 
 Foord, a ford. 
 
 Yorhe.?irs, forefathers. 
 
 Forbye, besides. 
 
 Forf oughten , fatigued. 
 
 Forgather, to fjiake acquaintance with. 
 
 Forgather'd, viet. 
 
 Forrit, forward. 
 
 Yo\x,full. 
 
 Foughten, troubled. 
 
 Fouth, an abundance. 
 
 YrdiQ,fro7n. 
 
 ¥\x\fzdl. 
 
 Fuff't, did blow. 
 
 Gabs, tongues. 
 
 Gaed, walked. 
 
 Gaets, fnanners. 
 
 Gane, gone. 
 
 Gang, to go. 
 
 Gar, to make. 
 
 Gar't, tnade. 
 
 Gash, sagacious. 
 
 Gashin, conversing. 
 
 Gate, manner. 
 
 Gaun, going. 
 
 Ga.v/cie, jolly, large. 
 
 Gear, wealth, goods. 
 
 Geordie, George. The yellow letter'd 
 
 Geordie, a guiiiea. 
 Ghaists, ghosts. 
 Gie, give. 
 Gied, gave. 
 Gif , if 
 
 Gilpey, a young girl. 
 Gizz, a wig. 
 Glaikit, thoughtless. 
 Glaizie, glittering. 
 Gleg, sharp. 
 Glinted, glanced. 
 Gloaniin, twilight. 
 Glowr'd, looked earnestly , stared. 
 Goavan, looking round with a strange 
 
 inquiring gaze, starifig stupidly. 
 Gowan, the daisy. 
 Gowd, gold. 
 Graip, a prronged instrument for clean- 
 
 i7tg stables. 
 Graith, harttess, field implements. 
 Granes, groans. 
 Grape, to grope. 
 Grapit, groped. 
 Grat, wept. 
 Gree, a prize. 
 Gree't, agreed. 
 Grozet, a gooseberry. 
 Grumphie, tlte sow. 
 Grunstane, a grindstone. 
 Gude, tlte Sup>reme Being. 
 Guid, good. 
 
H 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 K 
 
 361 
 
 Ha', hall. 
 
 Ha' Bible, hall-Bible. 
 
 Hae, have. 
 
 here (in the sense of take). 
 Haffets, the temples. 
 Haffet locks, locks at the temples. 
 Hafflins, partly. 
 Hain, to spare, to save. 
 Hain'd, spared. 
 Haith, a petty oath. 
 Haivers, idle talk. 
 Hale, whole, entire. 
 Hallan, a particular partition wall in a 
 
 cottage, 
 Hame, home. 
 Hamely, homely. 
 Han', hajid. 
 Hansel, hansel throne, a throfie tiewly 
 
 inherited. 
 Hap, to wrap. 
 Happer, a hopper. 
 Happing, hopping. 
 Har'sts, harvests. 
 Hastit, hasted. 
 Haud, to hold. 
 
 Haughs, lo^u-lying lands, meadows. 
 Haurl, to drag. 
 Haurls, drags. 
 
 Haurlin, peeling, dragging off. 
 Havins, good ma7iners. 
 Hav'rel, half-witted. 
 Hawkie, a cow, properly o7ie with a 
 
 white /ace. 
 Heapit, heaped. 
 
 Hech, a7t exclamation of wonder. 
 Yi^f^X, foretold. 
 Heeze, to elevate, to Jwist. 
 Hie, high. 
 Hilchin, halting. 
 Hirplin, limping. 
 Histie, dry, barren. 
 Hitch, a loop or knot. 
 Hizzies, young wotnen. 
 Hoast, a cough. 
 
 Hoble, to hobble. 
 
 Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play by 
 
 jtcstling "with the shoulder. 
 Hool, the cniter skin or case. 
 Hoolie ! stop. 
 Hoord, hoard. 
 Hornie, Satan. 
 Houlets, ozvls. 
 Hov'd, savclled. 
 Howe-backit, siaik in the back. 
 Howkit, digged. 
 Hoy't, urged, 
 Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
 Hughoc, Hugh. 
 Hunder, a htaidred. 
 Hurcheon, a hedgefiog. 
 Hurdles, hips. 
 Hurl, to fall dow}i ruinously. 
 
 Icker, a7i ear of corn. 
 
 Ilka, every. 
 
 Ingine, geni^is, ingemiity. 
 
 Ingle-cheek, the fireside. 
 
 Ingle-lowe, t/ie household fire. 
 
 Ither, other. 
 
 Jad, a jade. 
 
 Jinker, that turns quickly. 
 
 Jinkin, dodging. 
 
 Joctelegs, clasp-kni . 
 
 Jorum, the jug. 
 
 Jouk, to duck. 
 
 Jundie, to justU. 
 
 Kail, broth ^ colewort. 
 
 Kail-runt, the stem of the colewort. 
 
 Kain, far 7n produce paid as retit. 
 
 Kebbuck, a cheese. 
 
 Kebbuck-heel, the reviaining portion of 
 
 a clieese. 
 Keekit, peeped. 
 Keeks, peeps. 
 Ken, know. 
 Kin', kind. 
 
362 
 
 K 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 N 
 
 King's-hood, a part of the entrails of an 
 ox. 
 
 Kirn, a churn. 
 
 Kirsen, to christen. 
 
 Kittle, to tickle. 
 
 Kiutlin, cuddling. 
 
 Knappin-hammers, Jiamnters for break- 
 ing stones. 
 
 Knowe, a hillock. 
 
 Knurlin, a dwarf 
 
 Kye, C01.US. 
 
 Kyle, a district of Ayrshire. 
 
 Kythe, discover. 
 
 Laggen, the angle between the side and 
 
 bottom of a tvooden dish. 
 Laigh, lo^iU. 
 Lairing, wading and sitiking in snow 
 
 or mud. 
 Laith, loath. 
 Laithfu', bashful. 
 Lang, long. 
 Langer, longer. 
 Lap, did leap. 
 Lave, tlie rest. 
 Lav'rocks, larks. 
 Leal, tr7te. 
 Lee-lang, live-long. 
 Leeze me on, / afu liappy in thee, or 
 
 pyroud of thee. 
 Leister, a three-barbed instrument for 
 
 sticking fish. 
 Ley crap, lea crop. 
 Lift, heaven. 
 Limbies, dim. of limbs. 
 Limmer, a jnistress. 
 Lin, a ivaterfall. 
 Linkin, tripping. 
 Lint, fiax. Sin lint was i' the bell, 
 
 since flax was in flower. 
 Linties, linnets. 
 Lo'ed, loved. 
 Loof , pahn of the hand. 
 Loot, did let. 
 
 Lough, a lake. 
 
 Lowpin, leapifig. 
 
 Lows' d, loosed. 
 
 Lug, tlie ear. 
 
 Luggies, small wooden disJies with 
 
 }ia?idles. 
 Lunt, a column of smoke. 
 Lunlin, smoking. 
 Lyart, gray. 
 
 Mae, more. 
 
 Mair, more. 
 
 Mailie, Molly. 
 
 Mang, among. 
 
 Mar's year, 1715, the year of Mar^s re- 
 
 bellion. 
 Maukin, a hare. 
 Maun, must. 
 
 Maunna, miist not. . 
 
 Maut, tnalt. 
 Mawin, mowing. 
 Meere, a mare. 
 Meikle, as much, 
 Mense, good manners. 
 Messin, a dog of mixed breeds. 
 Midden-hole, t/ie dunghill. 
 Minnie, mother. 
 Mirk, dark. 
 Misca'd, abused. 
 Mislear'd, mischievous. 
 Mist, ftzissed. 
 Moil, work. 
 Mony, many. 
 Moss, a morass. 
 Mou, mo7ith. 
 Moudieworts, moles. 
 Muckle, great, big. 
 Muslin-kail, broth composed simply of 
 
 water, shelled barley , and greens, 
 
 Na', not. 
 Nae, no. 
 
 Naething, fwthing. 
 Nane, none. 
 
N 
 
 GLOSSARY, 
 
 36, 
 
 Nappy, ale. 
 
 Neuk, nook, corner. 
 
 Nick, to break, to sever sjidde^ily. 
 
 Nicket, cut off. 
 
 Niest, next. 
 
 Nieves,y?j/j. 
 
 Niffer, exchange. 
 
 Nits, Tmts. 
 
 Nocht, nothing. 
 
 0\ of. 
 
 Ony, any, 
 
 Orra, supernuvierary. 
 
 Ourie, shivering. 
 
 Outler, nn-housed. 
 
 Owre, over. 
 
 Painch, stomach. 
 
 Paitricks, partridges. 
 
 Parritch, oatmeal boiled in water, stira- 
 bout. 
 
 Parritch-pats, porridge-pots. 
 
 Pat, put. 
 
 Pattle, a plough-staff. 
 
 Paughty, Jiaughty. 
 
 Paukie, cunning, sly. 
 
 Pay't, paid. 
 
 Pechan, the stomach. 
 
 Pechin, panting. 
 
 Pickle, a small quantity. 
 
 Pit, put. 
 
 Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part 
 of a Scotch pe?iny, tzvelve of which 
 make an English penny. 
 
 Pleugh, plough. 
 
 Poeks, wallets. 
 
 Poortith, poverty. 
 
 Pou, to pull. 
 
 Poussie, a hare. 
 
 Pow, the head, the sktill. 
 
 Prent, print. 
 
 Prie'd, tasted. 
 
 Prief , proof. 
 
 Primsie, dejmire, precise. 
 
 Pu', to pull. 
 
 Quaick, quack. 
 
 Quaukin, qtiaking. 
 
 Quey, a co^vfrom one year to two years 
 
 old. 
 Quo', guoth. 
 
 Ragweed, the plant ragzvort. 
 
 Rair, to roar. 
 
 Raize, to madden, to ifijlatnc. 
 
 Ram-stam , forvuard. 
 
 Rape, a rope. 
 
 Rasli-buss, a bush of rushes. 
 
 Rattan, a rat. 
 
 Rattons, rats. 
 
 Raught, reached. 
 
 Rax, to stretch. 
 
 Ream, cream. 
 
 Reave, rove. 
 
 Red, counsel. 
 
 Reekin, smokitig. 
 
 Reekit, smoked. 
 
 Reestit, withered, singed. 
 
 Rief, slyness. 
 
 Rig, a ridge. 
 
 Riggin, rafters. 
 
 Rigwoodie, withered, sapless. 
 
 Rin, run. 
 
 Ripp, a handfd of untJirashcd corn. 
 
 Ripps, Juitidfuls. 
 
 Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of 
 
 roots. 
 Rive, to burst. 
 Rives, tears to pieces. 
 Rock, a distaff. 
 Rockin, a social gathering, the women 
 
 spinning on the rock or distaff. 
 Rung, a C7(dgel. 
 Runts, tfie stems of cabbage. 
 
 Sae, so. 
 
 Sair, sore. 
 
 Sairly, sorely. 
 
 Sark, a shirt. 
 
 Sarkit, provided in shirts. 
 
3^4 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Sauce, scorn, insolence. 
 
 Saugh, the ivillcnv. 
 
 Saugh woodies, ropes viade of willow 
 
 withes. 
 Saumont, salvton. 
 Saut, salt. 
 
 Saut buckets, salt buckets. 
 Sax, six. 
 Scaur, to scare. 
 Scaur, frig htened. 
 Scaud, to scald. 
 Scawl, a scold. 
 Scho, she. 
 
 Scones, barley cakes. 
 Screed, a tear, a rent. 
 Scrieven, gliding easily. 
 Sell't, sold. 
 Shaw, shcnv. 
 Shaws, wooded dells. 
 Sherra-moor, SJieriff-inuir. 
 Sheugh, a trench. 
 Shog, a shock. 
 Shoon, shoes. 
 Shore, to threaten. 
 Shouther, shoulder 
 Sic, such. 
 Sicker, secure. 
 Siller, money. 
 Simmer, sutnmer. 
 Sin', since. 
 Skaith, injury. 
 Skeigh, high-mettled. 
 Skellum, a worthless /ello7v. 
 Skelp, a slap. 
 Skelpie-limmer, a technical term in 
 
 fe7nale scolding. 
 Skinklin, glittering. 
 Skirl, to shriek. 
 Sklent, to deviate from truth. 
 Sklented, slatited. 
 Sklentin, slanting. 
 Skrieigh, to scream. 
 Slaps, flashes. 
 Slee, shy. 
 
 Sleeest, slyest. 
 
 Sleekit, sleek. 
 
 Slypet, slipped, fell over. 
 
 Sma', small. 
 
 Smeddum, dust, powder. 
 
 Smeek, smoke. 
 
 Smiddy, a smithy. 
 
 Smoor'd, smotltered. 
 
 Smoutie, smzitty 
 
 Smytrie, a Jiiimber huddled together . 
 
 Snapper, to stuinble. 
 
 Snash, abuse, impertinence. 
 
 Snaw broo, jnelted snow. 
 
 Snawie, stiowy. ^ 
 
 Snaw, sno7v. 
 
 Sued, to lop, to cut. 
 
 Snell, bitter, biting. 
 
 Sneeshin-mill, a sfiuff-box. 
 
 Snick, tJie latchet of a door. 
 
 Snool, to cringe, to submit tamely, 
 
 Snoov't, wc7it sinoothly. 
 
 Snowkit, snuffed. 
 
 Sodger, a soldier. 
 
 Soger, a soldier. 
 
 Sons'ie, J oily, comely. 
 
 Sough, a heavy sigh. 
 
 Sowth, to try oiier a tune with a low 
 
 ivhistle. 
 Sowther, to solder, to make up. 
 Spairges, cLishes or scatters about, 
 Spak, spake. 
 Spate, a flood. 
 Spavie, a disease. 
 Spean, to wean. 
 Speel, to climb. 
 Speel'd, clitnbed. 
 Spence, the country parlor. 
 Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
 Spier'd, inquired. 
 Spleuchan, a tobacco-pouch. 
 Sprackled, clambered. 
 Sprattle, to struggle. 
 Spritty, full of spirits. 
 Spunkies, Wills d' tJie wisp. 
 
CLOSSAKY. 
 
 !65 
 
 Spurtle, a stick tvith ivhich porridge, 
 broth f etc.y are stirred while boil- 
 ing. 
 
 Squattle, to sprawl. 
 
 Stacher't, staggered. 
 
 Staggie, dim. of stag. 
 
 Stanes, stones. 
 
 Stank, a pool or pond. 
 
 Stark, strong. 
 
 Starns, stars. 
 
 Staukin, stalking. 
 
 Stechin, craimni7tg, paitting with re- 
 pletioji. 
 
 Steek, to close. 
 
 Steeks, stitches, retiadations. 
 
 Steeve,_/fr;//, compacted. 
 
 Sten't, reared. 
 
 Steyest, steepest. 
 
 Stibble-rig, tlie reaper in harvest who 
 takes the lead. 
 
 Stimpart, a7i eighth part of a Winches- 
 ter btishel. 
 
 Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
 
 Stockit, stocked. 
 
 Stocks, plants of cabbage. 
 
 Stoor, so7cndifig Jwllowly or hoarsely. 
 
 Stoure, dzist. 
 
 Stownlins, by stealth. 
 
 Stoyte, to stninble. 
 
 Strae, a fair strae-death, a natural 
 death. 
 
 Streekit, stretched. Streekit owre, 
 stretched across. 
 
 Strunt, spirituous liqtcor of any kind. 
 
 Sturt, to molest, to vex. 
 
 Sugh, a rushing sound. 
 
 Sumphs, stupid felloTvs. 
 
 Swank, stately. 
 
 Swat, did sweat. 
 
 Swats, ale. 
 
 Swirl, a curve. 
 
 Swith, swift. 
 
 S wither, doubt. 
 
 Syne, since. 
 
 Tackets, a kind of nails for driving into 
 
 the heels of shoes. 
 Tae, toe. 
 Taen, taken. 
 Tak, to take. 
 Tawie, tJiat allozvs itself peaceably to be 
 
 handled. 
 Tawted, matted, uncombed. 
 Teats, small quantities. 
 Teen, provocation, cJiagrin. 
 Tent, to take heed. 
 Tentie, heedfid. 
 Thack an rape, clothes. 
 Theekit, tJuitched, covered up, secured. 
 Thegither, together. 
 Thole, to suffer, to endure. 
 Thowes, tJiaws. 
 Thrang, busy. 
 Thraw, to sprain or twist. 
 Thrawin, twisting. 
 Thretteen, thirteen. 
 Throwther, a' throwther, through-other, 
 
 pell-mell. 
 Till't, to it. 
 Timmer, tijnber. 
 Timmer propt, ti7nber propt. 
 Tinkler, a tinker. 
 Tippence, tzuopetice. 
 Tirl, to strip. 
 
 Tocher, 7tiarriage portion. 
 'YoA%, foxes. 
 Toom, ejnpty. 
 Toop, a ram. 
 Towmond, a twelvemonth. 
 Toy, a very old fashion of female Jiead- 
 
 dress. 
 Toyte, to totter. 
 
 Transmugrify'd, metamorphosed. 
 Trickle, tricksy. 
 Trig, spruce, tieat. 
 Trysted, hour for love meetings. 
 Twa, ttvo. 
 
 Twal, twelve o'' clock. 
 Twalpennie worth, twelvepentty worth. 
 
S66 
 
 GLOSSAKY, 
 
 Tyke, a vagrant dog. 
 
 Unco, very. 
 
 Uncos, strange things, nezvs of tJie coun- 
 try side. 
 Unkend, unknown. 
 
 Vauntie,/r£7«(/, in high spirits. 
 Vera, very. 
 
 Wa', a wall. 
 
 Wad, would. 
 
 Wae, sorroaniftd. 
 
 Wal'd, chose. 
 
 Walie, ample, large. 
 
 Wallop in a tow, to Juitig one's self- 
 
 Waly, ample. 
 
 Wame, the belly. 
 
 Wanrestfu', restless. 
 
 Wark-ulme, a tool to work with. 
 
 Warld, world. 
 
 Warlock, a wizard. 
 
 Warlock-breef, wizard-spell. 
 
 Warsle, to wrestle. 
 
 Warst, worst. 
 
 Warstl'd, wrestled, 
 
 Water-brose, made of water, without 
 
 ■milk or butter. 
 Wattle, a %vand. 
 Wauble, to swifig, to reel. 
 Waukit, thickened with toil. 
 Waukrife, wakeful. 
 Waur, to fight, to defeat. 
 Waur't, zvorsted. 
 Weans, children. 
 Wee, Utile. 
 
 Weeder-dips, weeder or hoe. 
 Weel, well. 
 Westlin, western. 
 Wha, 7vho. 
 Whaizle, to wlieeze. 
 Whalpit, whelped. 
 
 Whare, where. 
 
 Whase, whose. 
 
 Whiddin, running as a hare. 
 
 Whins, yi^rs^ bushes. 
 
 Whisht, peace. Held my whist, kept 
 silence. 
 
 Whiskit, whisked. 
 
 Whun-stane, ivhinstotie, granite. 
 
 Whyles, sometitnes. 
 
 Wi', with. 
 
 Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
 
 Wight, strong, powerful, 
 
 Willie-waught, a hearty draught. 
 
 Willyart, luild, strange, timid. 
 
 Wimplin, waving, meandering. 
 
 Win', wind. 
 
 Winna, will not. 
 
 Winnock-bunker, a seat in a ivindo^u. 
 
 Winuocks, windows. 
 
 Wintle, a staggering motion. 
 
 Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous ap- 
 pellation. 
 
 Woo', wool. 
 
 Woodie, the gallows. 
 
 Wooer-babs, garters knotted below the 
 knee in a coJtple of loops. 
 
 Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or 
 ivonder. 
 
 Wyle, to beguile, to decoy. 
 
 Wyliecoat, a fla?i7iel vest. 
 
 Yell, barren. As yell's the VaW, giving 
 
 no more milk than the btdl. 
 Yerket, jerked, lashed. 
 Yestreen, yesternight. 
 Yill, ale. 
 
 Yill-caup, ale-stottp. 
 Yird, earth. 
 
 Yokin, yoking, a bout, a set to. 
 Yont, beyond. 
 Yowes, ewes. 
 Yule, Christmas. 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . 193 
 
 A guid New-Year I wish thee, 99 
 
 Altho' thou maun never be mine . 227 
 
 A rose-bud by my early walk . . 153 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower . 211 
 
 As Mailie an' her lambs thegither . 10 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 5 
 
 Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes . 200 
 
 By Ochtertyre grows the aik . . 154 
 
 Cauld blaws the wind 160 
 
 Come boat me o'er 144 
 
 Contented wi' little, and cantie %vi' 
 
 mair 218 
 
 Dear Smith, the slee'st, paukie 
 
 thief 51 
 
 Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 22 1 
 
 Duncan Gray came here to woo . 19S 
 
 Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! . . 139 
 Fair maid, you need not take the 
 
 hint 146 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
 
 strong 157 
 
 Farewell to the Highlands . . . 165 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton . . . 192 
 
 Go fetch me a pint o' wine . . . 160 
 
 Guid-mornin to your Majesty . . 121 
 Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph re- 
 
 serv'd 22S 
 
 Hark! the Mavis' e'ening sang . 213 
 Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin 
 
 ferlie ! 115 
 
 Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither 
 
 Scots 168 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering 
 
 Willie f 201 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the 
 
 clear-winding Devon .... 155 
 
 I mind it weel, in early date . . . 142 
 I'm three times doubly o'er your 
 
 debtor 21 
 
 I gat your letter, winsome Willie . 43 
 I lang hae thought, my youthfu' 
 
 friend 117 
 
 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'- 
 
 rous art 161 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool . . 103 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty . . . 220 
 
 It was upon a Lammas night . . 2 
 
 It was the charming month of May, 216 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John . . . 162 
 
 Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 12 
 
 My blessing on ye, sonsie wife . 141 
 My Chloris, mark how green the 
 
 groves 215 
 
 My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 1 70 
 My Lord, I know your noble ear . 147 
 My lov'd, my honoured, much re- 
 spected friend 81 
 
 My luve is like a red, red rose . . 214 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 133 
 No sculptur'd marble here, nor 
 
 pompous lay 145 
 
 Now in her green mantle blytiie 
 
 Nature arrays 219 
 
 Now nature clees the flowery lea • 217 
 Now Nature hangs her mantle 
 
 green 184 
 
 Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 210 
 Now simmer blinks on flowery 
 
 braes 164 
 
 367 
 
3^^ 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Now spring has clad the groves in 
 
 green 225 
 
 Now westlin winds and slaught'- 
 
 ring guns 4 
 
 O Death ! thou tyrant fell and 
 
 bloody ! 179 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . 156 
 
 O leeze me on my spinnin-wheel . 196 
 
 O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 205 
 
 O Mary, at thy window be . . . 7 
 
 O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass . . i 
 
 O saw ye bonnie Lesley .... 197 
 
 O stay, sweet warbling woodlark . 223 
 O Thou dread Power, who reign'st 
 
 above 129 
 
 O Thou great Being ! what Thou 
 
 art 9 
 
 O thou pale Orb ; that silent shines, 126 
 O Thou wha in the Heavens dost 
 
 dwell 28 
 
 O thou ! whatever title suit thee . 23 
 
 O, were I on Parnassus' hill . . 156 
 
 O, wert thou in the cauld blast . . 228 
 
 O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut . 163 
 
 O ye wha are sae guid yoursel . . 32 
 
 Powers celestial, whose protection, 132 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . 20S 
 
 See ! the smoking bowl before us . 58 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 1 59 
 
 Sing on, sweet Thrush .... 209 
 Some books are lies frae end to 
 
 end 89 
 
 Streams that glide in orient plains, 151 
 The Catrine woods were yellow 
 
 seen 138 
 
 The Deil cam fiddling thro' the 
 
 town 194 
 
 The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 130 
 
 The lovely lass o' I verness . . . 151 
 
 There was a lass, and she was fair, 206 
 
 There was a lad was born in Kyle, 98 
 
 PAGE 
 
 There's naught but care on ev'ry 
 
 han' 14 
 
 The sun had clos'd the winter day, 70 
 The Thames flows proudly to the 
 
 sea 1S3 
 
 The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 1S6 
 
 The wintry west extends his blast . S 
 
 This wot ye all whom it concerns . 135 
 Thou ling'ring star, with lessening 
 
 ray 164 
 
 'Tis Friendship's pledge .... 224 
 
 True-hearted was he 201 
 
 'Twas even — the dewy fields were 
 
 green 136 
 
 'Twas in that place o' Scotland's 
 
 isle 105 
 
 Upon that night when Fairies light, 59 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r 113 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous 
 
 beastie 68 
 
 When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 94 
 When chapman billies leave the 
 
 street 172 
 
 When chill November's surly blast, 34 
 When wild war's deadly blast was 
 
 blawn 202 
 
 While at the stook the sheavers 
 
 cow'r 47 
 
 While briers an' woodbines bud- 
 ding green 38 
 
 While virgin Spring 191 
 
 While winds frae aff Ben-Lomoiul 
 
 blaw 15 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 131 
 Wow, but your letter made me 
 
 vauntie 166 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
 
 around 195 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie 
 
 Doon 189 
 
 Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 190 
 
REFERENCES. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL. 
 
 Adamson, a. R. Rambles through the Land of Burns. 
 
 Andrews, S. Our Great Writers. 
 
 Arnold, M. The St^idy of Poetry. {Essays in Criticism) 
 
 Bayne, p. Two Great Englishwomen, with an Essay on Poetry. 
 
 Blackie, J. S. Scottish Song. 
 
 Blackie, J. S. Burns. {Great Writers) 
 
 Brooke, S. A. Theology in the English Poets. 
 
 Burroughs, J. Birds a?id Poets. 
 
 Carlyle, T. Essay on Burns. 
 
 Couch, T. Quiller. Adventures in Criticism. 
 
 Dawson, W. J. Makers of Modern Literature. 
 
 Dennis, J. Heroes of Literature. 
 
 Douglas, W. C. Introduction to Patersoti edition. 
 
 Emerson, R. W. Miscellanies. 
 
 Fergusson, R. Poems. 
 
 Giles, H. Illustrations of Genius. 
 
 Hawthorne, N. Our Old Home. 
 
 Hazlitt, W. Lectures oji the English Poets. 
 
 HowiTT, W. Homes and Haunts of the Poets. 
 
 Jacks, W. Btirns in Other Tongues. 
 
 Jolly, W. Burns at Mossgiel. 
 
 Keats, J. Life, Letters, and Literary Remains: R. M. Milnes, Editor. 
 
 Vol. i., pp. 156 and 159. 
 Kingsley, C. Literary Essays. 
 Lang, A. Letters to Dead Authors. 
 Lowell, J. R. Poems. Incident in a Railroad Car. 
 Minto, W. Literature of the Georgian Era. 
 MoiR, D. M. Poems. 
 
 MoiR, D. M. Poetical Literature of the Last Half Cetitury. 
 NiCHOL, John. Burns. {Encyclopcedia Britan7iica.) 
 
370 REFERENCES. 
 
 Oliphant, M. O. Literary History of England. Vol. i. 
 
 Ramsay, A. Poems. 
 
 Reed, H. Lectures on British Poets. 
 
 Rhys, E. Lyrical Poems of Burns. 
 
 Rogers, C. Goiealogical Memoirs of the Family of Robert Btirfts. 
 
 Ross, J. D. Round Biirns^s Grave. 
 
 Ross, J. D. Bumsiaiia. 
 
 RossETTi, W. M. Lives of Famous Poets. 
 
 Saintsbury, G, Literature of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Burns. {English Men of Letters^) 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Poetic Interpretatioji of Nature. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Aspects of Poetry. 
 
 Smith, Alexander. Preface to Macmillan's Edition of Burtis. 
 
 Stedman, E. C. Nature of Poetry. 
 
 Stephen, L. Dictio7iary of Natiotial Biography. 
 
 Stevenson, R. L. Familiar Studies in Men and Books. 
 
 Veitch, J. Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry. 
 
 Walker, H. Three Centuries of Scottish Songs, 
 
 Ward, T. H. English Poets. Vol. iii. 
 
 Watson, W. At the Tomb of Burns. 
 
 Whittier, J. G. Poems. {Burns.) 
 
 Wilson, J. Works. 
 
 Winter, W. Gray Days and Gold. 
 
 Wordsworth, W. Poems. 
 
 Wordsworth, W. Prose. Vol. ii. 
 
 Wordsworth, D. Recollections of a Tour in Scotland. 
 
 For Bibliography of Burns consult J. S. Blackie, Burns. 
 
 REFERENCES TO SUBJECTS TREATED IN THE PREFACE. 
 
 Arnold, M. Celtic Literature. 
 
 Blackie, J. S. Language and Literature of the Scottish Highlands. * 
 
 Book of the Dean of Lismore. 
 
 Mackenzie. Beauties of Gaelic Poetry. 
 
 Shairp, J. C. Poetry of the Scottish Highlands. {Aspects of Poetry^ 
 
 Sharp, E. Lyra Celtica. 
 
 Skene, W. F. Celtic Scotland. 
 
 Veitch, J. History and Poetry of the Scottish Border. 
 
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