^ -VJ .'.,'/.'.; '..'A gass P R45 ^ Book \b^0 .H3 X .Vzc/C- THE COMPLETE WORKS ix Kj BERT BURNS EDITED FROM THE BEST PRINTED AND MANUSCRIPT AUTHORITIES^ WITH GLOSSARIAL INDEX AND A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR, ALEXANDER SMITH. NEW YORK: THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., MR. HUTCHESHN 8 N'02 '. **t •'*• • • .'.1 " • t\7 BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. Robert Burns was born about two miles to the south of Ayr, in the neighbor- hood of Alloway Kirk and the Bridge of Doon, on the 25th January, 1759. The cottage, a clay one, had been constructed by his father, and a week after the poet's birth it gave way in a violent wind, and mother and child were carried at midnight to the shelter of a neighbor's dwelling. When Burns became famous he wore, more however for ornament than use — like the second jacket of a hussar — a certain vague Jacobitism. Both in his verses and his letters he makes allusion to the constancy with which his ancestors fol- lowed the banner of the Stuarts, and to the misfortunes which their loyalty brought upon them. The family was a Kincardineshire one — in which county indeed, it can be traced pretty far back by inscriptions in churchyards, documents appertain- ing to leases and the like — and the poet's grandfather and uncles were out, it is said, in the Rebellion of 1715. When the title and estates of the Earl Marischal were forfeited on account of the uprising, Burns's grandfather seems to have been brought into trouble. He lost his farm, and his son came southward in search of employment. The poet's father, who spelt his name Burnes, and who was sus- pected of having a share in the Rebellion of 1745, came into the neighborhood of Edinburgh, where he obtained employment as a gardener. Afterwards he went into Ayrshire, where, becoming overseer to Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm and leasing a few acres of land, he erected a house and brought home his wife, Agnes Brc.wn, in December, 1757. Robert was the firstborn. Brain, hypochondria, and general superiority, he inherited from his father; from his mother he drew his lyrical gift, his wit, his mirth. She had a fine complexion, bright dark eyes, cheerful spirits, and a memory stored with song and ballad — a love for which Robert drew in with her milk. In 1766, William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant in the parish of Ayr; but the soil was sour and bitter, and on the death of Mr. Ferguson, to whom Mount Oliphant belonged, the management of the estate fell into the hands of a factor, of whom all the world has heard. Disputes arose between the official and the tenant. Harsh letters were read by the fireside at Mount Oliphant, and were remembered years afterwards, bitterly enough, by at least one of the listen- ers. Burnes left his farm after an occupancy of six years, and removed to Loch- lea, a larger and better one in the parish of Tarbolton. Here, however, an unfortunate difference arose between tenant and landlord as to the conditions of lease. Arbiters were chosen, and a decision was given in favor of the proprietor. Yi BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE, This misfortune seems to have broken the spirit of Burnes. He died of consump- tion on the 13th February, 1784, aged 63, weary enough of his long strife with poverty and ungenial soils, but not before he had learned to take pride in the abilities of his eldest son, and to tremble for his passions. Burnes was an admirable specimen of the Scottish yeoman, or small farmer, of the last century ; for peasant he never was, nor did he come of a race of peasants. In his whole mental build and training he was superior to the people by whonvj he was surrounded. He had forefathers he could look back to ; he had family traditions which he kept sacred. Hard-headed, industrious, religious, somewhat austere, he ruled his household with a despotism, which affection and respect on the part of the ruled made light and easy. To the blood of the Burneses, a love of knowledge was native, as valor, in the old times, was native to the blood of the Douglasses. The poet's grandfather built a school at Clockenhill in Kincardine, the first known in that part of the country. Burnes was of the same strain, and he resolved that his sons should have every educational advantage his means could allow. To secure this he was willing to rise early and drudge late. Accord- ingly, Robert, when six years old, was sent to a school at AUoway Mill; and on the removal of the teacher a few months afterwards to another post, Burnes, in conjunction with a few of his neighbors, engaged Mr. John Murdoch, boarding him in their houses by turns, and paying him a small sum of money quarterly. Mr. Murdoch entered upon his duties, and had Robert and Gilbert for pupils. Under him they acquired reading, spelling, and writing; they were drilled in English grammar, taught to turn verse into prose, to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words, and to supply ellipses. He also attempted to teach them a little Church music, but with no great success. He seems to have iaken to the boys, and to have been pleased with their industry and intelligence. Gilbert was his favorite on account of his gay spirits and frolicsome look. Robert was by comparison taciturn — distinctly stupid in the matter of psalmody — and his countenance was swarthy, serious, and grave. Our information respecting the family circle at Mount Oliphant, more interest- ing now than that of any other contemporary Scottish family circle, is derived entirely from the reminiscences of the tutor, and of Gilbert and Robert themselves. And however we may value every trivial fact and hint, and attempt to make it a window of insight, these days, as they passed on, seemed dull and matter-of-fact enough to all concerned. Mr. Murdoch considered his pupils creditably diligent, but nowise remarkable. To Gilbert, these early years were made interesting when looked back upon in the light of his brother's glory. Of that period, Robert wrote a good deal at various times to various correspondents, when the world had become curious; but as in the case of all such writings, he unconsciously mixes the past with the present — Icoks back on his ninth year with the eyes of his thir- tieth. He tells us that he was by no means a favorite with anybody; that though i BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. it cost the master some thrashings, " I made an excellent English scholar; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles." Also we are told that in the family resided a certain old woman — Betty Davidson by name, as research has discovered — who had the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, etc. ; and that to the recital of these Robert gave attentive ear, unconsciously laying up material for future Tams-o-Shanter, and Addresses to the Deil. As for books, he had procured the Life of Hannibal, and the History of Sir William Wallace : the first of a classical turn, lent by Mr. Murdoch; the second, purely traditionary, the property of a neighboring blacksmith, constituting probably his entire secular library; and in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he describes how the perusal of the latter moved him, — " In those boyish days, I remember in particular being struck with that pari of Wallace's story where these lines occur : Svne to the Leglen wood when it was late. To make a silent and a safe retreat. I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto, and explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged." When Mr. Murdoch left Mount Oliphant, the education of the family fell on the father, who, when the boys came in from labor on the edge of the wintry twi- light, lit his candle and taught them arithmetic. He also, wlien engaged in work with his sons, directed the conversation to improving subjects. He got books for them from a book society in Ayr; among which are named Derham's Physico and Astro- Theology, z.n6i Ray's Wisdom of God. Stackhouse's History of the Bible was in the house, and from it Robert contrived to extract a considerable knowledge of ancient history. Mr. Murdoch sometimes visited the family and brought books with him. On one occasion he read Titus Andronicus aloud at Mount Oliphant, and Robert's pure taste rose in a passionate revolt against its coarse cruelties and unspiritual horrors. When about fourteen years of age, he and his brother Gilbert were sent " week about during a summer quarter " to a parish school two or three miles distant from the farm to improve themselves in penmanship. Next year, about midsummer, Robert spent three weeks with his tutor, Murdoch, who had established himself in Ayr. The first week was given to a careful revision of the English Grammar, the remaining fortnight was devoted to French, and on his return he brought with him the Adventures of Teletnachus and a French Dictionary, and with these he used to work alone during his eve- nings. He also turned his attention to Latin, but does not seem to have made much progress therein, although in after-life he could introduce a sentence or so of the ancient tongue to adorn his correspondence. By the time the family had left BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. Mount Oliphant, he had torn the heart out of a good many books, among which were several theological works, some of a philosophical nature, a few novels, the Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope''s Homer, and, above all, the Works of Allan Ramsay. These, with the Bible, a collection of English songs, and a collection of letters, were almost the only books he was acquainted with when he broke out in literature. No great library certainly, but he had a quick eye and ear, and all Ayrshire was an open page to him, filled with strange matter, which he only needed to read off into passionate love-song or blistering satire. In his sixteenth year the family removed from Mount Oliphant to Lochlea. Here Robert and Gilbert were employed regularly on the farm, and received from their father £'] per annum of wages. Up till now. Burns had led a solitary self- contained life, with no companionship save his own thoughts and what books he could procure, with no acquaintances save his father, his brother, and Mr. Murdoch. This seclusion was now about to cease. In his seventeenth year, " to give his man- ners a finish," he went to a country dancing school, — an important step in life for any young fellow, a specially important step for a youth of his years, heart, brain, and passion. In the Tarbolton dancing school the outer world with its fascina- tions burst upon him. It was like attaining majority and freedom. It was like coming up to London from the provinces. Here he first felt the sweets of society, and could assure himself of the truthfulness of his innate sense of superiority. ' At the dancing school, he encountered other young rustics laudably ambitious of " brushing up their manners," and, what was of more consequence, he encountered their partners also. This was his first season, and he was as gay as a young man of fortune who had entered on his first London one. His days were spent in hard work, but the evenings were his own, and these he seems to have spent almost entirely in sweethearting on his own account, or on that of others. His brother tells us that he was almost constantly in love. His inamoratas were the freckled beauties who milked cows and hoed potatoes; but his passionate imagination attired them with the most wonderful graces. He was Antony, and he found a Cleopatra — for whom the world were well lost — in every harvest field. For some years onward he did not read much; indeed, his fruitful reading, with the exception of Fergusson's Poems, of which hereafter, was accomplished by the time he was seventeen; his leisure being occupied in making love to rustic maids, where his big black eyes could come into play. Perhaps, on the whole, looking to poetic outcome, he could not have employed himself to better purpose. He was now rapidly getting perilous cargo on board. The Tarbolton dancing school introduced him to unUmited sweethearting, and his nineteenth summer, which he spent in the study of mensuration, at the school at Kirkosvvald, made him acquainted with the interior of taverns, and with " scenes of swaggering riot." He also made the acquaintance of certain smugglers who frequented that bare and deeply-coved coast, and seems to have been attracted by their lawless ways BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. Tngonometry to fl.ght. »-"g \ \^ ^^i„,^i„,, , ,,erary correspondence :l S— :: a^; ;lased .U va„Hy ..h .e .HougHt t.at he co„U .um -r""t:eT:s;eeirr:r::urri:::rpt:Lorunar^ Mh^r; purpo' ofrlingflax; and, as he had now so^e idea of settling father for the pu p farmer-craft the aceomphshment 'V;t «" nofbe unprofitahie. He accordingly went to live with retioT f hS Ithtr-s in Irvine -Peacock by name-who followed t at bus,- nesfandwith him for some time he worked with dihgence and success. But wwt rd ming the New Year morning after a bacchanalian fash.on, the premise ToJk'fi e and Ws schemes were laid waste. Just at this time, too - to complete hU di omtore-he had been jilted by a sweetheart, " who had pledged her sotJ tomretWm in the held of matrimony." In almost all the foul weather wh.cb Burln^ountered. a woman may be discovered flitting trough Uhke a storm petrel His residence at Irvine was a loss, in a worldly potnt of view, but there he ripened rapidly, both spiritually and poetically. At Irvine, « at Ktrlcoswa U, he Lade th aquaintLnce of persons engaged in contraband traffic, and he tel s us Tat a chief friend of his "spoke of illicit love with the levtty of a sa.lor-wh.ch Wtherto I had regarded with horror. There his friendship did me a mrsch.ef.' Awls time, too, John Rankine-to whom he afterwards addressed several omsepistlerJintrLduced him to St. Mary's Lodge, in Tarbolton, and he became Ztastlc Freemason. Of his mental states and intellectual progress we are ;:r:is"hnumeTo: hints. He was member of a debating club at Tarbolton, IritUon for H-we-en - ^.ts^m MS ^^^^^^^^^^^^ -ws: ;!ZC:ar;°a::f - wom'X »:: a gin of Jge fortune, but neither Cd some in person nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the holhdd affJrs of a farm well enough; the other of them a gtrl every way areaMe in person, conversation, and behavior, but without any fortune; wh.ch agreeable in p , _^ ^^^ ^ collection of clever rustics to of them sh^l he boose. N J^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ fu;rr in de ^ .oTs -corpanionl at the Bachelors' Club as he had previous y u'ld himself superior to his ICirkoswald correspondents in 'etter-« Th question for the Hallowe'en discussion is interesting mainly m so far as it mdicates rtLd of discussions were being at that time conducted in his own brain; an also how habitually, then and afterwards, his thmkmg grew out of his persona, condition and surroundings. A question of this kind interested him moie than BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. whether, for instance, Cromwell deserved well of his country. Neither now nor afterwards did he trouble himself much about far-removed things. He cared for no other land than Caledonia. He did not sing of Helen's beauty, but of the beauty of the country girl he loved. His poems were as much the product of his own farm and its immediate neighborhood, as were the clothes and shoes he wore, the oats and turnips he grew. Another aspect of him may be found in the letter addressed to his father three days before the Irvine flax-.shop went on fire. It is infected with a magnificent hypochondriasis. It is written as by a Boling- broke — by a man who had played for a mighty stake, and who, when defeated, could smile gloomily and turn fortune's slipperiness into parables. And all the while the dark philosophy and the rolling periods flowed from the pen of a country lad, whose lodgings are understood to have cost a shiUing per week, and "whose meal was nearly out, but who was going to borrow till he got more." One other circumstance attending his Irvine life deserves notice — his falling in with a copy of Fergussoti's Poems, For some time previously he had not written much, but Fergusson stirred him with emulation; and on his removal to Mossgiel, shortly afterwards, he in a single winter poured forth more immortal verse — measured by mere quantity — than almost any poet in the same space of time, either before his day or after. Three months before the death of the elder Burnes, Robert and Gilbert rented the farm of Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchhne. The farm consisted of 119 acres, and its rent was £(^0. After the father's death the whole family removed thither. Burns was now twenty-four years of age, and come to his full strength of limb, brain, and passion. As a young farmer on his own account, he mixed more freely than hitherto in the society of the country-side, and in a more inde- pendent fashion. He had the black eyes which Sir Walter saw afterwards in Edinburgh, and remembered to have "glowed." He had wit, which convulsed the Masonic Meetings, and a rough-and-ready sarcasm with which he flayed his foes. Besides all this, his companionship at In ine had borne its fruits. He had become the father of an illegitimate child, had been rebuked for his transgression before the congregation, and had, in revenge, written witty and wicked verses on the reprimand and its occasion, to his correspondent Rankine. And when we note here that he came into fierce collision with at least one section of the clergy of his country, all the conditions have been indicated which went to make up Burns the man and Burns the poet. Ayrshire was at this period a sort of theological bear-garden. The more im* portant clergymen of the district were divided into New Lights and Auld Lights; they wrangled in Church Courts, they wrote and harangued against each other; and, as the adherents of the one party or the other made up almost the entire population, and as in such disputes Scotchmen take an extraordinary interest, the county was set very prettily ])y the ears. The Auld Light divines were striC BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. xi Calvinists, laying great stress on the doctrine of Justification by Faith, and inclined generally to exercise spiritual authority after a somewhat despotic fashion. The New Light divines were less dogmatic, less inclined to religious gloom and acerbity, and they possessed, on the whole, more literature and knowledge of the world. Burns became deeply interested in the theological warfare, and at once ranged himself on the liberal side. From his being a poet this was to have been expected, feut various circumstances concurred in making his partisanship more than usually decided. The elder Burnes was, in his ways of thinking, a New Light, and his religious notions he impressed carefully on his children, — his son consequently, in laking up the ground he did, was acting in accordance with received ideas and with early training. Besides, Burns's most important friends at this period-— Mr. Gavin Hamilton, from whom he held his farm on a sub-lease, and Mr. Aitken. to whom the Cotter'' s Saturday Night was dedicated — were in the thick of the contest on the New Light side. Mr. Hamilton was engaged in personal dispute with the Rev. Mr. Auld — the clergyman who rebuked Burns — and Mr. Aitken had the management of the case of Dr. MacGill, who was cited before the local Church Courts on a charge of heterodoxy. Hamilton and Aitken held a certain position in the county, — they were full of talent, they were hospitable, they were witty in themselves, and could appreciate wit in others. They were of higher social rank than Burns's associates had hitherto been, they had formed a warm friendship for him, and it was not unnatural that he should become their ally, and serve their cause with what weapons he had. Besides, wit has ever been a foe to the Puritan. Cavaliers fight with song and jest, as well as with sword and spear, and sometimes more effectively. Hudibras and Worcester are flung into opposite scales, and make the balance even. From training and temperament. Burns was an enemy of the Auld Light section; conscious of his powers, and burning to distinguish himself, he searched for an opportunity as anxiously as ever did Irish- man for a head at Donnybrook, and when he found it, he struck, M'ithout too curiously inquiring into the rights and wrongs of the matter. At Masonic Meet- ings, at the tables of his friends, at fairs, at gatherings round church-doors on Sundays, he argued, talked, joked, flung out sarcasms — to be gathered up, repeated, and re-repeated — and maddened in every way the wild-boar of ortho- doxy by the javelins of epigram. The satirical opportunity at length came, and Burns was not slow to take advantage of it. Two Auld Light divines, the Rev. [ohn Russel and the Rev. Alex. Moodie, quarrelled about their respective parochial boundaries, and the question came before the Presbytery for settlement. In the court — when Burns was present — the reverend gentlemen indulged in coarse personal altercation, and the Twa Herds was the result. Copies of this satire were handed about, and for the first time Burns tasted how sweet a thing was applause. The circle of his acquaintances extended itself, and he could now call several clergymen of the moderate party his friends. The Tiva Herds was BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. followed by the tremendous satire of Holy IVillie^s Prayer, and by the Holy Fair, — the last equally witty, equally familiar in its allusions to sacred things, out distinguished by short poetic touches, by descriptions of character and manners, unknown in Scottish poetry since the days of Dunbar. These pieces caused great stir; friends admired and applauded; foes hated and reviled. His brother Gilbert spoke words of caution which, had Burns heeded, it would have been better for his fame. But to check such thunder in mid-volley was, perhaps, more than could have been expected of poetic flesh and blood. Burns interested himself deeply in the theological disputes of his district, but he did not employ himself entirely in writing squibs against that section of the clergy which he disliked. He had already composed Maine's Elegy and the Epistle to Davie : the first working in an element of humor ennobled by moral reflection, a peculiar manner in which he lived to produce finer specimens; the second almost purely didactic, and which he hardly ever surpassed; and as he was now in the full flush of inspiration, every other day produced its poem. He did not go far a-field for his subjects; he found sufficient inspiration in his daily life and the most familiar objects. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton had established a shop for groceries, and having a liking for the study of medicine, he took upon himself the airs of a physician, and advertised that " advice woula be given in common disorders, at the shop, gratis." On one occasion, at the Tarbolton Mason-lodge, when Burns was present, the schoolmaster made a somewhat ostentatious display of his medical acquirements. To a man so easily moved as Burns, this hint was sufficient. On his way home from the Lodge the terrible grotesquerie of Death and Dr. Hornbook floated through his mind, and on the following afternoon the verses were repeated to Gilbert. Not long after, in a Sunday afternoon walk, he recited to Gilbert the Cotter^s Saturday Night, who described himself as electrified by the recital — as indeed he might well be. To Gilbert also the Address to the Deil was repeated while the two brothers were engaged with their carts in bringing home coals for family use. At this time, too, his poetic Epistles to Lapraik and others were composed — pieces which for ve^'ve and hurry and gush of versification seem to have been written at a sitting, yet for curious felicities of expression might have been under the file for years. It was Burns's habit, Mr. Chambers tells us, to keep his MSS. in the drawer of a little deal table in the garret at Mossgiel; and his youngest sister was wont, when he went out to afternoon labor, to slip up quietly and hunt for the freshly-written verses. Indeed, during the winter of 1785-86 Burns wrote almost all the poems which were afterwards published in the Kilmarnock edition. But at this time he had other matters on hand than the writing of verses. The farm at Mossgiel was turning out badly; the soil was sour and wet,^and, from mistakes in the matter of seed, the crops were failures. His prospects were made still darker by his relation with Je^n Armour. He had made the acquaint- « BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. ance of this young woman at a penny wedding in Mauchline, shortly after he went to reside at Mossgiel, and the acquaintanceship, on his part at least, soon ripened into passion. In the spring of 1786, when baited with farming difficulties, he learned that Jean was about to become a mother, and the intelligence came on him like a thunder-clap. Urged by a very proper feeling, he resolved to make the unhappy young woman all the reparation in his power, and accordingly he placed in her hands a written acknowledgement of marriage — a document sufficient by the law of Scotland to legalize their connexion, though after a somewhat irregular fashion. When Mr. Armour heard of Jean's intimacy with Burns and its misera- ble result, he was moved with indignation, and he finally persuaded her to deliver into his hands Burns's written paper, and this document he destroyed, although, for anything he knew, he destroyed along with it his daughter's good fame. Burns's feelings at this crisis may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove for mastery in his breast. Weary of his country, almost of his existence, and seeing rvin staring him in the face at Mossgiel, he res'olved to seek better fortune and solace for a lacerated heart, in exile. He accordingly arranged with Dr. Douglas to act as book-keeper on his estate in Jamaica. In order to earn the passage money, he was advised to publish the wonderful verses then lying in the drawer of the deal table at Mossgiel. This advice jumped pleasantly enough with his own wishes, and without loss of time he issued his subscription papers and began to prepare for the press. He knew that his poems possessed merit; he felt that applause would sweeten his "good night." It is curious to think of Burns's wretched state — in a spiritual as well as a pecuniary sense — at this time, and of the centenary the other year which girdled the planet as with a blaze &f festal fire and a roll of triumphal drums! Curious to think that the volume which Scotland regards as the most precious in her possession should have been published to raise nine pounds to carry its author into exile. All the world has heard of Highland Mary — in life a maid-servant in the family of Mr. Hamihon, after death to be remembered with Dante's Beatrice and Petrarch's Laura. How Burns and Mary became acquainted we have little means of knowing — indeed the whole relationship is somewhat obscure — but Burns loved her as he loved no other woman, and her memory is preserved in the finest expression of his love and grief. Strangely enough, it seems to have been in the fierce rupture between himself and Jean that this white flower of love sprang up. sudden in its growth, brief in its passion and beauty. It was arranged that the lovers should become man and wife, and that Mary should return to her friends to prepare for her wedding. Before her departure there was a farewell scene. " On the second Sunday of May," Burns writes to Mr. Thomson, after an historical fashion which has something touching in it, " in a sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr the interview took place." The lovers met and plighted solemn troth. According to popular statement, they stood on either side of a brook, they dipped BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. ^ their hands in the water, exchanged Bibles — and parted. Mary died at Greenock, and was buried in a dingy churchyard hemmed by narrow streets — beclanged now by innumerable hammers, and within a stone's throw of passing steamers. Infor- mation of her death was brought to Burns at Mossgiel; he went to the window to read the letter, and the family noticed that on a sudden his face changed. He went out without speaking; they respected his grief and were silent. On the whole matter Burns remained singularly reticent; but years after, from a sudden geysir of impassioned song, we learn that through all that time she had never been forgotten. Jean was approaching her confinement, and having heard that Mr. Armour was about to resort to legal measures to force him to maintain his expected progeny — an impossibility in his present 'circumstances — Burns left MauchUne and went to reside in the neighborh'~oa of Kilmarnock, where, in gloomy mood enough, he corrected his proof sheets. The volume appeared about the end of July, and thanks to the exertion of his friends, the impression was almost immediately exhausted. Its success was decided. All Ayrshire rang with its praise. His friends were of course anxious that he should remain in Scotland; and as they possessed some influence, he lingered in Ayrshire, loth to depart, hoping that something would turn up, but quite undecided as to the complexion and nature of the desired something. Wronged as he considered himself to have been by the Armour family, he was still conscious of a lingering affection for Jean. The poems, having made a conquest of Ayrshire, began to radiate out on every side. Professor Dugald Stewart, then resident at Catrine, had a copy of the poems, and Dr. Blair, who was on a visit to the professor, had his attention drawn to them, and expressed the warmest admiration. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop on opening the book had been electrified by the Cotter's Saturday Night, as Gilbert had been before her, and immediately sent an express to Burns at Mossgiel with a letter of praise and thanks. All this was pleasant enough, but it did not materially mend the situation. Burns could not hve on praise alone, and accordingly, so soon as he could muster nine guineas from the sale of his book, he took a steerage passage in a vessel which was expected to sail from Greenock at the end of September. During the month of August he seems to have employed himself in collecting subscriptions, and taking farewell of his friends. Burns was an enthusiastic Mason, and we can imagine that his last meeting with the Tarbolton Lodge would be a thing to remember. It was remembered, we learn from Mr. Chambers, by a surviving brother, John Lees. John said, " that Burns came in a pair of buckskins, out of which he would always pull the other shilling for the other bowl, till it was five in the morning. An awfu' night that:'' Care left outside the door, we can fancy how the wit would flash, and the big black eyes glow, on such an occasion ! The first edition of his poems being nearly exhausted, his friends encouraged him to produce a second forthwith; but, on application, it was found that the Kilmar- nock printer declined to undertake the risk, unless the price of the paper was BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. advanced beforehand. This outlay Burns was at this time unable to afford. On hearing of the circumstance, his friend Mr. Ballantyne offered to advance the money, but urged him to proceed to Edinburgh and publish the second edition there. This advice commended itself to Burns's ambition, but for a while he remained irresolute. Jean, meanwhile, had been confined of twins, and from one of his letters we learn that the "feelings of a father" kept him lingering in Ayrshire. News of the success of his poems came in upon him on every side. Dr. Lawrie, minister of Loudon, to whose family he had recently paid a visit, had forwarded a copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author's life, to Dr. Thomas Blacklock, and had received a letter from that gentleman, expressing the warmest admiration of the writer's genius, and urging that a second and larger edition should at once be proceeded with; adding, that "its intrinsic merits, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give the volume a more universal circulation than anything of the kind which has been published in my time." This letter, so full of encouragement, Dr. Lawrie carried at once to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and Mr. Hamilton lost no time in placing it in Burns's hands. The poems had been favor- ably reviewed in the Edinburgh Magazine for October, and this number of the periodical, so interesting to all its inmates, would, no doubt, find its way to Mossgiel. Burns seems to have made up his mind to proceed to Edinburgh about the 1 8th November, a step which was warmly approved by his brother Gilbert; and when his resolution was taken, he acted upon it with promptitude. He reached Edinburgh on the 28th November, 1786, and took up his residence with John Richmond, a Mauchline acquaintance, who occupied a room in Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, for which he paid three shillings a week. Burns for some time after his arrival seems to have had no special object; he wandered about the city, looking down from the castle on Princes Street; haunting Holyrood Palace and Chapel; standing with cloudy eyelid and hands meditatively knit beside the grave of Fergusson; and from the Canongate glancing up with interest on the quaint tene- ment in which Allan Ramsay kept his shop, wrote his poems, and ciurled the wigs of a departed generation of Scotsmen. At the time of Burns's arrival, the Old Town towered up from Holyrood to the Castle, picturesque, smoke-wreathed; and when the darkness came, its climbing tiers of lights and cressets were reflected in the yet existing Nor' Loch; and the gray uniform streets and squares of the New Town — from which the visitor to-day can look down on low wooded lands, the Forth, and Fife beyond — were only in course of erection. The literary society of the time was brilliant but 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 humor from Eng- land as they brought their parliamentary intelligence. Blair of the Grave was a Scottish Dr. Young; Home of Douglas a Scottish Otway; Mackenzie a Scottish A44isonj and Dr. Blair — so far as his criticism was concerned — a sort of Scottish BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. Dr. Johnson. The Scotch brain was genuine enough; the faculty was native, but it poured itself into foreign moulds. The literary grandees wore decorations — honestly earned — but no one could discover amongst them the Order of the Thistle. These men, too, had done their work, and the burly black-eyed, humorous, pas- sionate ploughman came up amongst them, the herald of a new day and a new order of things; the first king of a new literary empire, in which he was to be succeeded by Walter Scott, — then a lad of sixteen, engrossing deeds in his father's office, with the Tweed murmuring in his ears, and Melrose standing in the light of his opening imagination — with Hogg, Gait, Wilson, Lockhart, and the rest, for his satraps and lieutenants. Burns's arrival in Edinburgh was an historical event, far more important in itself, and in its issues, than either he or than any other person suspected. He soon got to work, however. In Ayrshire he had made the acquaintance of Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield; that gentleman introduced him to his brother-in- law, the Earl of Glencairn, then resident in Edinburgh; and his lordship introduced him to AVilliam Creech, the leading publisher in the city, at whose shop the wits were wont to congregate. Creech undertook the publication of the new edition; and, through the influence of Glencairn, it was arranged that the Caledonian Hunt should subscribe for a hundred copies, and that a guinea should be paid for each. Meantime, Mr. Mackenzie, in the Lounger, of date 9th December, wrote a glowing criticism on the poems, M'hich smoothed a way for them into the politer circles. The new edition, dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt, appeared on the 21st April, 1787, containing a list of subscribers' names extending to more than thirty-eight pages. The Hunt, as we have seen, took one hundred copies, and several gentle- men and noblemen subscribed liberally — one taking twenty copies, a second forty copies, a third forty-two copies. The Scots Colleges in France and Spain are also set down as subscribers among individual names. This was splendid success, and Burns felt it. He Avas regarded as a phenomenon; was asked hither and thither, frequently from kindness and pure admiration — often, however, to be merely talked with and stared at : this he felt, too, and his vengeful spleen, well kept under on the whole, corroded his heart like a fierce acid. During; the winter pre- ceding the publication of the second edition, he was f^ted and caressed. He was patronized by the D\ichess of Gordon. Lord Glencairn was his friend, so also was Henry Erskine. He was frequently at Lord Monboddo's, where he admired the daughter's beauty more than the father's philosophy; he breakfasted ^^'ith Dr. Blair; he walked in the mornings to the Braid Hills with Professor Dugald Ste- -^ art; and he frequently escaped from these lofty circles to the Masonic Lodge, or to the supper-tables of convivial lawyers, where he felt no restraint, where he could be wounded by no patronage, and where he flashed and coruscated, and became the soul of the revel. Fashionable and lettered saloons were astonished by Burns's talk ; but the interior of taverns — and in Edinburgh tavern life was all but uni- BIOGRAFIUCAL PREFACE. versal at the time — saw the brighter and more constant blaze. This sudden change of fortune — so different from his old life in the Irvine flax heckling-shop, or working the sour Mossgiel lands, or the post of a book-keeper in Jamaica, which he looked forward to and so narrowly escaped — was not without its giddy and exciting pleasures, and for pleasure of every kind Burns had the keenest relish. Now and again, too, in the earlier days of his Edinburgh life, when success wore its newest gloss, and applause had a novel sweetness, a spuit of exhilaration escaped him, not the less real that it was veiled in a little scornful exaggeration. In writing to Mr. Hamilton, he says : " For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas h. Kempis, or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the battle of Bothwell Bridge." In any case, if he did feel flattered by the attention paid him by society, he had time to cool and strike a balance in his friend Richmond's gar- ret in thp Lawnmarket — where he slept, Mr. Lockhart informs us, during the whole of that glittering and exciting winter. Hitherto, the world had seen but little of Burns personally. It had heard his voice as of one singing behind the scenes, and been moved to admiration; and when he presented himself in the full blaze of the footlights, he became tne cynosure of every eye, and the point on which converged every critical opera-glass. Edinburgh and Burns confronted each other. Edinburgh " took stock " of Burns, Burns " took stock " of Edinburgh, and it is interesting to note the mutual impressions. From all that can be gathered from Dr. Blair, Professors Dugald Stewart, Walker, and others. Burns acquitted himself in his new circumstances admirably. He never lost head, he never let a word of exultation escape him, his deportment was everywhere respectful yet self-possessed ; he talked well and freely — for he knew he was expected to talk — but he did not engross convcrsLation. His '* deferential " address won his way to female favor : and the only two breaches of decorum which are recorded of him in society, may be palliated by his probable ignorance of his host's feelings and vanities on the first occasion, and on the second, by the peculiar provocation he received. Asked in Dr. Blair's house, End in Dr. Blair's presence, from which of the city preachers he had derived the greatest gratification, it would have been fulsome had Burns said, turning to the Doctor, " I consider you. Sir, the greatest pulpit orator I have ever heard." The ri^stion was a most improper one in the circumstances; and if the company were tl.\r/?wn into a state of foolish embarrassment, and the host's feelings M'ounded by Burns giving the palm to his colleague — then the company were simply toadies of the sincerer sort, and the host less skilled in the world's ways than Burns, and possessed of" less natural good-breeding. In the second instance when, in a sen- tence mor^ remark&ble for force than grace, he extinguished a clergyman who abused Gray'. l.i.'gii»lifc aijaiu as a farmer, and it behoved him to wear russet on heart as well as on linib. In the heyday of his Edinburgh success he foresaw the probability of his return to the rural shades, ind to these shades he had now returned — but he ciurned with reputation, ex- perience, an unreproving conscience, some little mo /in band, and with solider prospects of happiness than had ever yet fallen to h '^'^* Happiness he did taste for a few months, — and then out of the future cam n jng shadows of disaster, fated not to pass away, but to gather deeper and df •: r:-e which was dug too early, — and yet too late. When Burns entered into possession of Ellisland, ui V.'iviti,^nAia> . 1788, he left his wife at Mauchline till the new dwelling-house sbouJd be erect, d. In the mean- time he was sufficiently busy; he had to superintend masons and carpenters, as well as look after more immediate farm matters. Bes;d6s, in order to qualify him- self for holding his Excise Commission, he had to ;^ive attendance at Ayr for six weeks on the duties of his new profession. Th^se occupations, together with occasional visits to his wife and family, kept him ful •; occupied, rfope had sprung up in his bosom like a Jonah's gourd, and while th.j oreennes? laisied he was happy enough. During his solitary life at Ellisland, he - -ate two or thr ie of his finest songs, each of them in praise of Jean, and each gi' ing endou-.i luat his heart was at rest. During this time, too, a somewhat extens;-e corresp-j nrtenre was kept up, and activity and hopefulness — only occasionally ' sheJ. hy -.ccej^es of his consti- tutional melancholy — radiate through it all. As was natural, nis letters relate, for the most part, to his marriage and his new prospects. As respects his marriage, he takes abundant care to make known that, acting as he had done, he had acted prudently; that he had secured an admirable wife, and that in his new relationship he was entirely satisfied. If any doubt should exist as to Burns's satisfaction, it can arise only from his somewhat too frequent protestation of it. He takes care to inform his correspondents that he has actually married Jean, that he would have been a scoundrel had he declined to marry her, and that she possessed the sweetest temper and the handsomest figure in the country. The truth is, that, in the matter of matrimony, he could not very well help himself. He was aware that the match BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. was far from a brilliant one, and as he really loved his wife, he had to argue down ^hat feeling in his own heart; he was aware that his correspondents did not con- sider it brilliant, and he had also to argue down that feeling in theirs. Meanwhile, the house at Ellisland was getting finished. In the first week of December he brought home his wife, and in the pride of his heart he threw off a saucy little song, A'ife o' my ain," which quivers throi 5." ev'-'.y jf it with a homely and assured delight that laughs at all mischr.nce. Mrs - brought her children and a whole establish- ment of servants. The house wn^ -rail, its accommodation was limited, and Burns sat at meals with hi.- doin-istics, ...'J in Sunday evenings, after the good old Scot- tish fashion, he du; ;,- catechized the- i. He has himself left on record that this was the happiest porti'-n of his *iife. Tie had friends, with whom he maintained an intimate correspondence; be > . ' wife who loved him; his passionate and way- ward heart was ao rest in i^J c .< appiness; he could see the grain yellowing in his own fields ; he lia-i the E\cij.c Commission in his pocket en which he could fall back if anything v cut wrong: azid on the red scaur above the river, he could stride about, giving audifjnce tc inconmiunicable thought, while the Nith was hoarse with flood, and the moon vvas v^r iiag through clouds overhead. When should he have been happy, if hot no .■ / Burns's farming opcrati ring the second year of his occupancy of Ellisland were not succ ssful, and i. aore unrestrained letters of the period we find him complaining t his hard fate being obliged to make one guinea do the work of five. As the e.":pense of his f: nily was now rapidly increasing, he requested to be allowed to e ter at once on )■. . duties as officer of Excise. That in his new mode of life he wc il I encounte^jur) .pleasantnesses he knew, and was prepared for them; but he expe:te<; that Mrs. Bu ms would be able to manage the farm for the most part, — in anv case his salary as Exciseman would be a welcome addition to his means. He was appointed, on application, he entered zealously on his duties, and as his district f;xlended ovrr ten parishes, he was forced to ride about two hundred miles per week. 'Tins wor^-, taken in conjunction with labor at Ellisland, which, constantly getting into arrear, demanded fierce exertion at intervals, was too much for even his iron frame. He had attacks of illness, and his constitutional hypo- chondria ruled him with a darker sceptre than ever. It appears evident from his letters that he meant to make his fight at Ellisland, and that he considered the Excise as a second line of defence on which he could fall back in the event of defeat. At Ellisland he was defeated, and on his second line of defence he fell back grimly enough. An Excise officer is not a popular character in country dic- tricts where smugglers abound; and whatever degree of odium might attach to his new profession, Burns was certain to feel more keenly than most. One can see that in his new relation his haughty spirit was ill at ease; that he suspected a sort BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. of meanness in himself; and that the thought that he had in any way stooped or condescended was gall and wormwood. His bitterness on this matter escapes in various and characteristic ways. At one time he treats the matter with imperial disdain, declaring that he does not intend •' to seek honor from his profession " ; at another time in a set of impromptu verses he mocks at his occupation and him- self, illuminating the whole business with a flame of spleenful mirth. But the step he had taken was unquestionably a prudent one, and if it miscarried, it miscarried from foreign causes. From every account which survives, he was an excellent and zealous officer, and into his work he carried eyes which were at once sharp and kindly. It was not in his nature to be harsh or tyrannical. A word revealed secrets to him, a glance let him into the bearings of a case; and while he saw that the interests of Government did not materially suffer, his good nature and kind- heartedness were always at hand to make matters as pleasant as possible. One or two of these Excise anecdotes are amongst the pleasantest remembrances we have of Burns. His professional prospects were on the whole far from despicable. On his farm he was losing money, health, and hope; but in the Excise he looked forward to advancement, — an Inspectorship or Supervisorship being regarded as within his reach. If Ellisland had only been profitable, Burns might hiive been considered a fortu- nate man. For his own wants and for those of his family the cottage which he had built sufficed. The scenery around him was beautiful. He was on good terms with the neighboring proprietors, and his reputation attracted visitors from many quarters. He procured books from Edinburgh and from the circulating hbrary which — with that regard for mental means and appliances which seems to have been vi characteristic of his race — he had established in the vicinity. Every other day letters and newspapers were arriving at Ellisland, connecting him with distant places and events; and the stranger who dropped in upon him from London or Edinburgh, or even from places more remote, brought talk, ideas, observations on this thing and the other more or less valuable, stimulus, excitement, — all tending to enrich intellectual life. And during this time he was no mental sluggard. He worked his brain as he worked his servants on the acres at Ellisland, or his horse as he rode on the scent of a smuggler through the Nithsdale moors. He carried on a multifarious correspondence, he wrote his letters carefully — only a little too carefully sometimes, for he is occasionally modish and over-dressed. Every other week he sent a packet of songs to Johnson for "his Museum, which had now reached the third volume. He interested himself in local politics, and scribbled election- eering ballads. One evening, when the past — heavy with unshed tears — lay near his heart, he composed the strain. To Mary in Heaven ; and in the course of one summer day, in a perfect riot and whirlwind of ecstasy, every faculty and power in full blossom, he dashed off Tarn O'Shajiter, — immortal, unapproachable ! If Ellis- land had but paid. Burns might have been happy as farmer and poet, — or as Exciseman, farmer, and poet, — for the characters were by no means incompatible. BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. As but for his Excise salary Burns must have succumbed under farming difficul ties, he was now anxious to be quit of Ellisland, and to confine himself entirely Xc his official duties; and it so happened that Mr. Miller was willing to release him of the portion of the lease which was yet to run, preparatory to a final sale of thai oart of the lands. The Ellisland crops were sold, and the sale was made the occasion of a drunken orgie. On the ist September, Burns writes to Mr. Thomas Sloan : " I sold my crop on this day se'en-night, and sold i<: very well. A guinea an acre on an average above value. But such a scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was over about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting indeed, but the folks lyitig drunk on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them that they could not stand. Ycu will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I was no farther over than you used to see me." In November Ellisland became the property of Mr. Morine, and Burns imm.e- diately sold his farm stock and implements, — relinquishing for ever the plough-tail, at which he so often boasted that he had an independence, — and removed with his wife and children to a small house in the Wee Vennel of Dumfries. On his removal he was appointed to an Excise division, which improved his salary. His income was now £ 70 per annum. It is at Dumfries that Burns's story first becomes really tragical. He had divorced himself from country scenery and the on-goings of rural life, which, up till now, formed an appropriate background for our ideas of him. Instead of the knowes and meadows of Mossgiel and Ellisland, with their lovely sunrises and twilights, we have to connect him with the streets, the gossip, and the dissipation of a third-rate Scottish town. He was no longer a farmer — he was a simple gauger, hoping to obtain a supervisorship. Proud as was his spirit, he was dependent on great friends ; and lie condescended, on various occasions, to write epistles in prose and vei-se which fawned on a patron's hand. Natural inspiration and picturesque- ness were taken out of his life. He turned down no more daisies, the horned moon hung no longer in the window-pane of the ale-house in which he drank; the com- position of theatrical prologues engaged his attention rather than the composition of poems of rustic life. He was never rich, but in Dumfries his poverty for the first time wears an aspect of painfulness. For the first time we hear of monetary difficulties, of obligations which he cannot conveniently meet, of debt. It was here, too, that certain weaknesses, which had lately grown upon him, attracted public notice. In Dumfries, as in Edinburgh at that time, there was a good deal of taverti- life, and much hard drinking at dinner and supper parties, and the like. Burns was famous, — he had lived in dukes' houses, he corresponded with celebrated men, he could talk brilliantly, he had wit for every call as other men had. spare silver, BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. he could repeat his last poem or epigram, — and aa a consequence his society was in great request. It was soitiething to have dined or supped in the company of Burns, — if one was not the rose, it was at least something to have been near the rose, — and his host was proud of him, as he was proud of his haunch of venison, his claret, his silver epergne. Burns's good things circulated with the wine; his wit gave a new relish to the fruit, and kindled an unwonted splendor in the brains «f his listeners. Then strangers, passing through Dumfries, were naturally anxious to see the poet whose reputation had travelled so far. They invited him to the inns in which they were living, Burns consented, frequently the revel was loud and late, and when he rose, — after the sun sometimes, — he paid his share of the lawing with "a slice of his constitution." In his younger days he had been sub- jected to public rebuke by the Rev. Mr. Auld; but since his marriage he seems lo have been irreproachable in the matter of conjugal fidelity. During, however, an unfortunate absence of his wife in Ayrshire he contracted a discreditable liaison, which resulted in the birth of a daughter. Mrs. Burns seems neither to have reproached nor complained; she adopted the child, and brought it up in the same cradle with her own infant. If for his fault he had been subjected to domestic annoyance, he might have taken refuge in pride, and haughtily repelled reproaches; but his wife's forgiveness allowed him to brood — ^i«d with what bitterness we can guess — over his misconduct. Doubtless the evil \n his career in Dumfries has been exaggerated. Burns's position was full of peril, — he was subjected to tempta- tions which did not come in the way of ordinary men; and if he drank hard, it was ! in an age when hard drinking was fashionable. If he sinned in this respect, he sinned in company with English prime ministers, Scotch Lords of Session, grave / dignitaries of the Church in both countries, and with thousands of ordinary block- ^ heads who went to their graves in the odor of sanctity, and whose epitaphs are a catalogue of all the virtues. Burns was a man set apart; he was observed, he was talked about; and if he erred, it was like erring in the market-place. In any other inhabitant of Dumfries, misdemeanors such as Burns's would hardly have provoked remark; what would have been unnoticed on the hodden gray of the farmer became a stain on the singing robe of the poet. That Burns should ha vc led an unworthy life is to be deplored, but the truth '-"^ — and herein lies explana- tion, palliation perhaps — that in Dumfries he was somewhat a-weary of the sun. ' Not seldom he was desperate and at bay. He was neither in harmony with him- 1 self nor with the world. He had enjoyed one burst of brilliant success, and in the light of that success his life before and after looked darker than it actually was. The hope deferred of a supervisorship made his heart sick. He had succeeded as a poet, but in everything else failure had dogged his steps; and out of that poetical success no permanent benefit had resulted, or seemed now in his need Hkely to result. In the east were the colors of the dawn, but the sun would not arise. His letters at this time breathe an almost uniform mood of exasperation and BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. misery, and it is hard for a miserable man to be a good one. He is tempted to make .itrange alliances, and to pay a high price for forgetfulness. And nver Burns's head at this time was suspended one other black cloud, which, although it only burst in part, made the remainder of his life darker with its shadow. Chief amongst Burns's friends during the early portion of his residence at Dum- fries were Mr. and Mrs. Riddel. They were in good circumstances, possessing a small estate in the neighborhood of the town, and Burns was frequently their guest. Mrs. Riddel was young and pretty, and distinguished by literary taste and accom- plishment. She wrote verses which Burns praised, and he introduc/;d her to his friend Smellie, the naturalist, who was enchanted with her vivacity and talent. But this pleasant relationship was destined to be interrupted. On the occasion of a dinner-party at Woodley Park, the residence of Mr. Riddel, when wine flowed much too freely. Burns — in some not quite explained manner — grievously offended his hostess. On the following morning he apologized in prose and veise, threw the onus of his rudeness on Mr. Riddel's wine, — which was the next thing to blaming Mr. Riddel himself, — and in every way expressed regret for his con- duct, and abhorrence of himself. These apologies do not seem to have been accepted, and for a time the friends ceased to meet. Burns was hurt and angry, and he made the lady he was^ ^ .ustomed to address in adoring verses and high- flown epistles the subject of cri,,i'and unmanly lampoons. The enstrangement was, of course, noised abroad, and the people were inclined to side with the fashionable lady rather than with the Jacobinical exciseman. For a time at least, Dumfries regarded Burns with a lowering and suspicious eye, one reason of which may be found in his quarrel with the Riddels and its cause, and another in the poUtical principles which he professed to hold, and to which he gave imprudent expression. His immediate ancestors had perilled something in the cause of the Stuarts, and Burns, in his early days, was wont to wear a sentimental Jacobitism, — for orna- ment's sake, like a ring on the finger, or a sprig of heather in the bonnet. This. Jacobitism was fed by his sentiment and his poetry. It grew out of the House of Stuart, as flowers grow out of the walls of ruins. But while he held the past in reverence, and respected aristocracy as an outcome of that past, a something around which tradition and ballad could gather, there was always a fierce democratic im- pulse in his mind, which raged at times like the ocean tide against the Bullers of Buchan. This democratic feeling, like his other feeling of Jacobitism, rested on no solid foundation. He had a strong feeling that genius and worth are always poor, that baseness and chicanery are always prosperous. He considered that the good things of this life were secured by the rascals more or less. The truth is, his Jacob- itism sprang from his imagination, his Radicalism from his discontent; the one the offspring of the best portion of his nature, the other the off"spring of the worst. Radicalism was originally born of hunger; and Burns, while denouncing the rulers of his country, was simply crying out under his own proper sore. He passionately BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. carried particulars into generals. He was sick, and so was the whole body politic. He needed reform, so, of course, did the whole world, and it was more agreeable to begin with the world in the first instance. He was imprudent in the expression of his political opinions, and was continually doing himself injury thereby. He had written as we have seen, treasonable verses on the inn window at Stirling ; and although on a subsequent visit he dashed out the pane, he could not by that means destroy the copies which were in circulation. The writing of the verses referred to was imprudent enough, but the expression of his Radicalism at Dumfries — which was a transient mood, not a fixed principle with him — was more imprudent still. In the one case he was a private individual, anxious to enter the Excise; in the other, he had entered the Excise, was actually a Government officer, and in receipt of a Government salary. Besides, too, the times were troublous : there was seditious feeling in the country, France had become a volcano in active eruption, and European business was carried on in its portentous light. It became known that Burns looked with favor on the revolutionary party across the Channel, that he read newspapers which were opposed to the Government, and, as a consequence, by the well-to-do inhabitants of Dumfries he was regarded with suspicion. This suspi- cion was, of course, wretched enough, but Burns need not have gone out of his way to incur it. He knew perfectly well that his Radicalism was based on no serious con- viction, that it grew out of personal discontent, and that the discontent was the re- sult of wounded pride, and the consciousness that he had not shaped his life aright. Besides all this, he seems to have lost self-command; he was constantly getting into scrapes from which there could be no honorable extrication. He burned his fingers, and he did not dread the fire. To the Subscription Library in Dumfries he pre- sented, amongst other volumes, a copy of De Lolme on the British Constitution, and inscribed on the back of the portrait of the author, " Mr. Burns presents this book to the Library, and begs they will take it as a creed of British liberty — until they find a better. R. B. " And the next morning he came to the bedside of the gentle- man who had the volume in custody, imploring to see De Lolme, as he feared he had written something in it that might bring him into trouble. We hear of him at a private dinner-party, when the health of Pitt was proposed, giving " The health of George Washington — a better man," and of his being sulky that his toast was not received. He had already sent a present of guns to the French Convention, with which our prospect of war was at this time becoming imminent ; and at a later period we find him quarrelling with an officer on the subject of another toast, and writing apologies to the effect, firstly, that when the offence was committed he was drunk; and secondly, that he could not fight a duel, because he had the welfare of others to care for. When the board of Excise ordered some inquiries to be made regard- ing his poHtical conduct, he wrote Mr. Graham of Fintry, declaring that " To the British Constitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most de- voutly attached." He was in a state of chronic exasperation at himself, at the rich BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. people of his acquaintance and of his immediate neighborhood, and at the world generally; and his exasperation was continually blazing out in sarcasm and invec- tive. Curiously enough, too, when one thinks of it, during all this bitter time, he was writing songs for Mr. Thomson, who had opened a correspondence with him. He was busy with Chloris and Fhillis, while thrones were shaking, and the son of Saint Louis knelt on the scaffold, and Marie Antoinette during her trial was beat- ing out with weary fingers a piano tune on the bench before her. Every other week up from Dumfries to Edinburgh came by the fly a packet of songs for the new publication. On one occasion came the stern war-ode, Scots ivha hue wi' Wallace bled, which Mr. Thomson thought susceptible of improvement. But Burns was inexorable; he liked his ode, and as it was it should remain. It has been said, that by the more respectable circles in Dumfries Burns was regarded with suspicion, if not with positive dislike. Some evidence of this will be found in the anecdote related by Mr. Lockhart. " Mr. M'Culloch," we are informed by that biographer, " was seldom more grieved than when, riding into Dumfries one fine summer evening to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of ladies and gentlemen, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, * Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over now ' ; and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizel Baillie's pathetic ballad : ' His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, His auld ane looked better than mony ane's new ; But now he let's wear ony gate it will hing, ' And casts himsel' dowie upon the corn-bing. ' Oh, were we young as we ance hae been, We sud hae been galloping down on yon green, And linking it ower the lily-white lea — And werena my heart light I wad die.' Burns then turned the conversation, and took his young friend home with him till the time for the ball arrived." This — with the exception of the actual close — was the darkest period in Burns's hfe. In a short time the horizon cleared a little. The quarrel with Mrs. Riddel was healed, and in a short time books and poems were exchanged between them as of yore. He appears also to have had again some hope of obtaining a supervisor- ship— the mirage that haunted his closing years. Meanwhile, political feeling had become less bitter ; and, in 1 795, he exhibited his friendliness to the institutions of the country by entering himself one of the corps of volunteers which was raised in Dumfries, and by composing the spirited patriotic song. Does haughty Gaul in- vasion threat? This song became at once popular; and it showed the nation that BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. the heart of the writer was sound at the core, that he hated anarchy and tyranny alike, and wished to steer a prudent middle course. Better days were dawning ; but by this time the hardships of his youth, his constant anxieties, his hoping against hope, and his continual passionate stress and tumult of soul, began to tell on a frame that was originally powerful. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in the begin- ning of the year, we have, under his own hand, the first warning of failing strength. ** What a transient business is life," he writes. "Very lately I was a boy; but t'other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and Stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." In spite of breaking health, he attended his Excise duties, and the packets of songs were sent regularly from Dumfries to Edinburgh. In the songs there was no symptom of ache or pain; in these his natural vigor was in no wise abated. The dew still hung, diamond-like, upon the thorn. Love was still lord of all. On one occasion he went to a party at the Globe Tavern, where he waited late, and on his way home, heavy with liquor, he fell asleep in the open air. The result, in his weakened state of body, was dis- astrous. He was attacked by rheumatic fever, his appetite began to fail, his black eyes lost their lustre, his voice became tremulous and hollow. His friends hoped that, if he could endure the cold spring months, the summer warmth would revive him; but summer came, and brought no recovery. He was now laid aside from his official work. During his illness he was attended by Miss Jessie Lewars, a sister of his friend Lewars, — " a fellow of uncommon merit; indeed, by far the cleverest fellow I have met in this part of the world," — and her kindness the dying poet repaid by the only thing he was rich enough to give — a song of immortal sweet- ness. His letters at this time are full of his disease, his gloomy prospects, his straitened circumstances. In July he went to Brow, a sea-bathing village on the Solway, where Mrs. Riddel was then residing, in weak health, and there the friends — for all past bitternesses were now forgotten — had an interview. •* Well^. Madam, have you any commands for the other world ? " was Burns's greeting. He talked of his approaching decease calmly, like one who had grown so familiar with the idea that it had lost all its terror. His residence on the Solway was not productive of benefit : he was beyond all aid from sunshine and the saline breeze. On the 7th July, he wrote Mr. Cunningham, urging him to use his influence with the Commissioners of Excise to grant him his full salary. " If they do not grant it me," he concludes, " I must lay my account with art exit truly en poete ; if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." On the loth July, he wrote his brother Gilbert; and Mrs Dunlop, who had become unaccountably silent, two days after. On this same 12th July, he addressed the following letter to his cousin : — ** My dear Cousin, — When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a consider- dble bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? Oh, James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me ! Alas ! I am not used to beg. The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. You know, and my physician assured me that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease — guess, then, my horror since this business began. . If I had it settled, I would e, I think, quite well, in a manner. How shall I use the language to you? — oh, do not disappoint me ! but strong necessity's curst command. " Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post — save me from the horrors of a jail. " My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look over it again. Farewell « R. B.'» On the same day he addressed Mr. Thomson : — " After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a halierdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will in- fallibly put me in jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness; but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on Rothemurchie this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! " This was Burns's last working day. He wrote his song in the morning, Fairest Maid on Devon Banks, and the two letters afterwards — to both of which answers were promptly returned. He soon after left the Solway and returned to Dumfries, where his wife was daily expected to be confined. He came home in a small spring cart, and when he alighted he was unable to stand. The hand of death was visi- bly upon him. His children were sent to the house of Mr. Lewars : Jessie was sedulous in her attentions. On the 2 1st, he sank into delirium; his children wera brought to see him for the last time; and with an execration on the legal agent who had threatened him, the troubled spirit passed. Those who came to see him as he lay in his last sleep M^ere touched and affected. Mighty is the hallowing of death to all, — to him more than to most. As he lay stretched, his dark locks already ct^.eaked with unnatural gray, all unworthiness fell away from him — every stain of passion and debauch, every ignoble word, every ebullition of scorn and pride — and left pure nobleness. Farmer no longer, exciseman no longer, sub- ject no longer to criticism, to misrepresentation, to the malevolence of mean natures BIOGBAPHICAL PREFACE. xxxvii 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 judgments of Dumfries, and made his appeal to Time. Of Burns, the man and poet^ what is there left to be said? During his lifetime he was regarded as a phenomenon; and now, when he has been seventy years in his grave he is a phenomenon stiil. He came up from Ayrshire with all the sense and sljrewdness of its peasantry, the passion of its lovers, the piety of its circles of family worship, the wild mirth of its kirns and halloweens. Of all the great men of the North Country, his was incomparably the fullest soul. What fun he had, what melancholy, what pity, what anger, what passion, what homely sagacity, what sensitiveness ! Of everything he was brimful and overflowing. It is difficult to carry a full cup and not to spill it. He had his errors, but they arose out of his splendid and ]:)erilous richness. As a man he was full of natural goodness, but he was unpeticent even among poets. We know the best and the worst of him; and he has himself frankly told us that best and that worst. He had to fight with ad- verse circumstances, he died before he had run his race, and his fame — greater than that of any other poet of his country — rests upon poems ■wTritten swiftly, as men write their letters, and on songs which came to him naturally as its carol comes to the blackbird. Of all poets Burns was, perhaps, the most directly inspired. His poems did not grow — like stalactites — by the slow process of accretion; like Adam, they had no childhood — they awoke complete. Burns produced all his great effects by single strokes. In his best things there is an impetus, a hurry, which gives one the idea of boundless resource. To him a song was the occupation of a morning; hia poetic epistles drive along in a fiery sleet of words and images : his Tam O' Shunter was written in a day — since Bruce fought Bannockburn, the best single day's work done in Scotland. Burns was never taken by surprise ; he was ready for all calls and emergencies. He had not only — like Addison — a thousand-pound note at home, but he had — to carry out the image — plenty of loose intellectual coin in his pocket. A richer man — with plenty of money in his purse, and able to get the money out of his purse when swift occasion required — Nature has seldom sent into the world. Born and bred as he was in the country, we find in Burns the finest pictures of rural life. We smell continually the newly-turned earth, the hawthorn blossom, the breath of kine. His shepherds and shepherdesses are not those who pipe and make love in Arcady and on Sevres china — they actually work, receive wages, attend markets, hear sermons, go sweethearting, and, at times, before the congre- gation endure rebuke. The world he depicts is a real world, and the men and women are also real. Burns had to sweat in the eye of Phoebus, and about all he writes there is an out-of-doors feeling. Although conversant with sunrises and sunsets, the processes of vegetation, and all the shows and forms of nature, he »uviii BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. seldom or never describes these things for their own sake; they are always kept in subordination to the central hunnan interest. Burns cared little for the natural picturesque in itself; the moral picturesque touched him more nearly. An old soldier in tattered scarlet interested him more than an old ruin; he preferred a gnarled character to a gnarled tree. The ridges of Arran haunt Ayrshire, Burns must daily have seen them from his door at Mossgiel, — and yet, to this most striking object in his range of vision, there is not a single allusion in his letters and poems. If Wordsworth had been placed in the same environment, how he would have made his suns rise or set on Arran ! After all, it is usually the town-poets — men like Hunt and Keats — who go philandering after nature, who are enraptured by the graceful curvature of ferns and the colors of mosses and lichens. Burns had an exquisite delight in nature, especially in her more sombre and gloomy aspects ; but he took a deeper interest in man, and, as a con- sequence, the chief interest of his poems is of a moral kind. We value them not so much for their color, their harmony, their curious felicities of expression, as for the gleams of sagacity, the insight into character, the strong homely sense, and those wonderful short sentences scattered everywhere. Of those short lines and sentences, now sly, now caustic, now broadly humorous, now purely didactic, no writings, if Shakespeare's be excepted, have a greater abundance. They cir- culate everywhere like current coin ; they have passed like iron into the blood of our common speech. Of Burns's conversation in Edinburgh we have little re- corded that is specially characteristic — and for this we blame not Burns, but his reporters. The best thing — indeed, the only true and deep thing — is the simple statement which struck Dugald Stewart so much when the pair were standing on the Braid hills, looking out on the fair morning world. Beneath were cottages, early sparrows doubtless noisy in the thatch, pillars of blue smoke, telling of preparation of breakfast for laborers afield, curling in the calm air. Burns took in the whole landscape, and declared that, in his view, the worthiest object it con- tained was the cluster of smoking cots, knowing as he did, what worth, what affection, what pious contentment and happiness, nestled within them. This really is a gleam into the man's inmost soul. Poetry, to him, lay in the cottage rather than in the tree that overshadowed it, or the stream that sparkled past it. In one of his poems he lays down the doctrine in express terms : — " To mak a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life." The poetry of a man so intensely humane is certain to come home to the bosoms •Vicl businesses of all other men — powerfully to the happy, more powerfully to the miserable, who are ever in the majority. To the wretched, out of the Bible, there BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. I is no such solace as the poetry of Burns. His genius comes to their hovels, their poor bread wetted with tears, as Howard came to the strong places of pestilence — irradiating, consoling; like the hearing of soft tones, like the touches of tender hands. And then his large friendliness flows out in every direction. The " mouse " is his "poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal." He pities the "silly sheep," and the " chittering wing " of the bird perched on the frozen spray. The farmer speaks to his old mare " Maggie " as he would to a comrade, who had shared with him his struggles, toils, and triumphs. The poetry of Burns flows into a wintry world, like a tepid gulf-stream — mitigating harsh climates, breathing genial days, carrying with it spring-tim^ and the cuckoo's note. Of his humor again — which is merely his love laughing and playing antics in very extravagance of its joy — what can be said, except that it is the freshest, most original, most delightful in the world? What a riot of fun in Tarn 0^ Shunter; what strange co-mixture of mirth and awfulness in Death and Dr. Hornbook ; what extravaganza in the Address to a Haggis ! To Burns's eye the world was dark enough, usually; but, on the gala days and carnivals of his spirit. Mirth rules the hour, ragged Poverty dances all the lighter for his empty pockets. Death himself grins as he is poked in the lean ribs. And if, as is said, from the sweetest wine you can extract the sourest vinegar, one can fancy into what deadly satire this love will conceal itself, when it becomes hate. Burns hates his foe — be it man or doctrine — as intensly as he loves his mistress. Holy Willie's Prayer is a satirical crucifixion — slow, lingering, inexorable. He hated Hypocrisy, he tore its holy robe, and for the outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him while he lived, nor has it yet learned to forgive him. If we applaud the Roman Emperor who found Rome brick and left it marble, what shall we say of the man who found the songs of his country indelicate and left them pure — who made wholesome the air which the spirit and the affections oreathe? And Burns did this. He drove immodesty from love, and coarseness from humor. And not only did Le purify existing Scottish Song ; he added to it all that it has of best and rarest. Since his day, no countryman of his, whatever may be his mood, need be visited by a sense of solitariness, or ache with a pent-up feeling. If he is glad, he will find a song as merry as himself; if sad, he will find one that will sigh with his own woe. In Burns's Songs, love finds an exquisite companionship; independence a backer and second; conviviality a roaring table, and the best fellows round it; patriotism a deeper love of country, and .a gayer scorn of death than even its own. And in so adding to, and purifying Scottish Song, Burns has conferred the greatest benefit on his countrymen that it is in tht power of a poet to confer. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF BURNS'S LIFE AND WORKS. ALLOWAY. 1759- January 25. — Robert Burns born at Alloway, parish of Ayr, in a clay-built cottage, the work of his father's own hands. His father, William Burnes (so the family name was always written until changed by the poet), was a native of Kin- cardineshire, born November II, 1721. His mother, Agnes Brown, born March 17, 1732, was daughter of a farmer in Carrick, Ayrshiie. The poet's parents were married December 15, 1757. William Burnes was then a gardener and farm- overseer. 1765 — (^TAT. Six) . Sent to a school at Alloway Mill, kept by one Campbell, who was succeeded in May by John Murdoch, a young teacher of uncommon merit, engaged by William Burnes and four of his neighbors, who boarded him alternately -i. their houses, and guaranteed him a small salary. Two advantages were thus possessed by the poet — an excellent father and an excellent teacher. MOUNT OLIPHANT. 1766 — (Seven). William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant, two miles distant. His sons still attended Alloway school. The books used were a spelling-book, the New Tesla?7ten(, the Bible, Mason's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar. 1768 — (Nine). Murdoch gave up Alloway school. Visiting the Burnes family before his departure, he took with him, as a present, the play of Titus Andronicus. He read part of the play aloud, but the horrors of the scene shocked and distressed xUi CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. the children, and Robert threatened to burn the book if it was left. Instead of it, Murdoch gave them a comedy, the School for Love (translated from the French) and an English Grammar. He had previously lent Robert a Life of Hannibal. "The earliest composition that I recollect taking any pleasure in," says the poet, *' 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! ' " He had found these in Mason's Collection. The latent seeds of poetry were further cultivated in his mind by an old woman living in the family, Betty David- son, who had a great store of tales, songs, ghost-stories, and legendary lore. 1770 — (Eleven). By the time he was ten or eleven years of age he was an excellent English scholar, " a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles." After the departure of Murdoch, William Burnes was the only instructor of his sons and other children. He taught them arithmetic, and procured for their use Salmott's Geographical Grammar, Derhain's Physics and Astro- Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation. These gave the boys some idea of Geography, Astronomy, and Nat- ural History. He had also Stackhouse' s History of the Bible, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, a volume of English History (reigns of James I. and Charles I.). The blacksmith lent the common metrical Life of Sir William Wallace (which was read with Scottish fervor and enthusiasm), and a maternal unci** -applied a Collection of Letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, which insp:.ecl Robert with a strong desire to excel in letter- writing. 1772 — (Thirteen). To improve their penmanship, William Burnes sent his sons, week about, dur- ing the summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant. This year Murdoch was appointed teacher of English in Ayr school, and he renewed his acquaintance with the Burnes family, sending them Pope^s Works and " some other poetry." 1773 — (Fourteen) . Robert boarded three weeks with Murdoch at Ayr in order to revise his Eng- lish Grammar. He acquired also a smattering of French, and on returning home he took with him a French Dictionary and French Gratnmar^ and a copy of Telemague. He attempted Latin, but soon abandoned it. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xliii 1774 — (Fifteen). His knowledge of French introduced him to some respectable famihes in Ayr (Dr. Malcolm's and others). A lady lent him the Spectator, Pope's Homer, and several other books. In this year began with him love and poetry. His partner in the harvest-field was a " bewitching creature " a year younger than himself, Nelly Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith, who sang sweetly, and on her he afterwards wrote his first song and first effort at rhyme, 0^ once I loved a boanie lass. 1775— (Sixteen). About this time Robert was the principal laborer on the farm. From the un- productiveness of the soil, the loss of cattle, and other causes, William Burnei had got into pecuniary difficulties, and the threatening letters of the factor (the landlord being dead) used to set the distressed family all in tears. The character of the factor is drawn in the Tale of Twa Dogs. The hard labor, poor living, and sorrow of this period formed the chief cause of the poet's subsequent fits of melancholy, frequent headaches, and palpitation of the heart. 1776 — (Seventeen). Speit his seventeenth summer (so in poet's MS. British Museum; Dr. Currie altered'the date to nineteentJi) on a smuggling coast in Ayrshire, at Kirkoswald, on purpose to learn mensuration, surveying, etc. He made good progress, though mixin " somewhat in the dissipation of the place, which had then a flourishing con- traba ^'1 trade. Met the second of his poetical he 'oines, Peggy Thomson, on whom he af*^ '.-wards wrote his fine song, Noxii westlin tvinds and slaiighfring guns. The I arms of this maiden " overset his trigonometry and set him off at a tangent from ,e sphere of his studies." On his return from Kirkoswald (" in my seven- teent'^ year," he writes) he attended a dancing school to •' give his manners a brush? His father had an antipathy to these meetings, and his going "in abso- lute defiance of his father's command " {sic in orig.) was an " instance of rebel- lion " which he conceived brought on him the paternal resentment and even dis- like. Gilbert Burns dissents altogether from this conclusion : the poet's extreme sensibility and regret for his one act of disobedience led him unconsciously to exaggerate the circumstances of the case. At Kirkoswald he had enlarged his reading by the addition of Thomson's and Shenstone''s Works, and among the other books to which he had access at this period, besides those mentioned above, were some plays of Shakespeare, Allan Rainsay''s Works, Herveys Meditations^ and a Select Collection of English Songs ("The Lark," 2 vols.). This last work A'as, he says, his vade mecum ; he pored over it driving his cart or walking to labor, and carefully noted the true tender or sublime from affectation and fustian. He composed this year two stanzas, I dream'd I layiohere flowe} s were springing. xliv CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. LOCHLEA. 1777 — (Eighteen). William Burnes and family remove to a larger farm at Lochlea, parish of Tar- bolton. Take possession at Whitsunday. Affairs for a time look brighter, and all work diligently. Robert and Gilbert have £ 7 per annum each as wages from their father, a,nd they also take land from him for the purpose of raising flax on their own account. " Though, when young, the poet was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, as he approached manhood his attachment to their society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair en- slaver." (^Gilbert Burns.') He was in the secret, he says, of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton. 1778 — (Nineteen). ** I was," he says, " about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outlines of a tragedy." The whole had escaped his memory, except a fragment of twenty lines : All devil as I am, etc. 1780 — (Twenty-one). The " Bachelors' Club," established at Tarbolton by Robert and Gilbert;Burns, and five other young men. Meetings were held once a month, and qi^estions debated. The sum expended by each member was not to exceed threepence. 1781 — (Twenty-two). noh David Sillar admitted a member of the Bachelors' Club. He descriVi" ^ims: "I recollect hearing his neighbors observe he had a great deal to say fc^"f^>iself, and that they suspected his principles (his religious principles). He ^" : the only tied hair in the parish, and in the church his plaid, which was of " .ticu- lar color, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particular manner round his shoulders. Between sei-mons we often took a walk in the fields ; in these walks I have fre- quently been struck by his facility in addressing the fair sex, and it was generally a death-blow to our conversation, however agreeable, to meet a female acquain- tance. Some book he always carried and read when not othenvise employed. it was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, in the time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, — I think Tristram Shandy, — that his spoon falling out of his hand made him exclaim in a tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick ! ' " The poet had now added to his collec- tion of books Mackenzie's Man of Feeling (which he said he prized next to the Bible) and Man of the World, Sterne's Works, and Macpherson's Ossian. He would appear also to have had the poetical works of Young. Among the fair ones whose society he courted was a superior young woman, bearing the unpoeti- CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlv cal name of Ellison Begbie. She was the daughter of a small farmer at Galston, but was servant with a family on the banks of the Cessnock. On her he wrote a " song of similes," beginning On Cessnock banks Acre lives a lass, and the earli- est of his printed correspondence is addressed to Ellison. His letters are grave, sensible epistles, written with remarkable purity and correctness of language. At this time poesy was, he says, " a darling walk for his mind." The oldest of his printed pieces were Winter, a Dirge, the Death of Poor Mailie, John Barley- corn, and the three songs It was upon a Lammas night, Notv westlin winds and slaughf ri7ig guns, and Behind yan hills where Stinchar Jloius. We may add to these Tibbie I hae seen the day and My father was a farmer. His exquisite lyric, Mary, at thy window be, was also, he says, one of his juvenile v/orks. 1782 — (Twenty-three). Ellison Begbie refuses his hand. She was about to leave her situation, and he expected himself to " remove a little further off." He went to the town of Irvine. " My twenty-third year," he says, " was to me an important era. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighboring town to learn his trade, and carry on the business of manufacturing and retailing flax. This turned out a sadly unlucky affair. My partner was a scoundrel of the first water, who made money by the mystery of thieving, and to finish the whole, while we were giving a welcoming carousal to the New Year, our shop, by the drunken carelessness of my partner's wife, took fire, and was burned to ashes; and left me, like a true poet, not worth a six- pence." * In Irvine his reading was only increased, he says, by two volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand, Count Fathom, which gave him some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, he had given up, but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he " strung anew his lyre with emu- lating vigor." He also formed a friendship for a young fellow, " a very noble character," Richard Brown, and with others of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, " the consequence of which was," he says, " that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Welcome " (to his illegitimate child). But this was not till the summer of 1784. Before leaving Lochlea he became a Freemason. * From orig. in Brit. Museum. Burns wrote an interesting and affecting letter to his father, from Irvine. Dr. Currie dates it 1781, which we think is an error. The poet's statement is cor- roborated by his brother's narrative, and the stone chimney of the room occupied by the poet is inscribed, evidently by his own hand, " R. B. 1782." He consoled himselV for his loss after this * " O, why the deuce should I repine, And be an ill foreboder? I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine, I'll go and be a sodger." xlvi CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. MOSSGIEL. 1784 — (Twenty-five). February 13. — William Burnes died at Lochlea in his sixty-fourth year, hia affairs in utter ruin. His sons and two grown-up daughters ranked as creditors of their father for arrears of wages, and raised a little money to stock another farm. This new farm was that of Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline, which had been sub-let to them by Gavin Hamilton, writer (or attorney) in Mauchline. They entered on the farm in March : " Come, go to, I will be wise," resolved the poet, but bad seed and a late harvest deprived them of half their expected crop. Poetry was henceforth to be the only successful vocation of Robert Burns. To this year may be assigned the Epistle to John Rankine (a strain of rich humor, but indeli- cate), and some minor pieces. In April or May he commenced his acquaintance with "Bonnie Jean" — Jean Armour — an event which colored all his future life, imparting to it its brightest lights and its darkest shadows. 1785 — (Twenty-six). In January the Epistle to Davie completed : Death and Doctor Hornbook writ- ten about February. Epistles to y. Lapraik^ April I, 21, and September 13. Epistle to W. Simpson in May. The Twa Herds, or the Holy^Tuhie : this satire was the first of his poetic offspring that saw the light (excepting some of his songs),, audit was received by a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, with a " roar of applause." Burns had now taken his side with the " New Light," or rationalistic section of the church, then in violent antagonism to the " Auld Light," or evangelistic party, which comprised the great bulk of the lower and middling classes. To this year belong The Jolly Beggars, Halloxueen, The Cot- ter^ s Saturday Night, Man was made to Mourn, Addtess to the Deil, To a Mouse, A Winter Night, Holy fVillie's Prayer, and The Holy Fair (early MS. in British Museum), Epistle to James Smith, etc. 1786 — (Twenty-seven). In rapid succession were produced Scotch Drink, The Authors Earnest Cry and Prayer, The Twa Dogs, The Ordination, Address to the Unco Quid, To a Mountain Daisy, Epistle to a Young Friend, A Bard's Epitaph, The Lament, Despondency, etc. Such a body of original poetry, written within about twelve months, — poetry so natural, forcible, and picturesque, so quaint, sarcastic, humor- ous, and tender, — had unquestionably not appeared since Shakespeare. Misfor- tunes, however, were gathering round the poet. The farm had proved a failure, and the connection with Jean Armour brought grief and shame. He gave her a written acknowledgment of marriage, but at the urgent entreaty of her father she CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlvii consented that this document should be destroyed. The poet was frantic with distress and indignation. He resolved on quitting the country, engaged to go out to Jamaica as book-keeper on an estate, and, to raise money for his passage, arranged to publish his poems. Subscription papers were issued in April. In the meantime, in bitter resentment of the perfidy, as he esteemed it, of the un- fortunate Jean Armour, he renewed his intimacy with a former love, Mary Camp- bell, or " Highland Mary," who had been a servant in the family of Gavin Ham- ilton, and was now dairy-maid at Coilsfield. He proposed marriage to Mary Campbell, was accepted, and Mary left her service and went to her parents in Argyleshire, preliminary to her union with the poet. They parted on the banks of the Ayr, on Sunday, May 14, exchanging Bibles and vowing eternal fidelity. No more is heard of Mary until after her death, which took place in October of this year. The poems were published in August, an edition of 600 copies, and were received with enthusiastic applause. The poet cleared about £20 by the volume, took a passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde (nothing is said of Mary accompanying him), and was preparing to embark, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, offering encouragement for a second edition, roused his poetic ambition, and led him to try his fortune in Edinburgh. Before starting he made the acquaintance of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, the mo^t valued and one of the most accomplished of his correspondents. EDINBURGH. November 28, /786. — Burns reaches the Scottish capital, and instantly be- comes the lion of the season. He is courted and caressed by the witty, the fash- ionable, and the learned — by Dugald Stewart, Harry Erskine, Hugh Blair, Adam Ferguson, Dr. Robertson, Lord Monboddo, Dr. Gregory, Eraser Tytler, Lord Glencairn, Lord Eglinton, Patrick Miller (the ingenious laird of Dalswinton), the fascinating Jane, Duchess of Gordon, Miss Burnet, etc. Henry Mackenzie, the " Man of Feeling," writes a critique on the poems in the Lounger, — the members of the Caledonian Hunt subscribe for a hundred copies of the new edition, — and the poet is in a fair way, as he says, of becoming as eminent as Thomas 5. Kempis or John Bunyan. 1787 — (Twenty-eight) . Bums applies for and obtains permission to erect a tombstone in Canongate Churchyard over the remains of Fergusson the poet. In April appears the second edition of the Poems, consisting of 3,000 copies, with a list of subscribers pre- fixed, and a portrait of the poet. In this edition appeared Death and Dr. Horn- book, the Ordination, and Address to the Unco Guid, which were excluded from the first edition, and several new pieces, the best of which are the Brigs of Ayr and Tarn Samson's Elegy. On the 5th of May the poet sets off on a tour with a acmu CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. young friend, Robert Ainslie, in order to visit the most interesting scenes in the south of Scotland, Crossing the Tweed over Coldstream bridge, Burns knelt down on the English side and poured forth, uncovered, and with strong emotion, the prayer for Scotland contained in the two last stanzas of the Colter's Saturday Night. June 4, he was made an honorary burgess of the town of Dumfries, after which he proceeded to Ayrshire, and arrived at Mauchline on the 9th of June. '• It will easily be conceived," says Dr. Currie, " with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them pour and comparatively friendless; he returned to them high in pubUc estimation, and easy in his circumstances." At this time the poet renewed his intimacy with Jean Armour. Towards the end of the month he made a short Highland tour, in which he visited Loch Lomond and Dumbarton, and returning to Mauchhne, we find him (July 25) presiding as Depute Grand Master of the Taibolton Mason Lodge, and admitting Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Alexander of Ballochmyle, and others, as honorary members of the Lodge. On the 25th of August the poet set off from Edinburgh on a northern tour with William Nicol of the High School. They visited Bannockburn, spent two days at Blair with the Duke of Athole and family, proceeded as far as Inverness, then by way of Elgin, Focha- bers (dining with the Duke and Duchess of Gordon), on to Aberdeen, Stone- haven, and Montrose, where he met his relatives the Burneses. Arrived at Edin- burgh on the 1 6th of September. In December made the acquaintance oi Clar- inda, or Mrs. M'Lehose, with whom he kept up a passionate correspondence for about three months. Overset by a drunken coachman, and sent home with a severely bruised knee, which confined him for several weeks. Mr. A. Wood, surgeon " lang sandy Wood," applies to Mr. Graham of Fintiy, Commissioner of Excise, and gets Burns's name enrolled among the number of expectant Excise officers. During all this winter the poet zealously assists Mr. James Johnson in his publication, the Scots Musical Museum. 1788 — (Twenty-nine). Left Edinburgh for Dumfries to inspect Mr. Miller's lands at Dalswinton. Stopped by the way at Mossgiel, February 23. Poor Jean Armour, who had again loved not wisely, but too well, was living apart, separated from her parents, and supported by Burns. He visited her the day before his departure for Dum- fries (apparently February 24), and it is painful to find him writing thus to Clarinda : " I, this morning as I came home, called for a certain woman. I am disgusted with her. I cannot endure her. I, while my heart smote me for the profanity, tried to compare her with my Clarinda; 'twas setting tl>e expiring glimmer of a farthing taper beside the cloudless glory of the meridian sun. Here was tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there, polished good sense. Heaven-born genius, and the most generous, the most deli- CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlix cate, the most tender passion. I have done with her, and she with me." ' In less than two months they were married ! In this, as in the Highland Mary episode, Burns's mobility^ or "excessive susceptibiUty of immediate impressions,"* seems something marvellous, and more akin to the P'rench than the Scotch char- acter. Returned to Edinburgh in March, and on the 13th took a lease of the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith. On the 19th settled with Creech, the profits from the Edinburgh edition and copyright being about /500, of which the poet gave ;^ 180 to his brother Gilbert, as a loan, to enable him to continue (with the family) at Mossgiel. In the latter end of April Burns was privately married to Jean Armour, and shortly afterwards wrote on her his two charming songs Of a' the airts the wind can blaw and C>, were I on Parnassus hill ! ELLISLAND. In June the poet went to reside on his farm, his wife remaining at Mauchline until a new house should be built at Ellisland. Formed the acquaintance of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a gentleman of literary and antiquarian tastes, who resided at Friars Carse, within a mile of Ellisland. On 28th June wrote Verses in Friars Carse Hermitage. August 5, the poet at Mauchline made public acknowledgment of his marriage before the Kirk Session, at the same time giving " a guinea note for behoof of the poor." In December conducted Mrs. Burns to the banks of the Nith. / hae a wife 0' my ain ! 1789 — (Thirty). Visited Edinburgh in February, and received about £ 50 more of copyright money from Creech. August 18, son born to the poet, named Francis Wallace. About the same time received appointment to the Excise. October 16, the great bacchanalian contest for the Whistle took place at Friars Carse in presence of the poet. On the 20th of October (as calculated, and indeed proved by Mr. Cham- fhers) the sublime and aflecting lyric, To Mary in Heaven, was composed. Met Grose the antiquary at Friars Carse, and afterwards wrote the humorous poem On Captain Grose's Peregrinations. In December was written the election ballad The Five Carlines. 1790 — (Thirty-one). I January 11. — Writes to Gilbert that his farm is a ruinous affair. On tlie 14th, addressing his friend Mr. Dunbar, W.S., relative to his Excise appointment, he says: " I found it a very convenient business to have ;^50 per annum; nor have 1 From the original, published in Banffshire Journal. 2 So defined by Byron, who was himself a victim to this '• unhappy attribute." See '* Don Juan," canto XVI. 97. CIIR ONOL O GICA L TABLE. I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it 1 was led to fear." The duties were hard; he had to ride at least 200 miles every week, but he still con- tributed largely to the Scots Musical Museztm, wrote the elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson (one of the most exquisite of the poet's productions), and in autumn produced Tatn O'Shanter, by universal assent the crowning glory and masterpiece of its author. 1791 — (Thirty-two). In February wrote Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, and Lament for fames Earl of Glencairn. In March had his right arm broken by the fall of his horse, and was for some weeks disabled from writing. In this month also occurred an event which probably caused deeper pain than the broken arm. First, as Mr. Chambers says, "we have a poor girl lost to the reputable world; " (this was "Anna with the govvden locks," niece to the hostess of the Globe Tavern;) "next we have Burns seeking an asylum for a helpless infant at his brother's; then a magnanimous wife interposing with the almost romantically generous offer to become herself its nurse and guardian." ^ April 9, a third son born to the poet, and named William Nicol. At the close of the month the poet sold his crop at Ellisland, " and sold it well." Declined to attend the crowning of Thom- son's bust at Ednam, but wrote verses for the occasion. In November made a short visit — his last — to Edinburgh, and shortly afterwards wrote his inimitable farewell to Clarinda, Ae fond kiss and then %ve sever. The fourth stanza of this song Sir Walter Scott said contained " the essence of a thousand love tales." DUMFRIES. At Martinmas (Nov. ii), the poet having disposed of his stock and other effects at Ellisland, and surrendered the lease of the farm to Mr. Miller the pro- prietor, removed with his family to the town of Dumfries. He occupied for a year and a half three rooms of a second floor on the north side of Bank Street (then called the Wee Vennel). On taking up his residence in the town. Burns was well received by the higher class of inhabitants and the neighboring gentry. One of the most accomplished of the latter was Mrs. Walter Riddel {nke Maria Woodley), then aged only about eighteen. This lady, with her husband, a brother of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, lived on a small estate about four miles from Dumfries, which in compliment to the lady they called Woodley Park (now Goldielea). 1 Mrs. Burns was much attached to the child, who remained with her till she was seventeen years of age, when she married a soldier, John Thomson of the Stirling Militia. She is still living, and strongly resembles her father. Poor Anna the mother felt deeply the disgrace; she, however, made a decent marr'^ge in Leith, but died comparatively young, without any family b^ her husband. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 1792 — (Thirty -three) . February 27. — Burns behaved gallantly in seizing and boarding a smuggling brig in the Solway. The vessel, with her arms and stores, was sold by auction in Dumfries, and Burns purchased four carronades or small guns, for which he paid £,2>- These he sent, with a letter, to the French Convention, but they were re- tained at Dover by the Custom-house authorities. This circumstance is supposed to have drawn on the poet the notice of his jealous superiors. He warmly sympa- thized with the French people in their struggle against despotism, and the Board of Excise ordered an inquiry into the poet's political conduct, though it is doubt- ful whether any reprimand was ever given him. In September Mr. George Thomson, Edinburgh, commenced his publication of national songs and melodies, and Burns cordially lent assistance to the undertaking, but disclaimed all idea or acceptance of pecuniary remuneration. On the 14th of November he trans- mitted to Thomson the song of Highland Mary, and next month one of the most arch and humorous of all his ditties, Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 1793 — (Thirty-four). The poet continues his invaluable and disinterested labors for Mr. Thomson's publication. In July he makes an excursion into Galloway with his friend Mr. Syme, stamp distributor, and according to that gentleman (though Burns's own statement on the subject is different), he composed his national song, Scots wha hae, in the midst of a thunder-storm on the wilds of Kenmure. The song was sent to Thomson in September, along with one no less popular, Auld Lang Syne. At Whitsuntide the poet removed from the " Wee Vennel " to a better house (rent ;^8 per annum) in the Mill-hole Brae (now Burns Street), and in this house he lived till his death. His widow continued to occupy it till her death, March 26, 1834. 1794 — (Thirty-five). At a dinner-party at Woodley Park, on one occasion the poet, like most of the guests, having exceeded in wine, was guilty of some act of rudeness to the accomplished hostess which she and her friends resented very warmly. A rupture took place, and for nearly a twelvemonth there was no intercourse between the parties. During this interval Burns wrote several lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, wholly unworthy of him as a man or as a poet. April 4, Captain Riddel of Glenriddel died unreconciled to Burns, yet the latter honored his memory with a sonnvjt. August 1 2, another son born to the poet, and named James Glencairn. During this autumn and winter Burns wrote some of his finest songs, inspired by the charms of Jane Lorimer, the " Chloris " of many a lyric. In November he composed his lively song, Contented wi* little and cantie wV mair, which he CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. intended as a picture of his own mind; but it is only, as Mr. Chambers says, the picture of one aspect of his mind. Mr. Perry of the Mornittg Chronicle wishes to engage Burns as a contributor to his paper, but the " truly generous offer " is declined, lest connection with the Whig journal should injure his prospects in the Excise For a short time he acted as supervisor, and thought that his political sins were forgiven. 1795 — (Thirty-six). In January the poet composed his manly and independent song For a' that and a' that. His intercourse with Maria Riddel is renewed, and she sends him occasionally a book, or a copy of verses, or a ticket for the theatre. He never relaxes his genial labors for the musical works of Johnson and Thomson, and le writes a series of election ballads in favor of the Whig candidate, Mr. Heron. He joins the Dumfriesshire corps of Volunteers, enrolled in the month of March, and writes his loyal and patriotic song. Does haughty Gaul invasiot^ threat? also his fine national strain, Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, and one of the best of his ballads. Last May a braw wooer. The poet's health, however, gives way, and premature age has set in. 1796 — (Thirty^Seven) The decline of the poet is accelerated by an accidental circumstance. On« night in January he sat late in the Globe Tavern. There was deep snow on the ground, and in going home he sank down, overpowered by drowsiness and the liquor he had taken, and slept for some hours in the open air. From the cold caught on this occasion he never wholly recovered. He still, however, continued his song-writing, and one of the most beautiful and most touching of his lyrics was also one of his latest. This was the song beginning Here's a health to ane 1 lo^e dear, written on Jessy Lewars, a maiden of eighteen, sister to a brother excise- man, who proved a " ministering angel " to the poet in his last illness. In May, another election called forth another ballad, Wha will buy my troggin ? And about the middle of June we find the poet writing despondingly to his old friend Johnson, and requesting a copy of the Scots Musical Museum to present to a young lady. This was no doubt the copy presented to Jessy Lewars, June 26, inscribed with the verses, Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. As a last effort for health, Burns went on the 4th of July to Brow, a sea-bathing hamlet on the Sol- way. There he was visited by Maria Riddel, who thought " the stamp of death was imprinted on his features." He was convinced himself that his illness would prove fatal, and some time before this he had said to his wife, " Don't be afraid ; I'll be mc^re respected a hundred years after I am dead, than I am at present." Mrs. Riddel saw the poet again on the 5th of July, when they parted to meet no more. On the 7th he wrote to his friend Alexander Cunningham to move the CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. ^ Commissoners of Excise to continue his full salary of £ 50 instead of reducing it, as was the rule in the case of excisemen off duty, to £'^<,. Mr. Findlater, his superior officer, says he had no doubt this would have been done had the poet .Uved. On the loth Burns wrote to his brother as to his hopeless condition, his debts, and his despair ; and on the same day he addressed a request to his father- in-law, stern old James Armour, that he M'ould write to Mrs. Armour, then in Fife, to come to the assistance of her daughter, the poet's wife, during the time of her confinement. His thoughts turned also to his friend Mrs. Dunlop, who had unaccountably been silent for some time. He recalled her interesting correspon- dence : " With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance adds yet one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! " Close on this dark hour of. anguish came a lawyer's letter urging payment — and no doubt hinting at the serious consequences of non-payment — of a haberdasher's account. This legal missive served to conjure up before the distracted poet the image of a jail with all its horrors, and on the 12th he wrote two letters — one to his cousin in Montrose begging an advance of £ 10, and one to Mr. George Thomson im- ploring ^5. "Forgive, forgive me! " He left the sea-side on the i8th, weak and feverish, but was able the same day, on arriving at his house in Dumfries, to address a second note to James Armour, reiterating the wish expressed six days before, but without eliciting any reply : " Do, for Heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately." From this period he was closely confined to bed (according to the statement of his widow), and was scarcely ^' hinisel/^^ for half an hour together. He was aware of this infirmity, and told his wife that she was to touch him and remind him when he was going wrong. One day he got out of his bed, and his wife found him sitting in a Zorner of the room with the bed- clothes about him; she got assistance, and he suffered himself to be gently led back to bed. The day before he died he called very quickly and with a hale voice, "Gilbert! Gilbert! " On the morning of the 21st, at daybreak, death was j/bvious^y near at hand, and the children were sent for. They had been removed to the house of Jessy Lewars and her brother, in order that the poet's dwelling might be kept quiet, and they were now summoned back that they might have a last look of their illustrious father in life. He was insensible, his mind lost in delirium, and, according to his eldest son, his last words were, "That d d rascal, Matthew Penn ! " — an execration against the legal agent who had written the dunning letter. And so ended this sad and stormy life-drama, and the poet passed, as Mr. Carlyle has said, " not softly but speedily into that still country where the hail-storms and fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden way- farer at length lays down his load." On the evening of Sunday, the 24th of July, the poet's remains were removed from his house to the Town Hall, and nexi day were interred with military honors. if?.- CONTENTS. Biographical Prbfacb Page POEMS. The Twa Dogs i Scotch Drink 6 The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer . . 9 The Holy Fair 14 Death and Doctor Hornbook 19 The Bri^s of Ayr 24 The Ordination 29 The Calf 30 Address to the Deil 31 The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, the Author's only Pet Yowe . . 32 Poor Mailie's Elegy 33 To James Smith 34 A Dream 36 The Vision ........... 38 Address to the Unco Quid, or the Rigidly Righteous 41 Tarn Samson's Elegy ....... 42 Halloween 44 The Jolly Beggars 48 The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie . 53 I'o a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest /^ with the plough 54 A Winter Night 55 Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet .... 57 The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortu- nate Issue of a Friend's Amour ... 59 Despondency 60 Winter 61 The Cotter's Saturday Night 61 Man was made to mourn 65 A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death ... 66 Stanzas on the same occasion 67 Verses left by Burns in a Room where he slept . t 67 The First Psalm . 68 A Prayer, under the pressure of violent anguish 68 The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm . 68 vTo a Mountain Daisy, on turning one r down with the plough 69 To Ruin 69 To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . . 70 Epistle to a Young Friend 70 On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 71 To a Haggis 73 A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 72 To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's '' Bonnet at Church 74 Pazt Address to Edinburgh 75 Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard 75 To the Same 77 To William Simpson 78 Epistle to John Rankine 81 Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage ... 82 Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald, 83 Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson . . 83 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Approach of Sprmg 85 Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 86 To Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. . . 88 Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . 89 Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, of White- ford, Bart., with the foregoing Poem. . 90 Tam O'Shanter 91 On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland 95 On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me . 96 Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning his Bust at Ednam .... 97 To Miss Cruikshank 97 On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. . . 97 The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the noble Duke of Athole 98 The Kirk's Alarm 99 Address to the Toothache 10 1 Written with a Pencil over the Chimney- piece, in the Parlour of the Inn at Ken- more, Taymouth loi On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, born in Peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress . . . 102 Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness 103 Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet • 103 The Inventory of the Poet's Goods and . Chattels 104 The Whistle 105 Sketch, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 107 To Dr. Blacklock 108 Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Ellisland, 109 Elegy on the late Miss Burnet .... 109 The following Poem was written to a gen- tleman who had sent him a newspaper, and offered to continue it free of expense, 110 Lines on an interview with Lord Daer. . iii The Rights of Woman. Prologue spoken by Miss Fontenelle in Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle . . 112 Verses to a Young Lady 113 Poem on Pastoral Poetry 114 Verses to Chloris, with a copy of the last Edition of his Poems 114 Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytler . 115 Ivi CONTENTS. Page Sketch. — New- Year Day ii6 Extempore, on Mr. William Smellie . . ii6 Inscription for an Altar to Independence . 11/ Monody on a Lady famed for her Caprice, 117 Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel 118 Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday . 118 To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries . , . 118 Verses written under violent grief . . . 119 Extempore to Mr. Syme, on refusing to dine with him 119 To Mr. Syme 119 Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing . . . 119 Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell .... 120 Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended, 120 Poem on Life 121 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry . . 121 Epitaph on a Friend 121 Verses written at Selkirk 122 Inscription on the Tombstone of the Poet Fergusson 123 A Grace before Dinner 123 A Verse, repeated on taking leave at a place in the Highlands 123 Liberty 123 Fragment of an Ode to the Memory of Prince Charles Edward Stuart .... 124 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux . 124 Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by the Guidwife of Wauchope-House . . 125 To J. Lapraik 125 The Twa Herds 126 To the Rev. John M'Math 128 Holy Willie's Prayer . ..;.... 130 Epitaph on Holy Willie 131 On scaring some Water Fowl in Loch- Turit 132 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchiine. . 132 Epistle to Mr. M'Adam 133 To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel .... 133 Verses intended to be written below a noble Earl's Picture 134 To Terraughty, on his Birthday , . . . 134 To a Lady, with a present of a Pair of Drinking Glasses 134 The Vowels 135 Sketch 135 Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit . . 136 Elegy on the Year 1788 137 Verses written under the Portrait of Fer- gusson the Poet 137 Lament, written at a time when the Poet was about to leave Scotland .... 138 Delia 138 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 138 To Miss Ferrier . 140 Verses to an old Sweetheart, then married, 140 The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate Child 140 Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock . . 141 Letter to James Tennant, Glenconner . . 141 Epistle from Esopus to Maria 142 On a Suicide 144 A Farewell 144 The Farewell 144 Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq 144 Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry . . 147 Page Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig 147 Epistle to Major Logan 148 Epitaph on the Poet's Daughter .... 149 Epitaph on Gabriel Richardson . . . . 149 On Stirling 149 Lines on being told that the foregoing Poem would affect his Prospects . . . 150 The Reply 150 Epistle to Hugh Parker 150 Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland Society 150 To Mr. John Kennedy 151 On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq. . 152 To John M'Murdo, Esq 153 On the Death of a Lap-dog, named Echo . 153 Lines written at Loudon Manse . . . . 153 Orthodox, Orthodox. A Second Version of the Kirk's Alarm 153 The Selkirk Grace 155 Elegy on the Death of Peg Nicholson . . 155 On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite Character 155 The League and Covenant 155 On Miss Jessy Lewars 156 Epitaph on Miss Jessy Lewars .... 156 The Recovery of Jessy Lewars . . . . 156 The Toast 156 The Kirk of Lamington 156 Written on a blank leaf of one of Miss Hannah More's Works, which she had given him 156 Inscription on a Goblet 157 The Book-worms 157 On Robert Riddel 157 Willie Chalmers 157 To John Taylor 158 Lines written on a Bank-note 158 The Loyal Natives' Verses 158 Burns's Reply — Extempore 158 Remorse 158 The Toad-Eater 159 To 159 " In vain would Prudence " 159 "Though fickle Fortune" . ..... 159 " I burn, I bum" 160 Epigram on a noted Coxcomb .... 160 Tam the Chapman 160 T» Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Craig's Recovery 161 Fragment *. . . 161 There's Naethin like the honest Nappy . 161 Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods on his Benefit-night 161 Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed toG. H.,Esq 162 The Cats like Kitchen 163 Tragic Fragment 163 Extempore. On passing a Lady's Carriage, 163 Fragments 164 Epitaph on William Nico! 165 Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent the Author by a Tailor 165 Exterftpore lines, in answer to a card from an intimate Friend of Bums . . 166 Lines written Extempore in a Lady's Pocket-book . . ifiy CONTENTS. Ivii Page TTie Henpeck'd Husband . . . . • . 167 Epitaph on a Henpeck'd Countiy Squire . 167 Epigram on said occasion 167 Another 167 Verses written on a Window of the Inn at Carron 168 Lines on being asked why God had made Miss Davies so little and Mrs. so large 168 Epigram. Written at Inverary .... 168 A Toast. Given at a meeting of the Dum- fries-shire Volunteers 168 Lines said to have been written by Burns, while on his Deathbed, to John Rankine, 169 Verses addressed to J. Rankine .... 169 On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord Gal- loway 169 On the Same 169 On the Same 169 To the Same, on the Author being threat- ened with his Resentment 169 Verses to J. Rankine 170 Extemporaneous Effusion, on being ap- pointed to the Excise 170 On hearing that there was Falsehood in the Rev. Dr. B 's very Looks . . . 170 Poverty 170 On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish . . . 170 Lines written and presented to Mrs. Kemble 171 Lines written on a Window at the King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries 171 Lines written on the Window of the Globe Tavern, Dumfries 171 Extempore in the Court of Session ... 171 Lines written under the Picture of Miss Burns 172 On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr 172 Epigram on Captain Francis Grose . . . 172 Epigram on Elphinstone's Translation of Martial's Epigrams 172 Epitaph on a Country Laird 172 Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic 173 Epitaph on Wee Johnny 173 Epitaph on a celebrated ruling Elder . . 173 Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq 173 Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . . , 173 A Bard's Epitaph 173 Epitaph on my Father 174 Epitaph on John Dove 174 Epitaph on John Bushby 174 Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline .... 174 i'.pitaph on a Person nicknamed "The Marquis" 175 \'.pita-ph on Walter S 175 ' >n Himself 175 ti 'ace before Meat 175 Da Commissary Goldie's Brains .... 175 Impromptu 175 Addressed to a Lady whom the Author feared he had offended 175 Epigram 176 Lines inscribed on a Platter 176 to 176 On Mr. M'Murdo 176 To a Lady who was looking up the Text during Sermon 176 Page Impromptu 175 To 177 To a Painter 177 Lines written on a Tumbler 177 On Mr. W. Cruikshank, of the High School, Edinburgh 177 SONGS. The Lass o' Ballochmyle ...... nS Song of Death 178 My ain kind Dearie O 179 Auld Rob Morris 179 Naebody 180 My Wife's a winsome wee Thing . . . 180 Duncan Gray 180 O Poortith 180 Galla Water j8i Lord Gregory 181 Open the Door to Me, oh ! 181 Meg o' the Mill 182 Jessie 182 Wandering Willie 183 Logan Braes 183 There was a Lass 184 Phillis the Fair 184 By Allan Stream 184 Had I a Cave 185 Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad . 185 Husband, Husband, cease your Strife . . 186 Deluded Swain 186 Song 186 Wilt thou be my Dearie? t86 Banks of Cree 187 On the Seas and far away 187 Hark! the Mavis 187 She says she lo'es me best of a' . . . . 188 How lang and dreary 188 The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mis- tress 188 Lassie wi' the lint-white Locks .... 189 The Auld Man 189 Farewell, thou Stream 189 Contented wi' little 190 My Nannie's awa' 190 Sweet fa's the Eve 191 Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? .... 191 Song 191 'Twas na her bonie blue Ee 192 Address to the Woodlark 192 How cruel are the Parents 192 Mark yonder Pomp 193 1 see a Form, I see a Face 193 O bonie was yon rosy Brier 193 Forlorn, my Love 193 Last May a braw Wooer 194 Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 195 Altho' thou maun never be mine .... 195 The Birks of Aberfeldy 196 The young Highland Rover 196 Stay, my Charmer 197 Full well thou know'st 197 Strathallan's Lament 197 Raving Winds around her blowmg . . . 197 Musing on the roaring Ocean 197 Blithe was she . 198 Iviii CONTENTS. Page Peggy's Charms 198 The lazy Mist 198 A Rose-bud by i/iy early Walk .... 199 Tibbie, I hae seen the Day 199 I love my Jean 199 O, were 1 on Parnassus' Hill! .... 200 The blissful Day 200 The Braes of Ballochmyle 200 1 he happy Trio 200 'I'he blue-eyed Lassie 201 John Anderson my Jo 201 Tarn Glen 201 Gane is the Day 201 My Tocher's the Jewel ....... 203 What can a young Lassie do wi' an Old Man? 202 O, for ane and twenty, Tarn! 203 The bonie wee Thing 203 The Banks of Nith 203 Bessy and her Spinnin Wheel 203 Country Lassie 204 Fair Eliza 204 She's fair and fause 204 The Posie 205 The Banks o' Doon 206 Version printed in the Musical Museum . 206 Gloomy December 206 Behold the Hour 207 Willie's Wife 207 Afton Water 207 Louis, what reck I by thee? 208 Bonie Bell 208 For the sake of Somebody 208 May, thy Morn 208 The lovely Lass of Inverness 208 A red, red Rose 209 O, wat ye wha's in yon Town? .... 209 A Vision 209 O, wert thou in the cauld blast . . . . 210 The Highland Lassie 210 iockey's ta'en the parting Kiss .... 210 'eggy's Charms 211 Up in the Morning early 211 Tho' cruel Fate 211 1 dream'd I lay where Flowers were springing 211 Bonie Ann 211 My Bonie Mary 212 My Heart's in the Highlands 212 There's a Youth in this City 212 The rantin Dog the Daddie o't . . . . 213 I do confess thou art sae fair 213 Yon wild mossy Mountains 213 Wha is that at my Bower Door? .... 214 Farewell to Nancy 214 The bonie Blink o' Mary's Ee .... 214 Out over the Forth 214 The bonie Lad that's far away .... 214 The gowden Locks of Anna 215 Banks of Devon 215 Adown winding Nith 216 Streams that glide 216 The De'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman . . 216 Blithe hae I been on yon Hill 217 O were my Love yon Lilac fair .... 217 Come, let me take thee 217 Where are the Joys? 217 Page O saw ye my Dear? 218 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie .... 218 My Chloris 218 Charming Month of May 219 Let not Woman e'er complain .... 219 O Philly 219 John Barleycorn 220 Canst thou leave me thus? 221 On Chloris being ill 221 When Guilford good our Pilot stood . . 221 The Rigs o' Barley 222 Farewell to Eliza 222 My Nanie, O 223 Green grow the Rashes 223 Now westlin Winds 223 The big-bellied Bottle 224 The Author's Farewell to his native Country 225 The Farewell 225 And maun I still on Menie doat .... 225 Highland Mary 226 Auld Lang Syne 22! Bannockburn 227 The gallant Weaver 227 Song 227 For a' that and a' that 227 Dainty Davie 228 To Mr. Cunningham 228 Clarinda 229 Why, why tell thy Lover? 229 Caledonia 229 On the battle of SherifT-Muir 230 The Dumfries Volunteers 231 O wha is she that lo'es me? 231 Captain Grose 232 Whistle owre the Lave o't 232 O, once I lov'd a bonie Lass 232 Young Jockey 233 M'Pherson's Farewell 233 The Dean of Faculty 233 ril ay ca' in by yon Town 234 A Bottle and a Friend 234 I'll kiss thee yet 234 On Cessnock Banks 234 Prayer for Mary 235 Young Peggy .......... 235 There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame 236 There was a Lad 236 To Mary 236 Mary Morison 237 The Soger's Return 237 My Father was a Farmer 238 A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son 239 Bonie Lesley 239 Amang the Trees 239 When first I came to Stewart Kyle . . . 239 On Sensibility 239 Montgomerie's Peggy 240 On a Bank of Flowers 240 O raging Fortune's withering Blast. . . 240 Evan Banks 240 Won.en's Minds 241 To Mary in Heaven 241 To Mary 242 O leave Novels 342 CONTENTS. lix Page Address to General Dumourier .... 242 Sweetest May 242 One Night as I did wander 242 The Winter it is Past 243 Fragment 243 The Cheval'er's Lament 243 The Belles of Mauchline 243 The Tarbolton Lasses 244 The Tarbolton Lasses 244 Here's a Health to them that's awa' . . 245 I'm owre young to marry yet 246 Damon and Sylvia 246 My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't . . 246 O ay my Wife she dang me 247 The Banks of Nith 247 Bonie Peg 247 O lay thy Loof in mine. Lass 247 O guid Ale comes 247 O why the Deuce 247 Polly Stewart 248 Robin shure in hairst 248 The five Carlins 248 The Deuk's dang o'er my Daddie . . . 249 The Lass that mcde the Bed to me . . . 249 The Union 250 "There was a bonie Lass 250 My Harry was a Gallant gay 251 Tibbie Dunbar 251 Wee Willie 251 Craigie-burn-wood 251 Here's his Health in Water 252 As down the Burn they took their Way . 252 Lady Onlie 252 As I was a wandering 252 Bannocks o' Barley . 253 Our Thrissles flourished fresh and fair . . 253 Peg-a-Ramsey 253 Come boat me o'er to Charlie 253 Braw Lads of Galla Water 254 Coming through the Rye 254 The Lass of Ecclefechan 254 The Slave's Lament 255 Had I the Wyte 255 Hee Balou 255 Her Daddie forbad 255 Here's to thy Health, my bonie Lass . . 256 Hey, the dusty Miller 256 The Cardin o't 256 The joyful Widower 256 Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary 257 The Farewell 257 It is na, Jean, thy bonie Face 257 {amie, come try me . 258 i POEMS. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. 'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonie day in June, When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather 'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Csesar. 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 and comrade had him, 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 touzie back Weel cladwi' coat o' glossy black;. His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung owre his hurdles wi' a swirl. THE TWA DOGS. 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' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, 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; He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; He draws a bonie, 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 wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the Ian : An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in I own it's past my comprehension. LUATH, Trowth, Cassar, whyles they're fash't eneughi A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. Baring a quarry, and siclike, Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie 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; THE TWA BOGS. But, how it comes, I never kend yet, They're maistly vvonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see how ye're negleckit. How huff d, an cuffd, 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' iear 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. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : The prattling 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 Winks, Wit slaps, a:n' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. THE TWA DOGS. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The kmtin 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 its owre true that ye hae said. Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk. Are riven out baith loot 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 — 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 avt 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 boti 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, Whore-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 I Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction I 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? THE TWA DOGS. 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 Ccesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them. The vera thought o'«^ need na fear them. 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; An' ay the less they hae to «iturt them. In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre's till'd, 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. Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring^ Niest day their life is past enduring. 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. SCOTCH DRINK. Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, \vi' crabbit leuks, Pore ower the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhang'd ])lackguard. There's some exceptions, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common. 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 men but dogs ; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, Thai's sinkifig in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his blnid, Thai's prest lui' grief afi care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o' er , Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs na nore. Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. Let other Poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, Whether thro' v/implin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem. Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name ! Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, An' Aits set up their awnie horn, An' Pease an' Beans at een or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou King o' grain I SCOTCH DRINK. I On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, Ip souple scones, the wale o' food ! Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin ; But oil'd by thee, The vt'heels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil : Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind, in time o' need. The poor man's wine. His wee drap parritch, or his bread. Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts ; But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents. Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in ! O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! Or reekin on a New- Year mornin In cog or bicker. An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. An' gusty sucker ! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath r th' lugget caup ! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chaup. SCOTCH DRINK. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, \vi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, Wae worth the name ! Nae Howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea. An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel ! It's aye tlie cheapest Lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! But monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice. An' hardly, in a winter's season. E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash^ O' half his days ; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well. Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. Poor plackless devils like mysel' It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mail. Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch WI' honest men ! THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a — s! Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast, May kill us a' ; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa ! Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! There, seize the blinkers ! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, An* rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Talc' a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND HONOURABLE THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton. Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires. An' doucely manage our affairs In Parliament, To you a simple Bardie's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ; Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'tvvad pierce. To see her sitten on her a — Low i' the dust. An' scriechin out prosaic verse. An' like to brust ! THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great atliiclion, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On AquavitL^; An' rouse them up to strong conviction. An' move their pity. Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The honest, open, naked truth : Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, His servants humble : The muckle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble ! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em ; If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an' haw ; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle ; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle : An' damn'd Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a Stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as Winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld IMither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, \rode i' the mire out o' sight ! CR V AND PR A YER. But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some saik-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well, God bless your Honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it? An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat. Ye winna bear it ! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro"* Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, The Laird o' Graham; An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; An* Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she's Ijeen in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; ' (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky. An' Lord, if ance they pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' first she meets ! THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST For God sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, An' straikher cannie wi' the hair, An' to the jmcckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, To get remead. Yon ill tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! E'en cowe the cadie I An' send him to his dicing-box An' sportin lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be his debt twa niashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock'; Nine times a-week. If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition. Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung. She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye; Then, though a Minister grow dorty. An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St. Jamie's ! Your humble Bardie sings an' prays While Rab his name is, CR V AND PR A YER. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies, See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, liUt biythe an' frisky, She eyes her free-born, martial boys, Tak aff their Whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms ! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To Stan' or rin. Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him : Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek. An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season ; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather. Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. Ye tine your dam: Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! Tak aft your dram ! 14 THE HOLY FAIR. THE HOLY FAIR. A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret hung; with poison d crust. The dirk of Defamation ; A mask that like the gorget show'd. Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy a-la-mode. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furrs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three Ilizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way. Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. But ane wi' lyart lining ; The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin. An' sour as ony slaes : The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie. An' wi' a curchie low^id stoop. As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' taks me by the ban's. " Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck Of a' the ten comman's A screed some day. THE II OL Y FAIR. " My name is Fun — your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchhne Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin : Gin ye'U go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin At them this day." Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on. An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, \re'se hae fine remarkin ! " Theiv I gaed hame at crowdie-time, An' soon I made me ready; For i Jads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a wearie bodie, In droves that day. Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith Gaed hoddin by their cotters, There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin bare fit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show, On ev'ry side they're gath'rin. Some carryiu dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bleth'rin Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry; There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, Are bHnkin at the entry. Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck, An' there, a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. 16 THE HOL V FAIR. Here, some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane cm-ses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays : On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces; On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrang winkin on the lasses To chairs that day. O happy is that man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best. Comes clinkin down beside him ! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom Unkend that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him. The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeel an' gestures, O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day ! But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice; There's peace an' rest nae langer : For a' the real judges rise. They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; Ar^ aff the godly pour in thrangs. To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. THE IIOL V FAIR. What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs an' reason ? His English style, an' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he does define. But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that dty. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum ; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God An' meek an mim has view'd it, While Common Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves, An' Orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel beheves. An' thinks it auld wives' fables : But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, So, cannilie he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day. Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup Commentators : Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang^ Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College : It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, It pangs us fou o' Knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony stronger potion, It never fails, on drinkin' deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. 78 THE HOL V FAIR. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're makin observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, An' echoes back return the shouts ; Black Russel is na spairin : His piercing words, like Highlan swords, Divide the joints an' marrow; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our vera " sauls does harrow " Wi' fright that day ! fA vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane' Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! The half asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin, When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neebor snorin Asleep that day. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past. An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the farms and benches; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, An' dawds that day. In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an'" her knife; The lasses they are shyer. The auld Guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 19 Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing ! O Wives, be niindfu', ance yoursel How bonie lads ye wanted. An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow. Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink. Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses ! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine, There's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin, May end in Houghmagandie Some ither day. 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 rauckle pity. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 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. 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 forgather. 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 stature 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 folk 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, 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 ng design'd to try its mettle j DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 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. " 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. " See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f — t, Damn'd haet they'll kilL " 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm 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. DEATH AND DOCl^OR HORNBOOK. " I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock j I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 0' hard whin rock. "E'en them he canna get attended, Ahho' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't. "And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. "Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; True Sal-marinum o' the seas; The Farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please. He can content ye. " Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, tilings, 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 M'hite and bonie, 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 tiU'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year. DEA TH AND DO C TOR JIORNB O OK. 2 y " Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night I'm .^ree 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 countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts. His only son for Hornbook sets. An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid giramer-pets. Was Laird himsel. " A bonie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : She trusts hersel, to hide the shame. In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. To hide it there. "That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel pay'd for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt, "But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited Sot As dead's a herrin s Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin ! " But just as he began to tell. The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee, short hour ayont the twal. Which rais'd us baith ; J took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. 24 THE BRIGS OF A YR. THE BRIGS OF AYR. A POEM. INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLAf^TINE, ESQ., AYR. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush; Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thoru bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill. Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? Or labour hard the panegyric close, "With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame. With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side. The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : THE BRIGS OF A YR. 25 (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin's whistlir'^ crlee. Proud o' the height o' some bit half .■ :^ Xxt' The hoary morns precede the sunn) , .vs, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads th^- )iuontide riaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanfan in the rays. 'Twas in that season; when a simp'c Bord, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh f Ayr. By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' cvrc , He left his bed and took his waywa-'i loat, And down by Simpson's wheel'd th left about: (Whether impell'd by all-directing ! 'ate. To witness what I after shall narral Or whether, rapt in meditation hig] He wander'd out he knew not whe f'.> >r v, hy : ) The drowsy Dungeon clock had ni ; f>ci"d two, And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the ici w;is true - The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen-soi \ding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoai^c along the sroi - All else was hush'd as Nature's clc -.ed e'c; The silent moon shone high o'er tov/V and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, '. Crept, gently-crusting, owre the gli .tering stream. — When, lo ! on either hand the i .ifning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling win^^s is hearl; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the Gos drives on the whe ;.'>■.!.;■?! are; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shaj i-jrrears, The ither flutters o'er the rising pi r- ; Our warlock Rhymer instantly des .--y'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs o{ Vyr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted isl r-ae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual • ^ik; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', theyc .explain them. And ev'n the vera deils they braw •" i-- ■ n> ' Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pic The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit, in a braw new coat, That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search. Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch; It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e. And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 26 THE BRIGS OF A YR. Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-een : — AULD BRIG. I doubt na, Frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho', faith ! that date, I doubt, ye'll never see; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle. Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Tii.<;t much about it wi' your scanty sense; V» "^ narrow foot-path of a street, W ;l-barrows tremble when they meet, Ycjur . r , a. !( mless bulk o' stane and lime, Compare wi' b' nie Brigs o' modern time? There's me;\ cf taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream, Tho' they she Id cast the verasark and swim, Ere they v/ou'. l grate their feelings wi' the view O' sic an x^^s. Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited ^^owk ! puff d up wi' windy pride ! This niony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; And tho' wi" crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Bri;,", when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye litde ken about the matter. Bet twa-tliree winters mil inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When f?-c r \ the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or wheiie the Greenock winds his moorland course Or haunted Carpal draws his feeble source, Arous'd bv blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes; In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; While rr shing ice, borne on the roaring spate. Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-key, Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't; The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices. Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices : THE BRIGS OF A YR. 27 O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free. Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited monkish race. Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection. And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember'd, aricifent yealins, Were ye but here to share my wounded feehngs ! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a BaiHe, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ! Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vexation. To see each melancholy alteration; And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, Jn plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, three-paris made by Tailors and by Barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new Brigs and Harbours ! NEW BRIG. Now haud you there ! faith ye've said enough. And muckle mair than ye can mak to through : As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 28 THE BRIGS OF A YR. But, under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins. Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. "What farther clishmaclaver might been said. What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. No man can tell ; but all before their sight A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : They footed o'er the the wat'ry glass so neat. The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. O had M'Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage. Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage, Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard; Harmonious concert rung in every part. While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the Stream in front appears, A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn; Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, By Hospitahty with cloudless brow; Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : THE ORDINATION. 20 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crowird with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken, iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. THE ORDINATION. For sense, they little owe to frugal Heav'n - To please the tnob, they hide the little giv'n. Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, An' pour your creeshie nations; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations; Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', An' there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day. Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; But Oliphant aft made her yell. An' Russel sair misca'd her; This day M'Kinlay takes the flail, An' he's the boy will blaud her ! He'll clap a shangan on her tail. An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. Mak haste an' tu/n king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gie us four. An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow'r. And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it off wi' vigour, How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger : Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' Inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That Stipend is a carnal weed He takes but for the fashion; An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin. Spare them nae day. Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. An' toss thy horns fu' canty; Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty. But ilka day, Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin : Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the thairms be tryin ; Oh rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. And a' like lamb-tails flyin Fu' fast this day ! Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, As lately Fen wick, sair forfairn. Has proven to his ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw rnischief was brewin; And like a godly, elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day JO THE CALF. Now Robinson harangue nae niair, But steek your gab for ever : Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a Shaver; Or to the Netherton repair, And turn a Carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day. Mutrie and you were just a match» We never had sic twa drones : Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons : And ay he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, \Vi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein thro' the city; Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty ! There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common-sense is gaun, she says. To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. But there's Morality himsel. Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions; See, how she peels the skin an' fell. As ane were peelin onions ! Now there, they're packed afif to hell. And banish'd our dominions. Henceforth ihis day. O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter : M'Kinlay, Russel are the boys That heresy can torture; They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's, for a conclusion, To every New Light mother's son. From this time forth. Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion. We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aft' in fusion Like oil, some day. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVENS, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. " Andye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall." Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, Tho' Heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yoursel just now, God knows, an unco Calf! And should some Patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot. Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Stot ! Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear Your but-and-ben adorns. The like has l^een that you may wear A noble head of horns. And, in your lug, most reverend James To hear you roar and rowte. Few men o' sense will doubt your claim} To rank amang the Nowte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead Belov/ a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — " Here lies a famous Bullock ! " ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 31 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince ! O Chief 0/ many throned Pow'rs, That led tK embattled Seraphim 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, A.n' let poor damned bodies be; ^' a :^iire sma' pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, ' sip an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel ! is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Kcnd an' noted is thy name; ri,o' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; ii th! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. ■ • s, ranging like a roarin lion ■■-•ey, a' holes an' corners tryin; !«."s on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks ; ^ Is, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. [Ve heard my reverend Grannie say, (n lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray. Nod to the moon, Ve fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my Graunie 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 l)oortrees 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' waving sugh. 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, countra 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 hoordj An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord. By your direction, An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd To their destructioHo 52 DEATH AND DYING WORDS 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 bonie 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 ! Ve 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'. 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 thm An' brak him out o' house an' 1 "While scabs an' blotches did hi Wi' bitter claw. An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicke Was varst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fetchin fie Sin' that day Michael did you ) . Down to this tim ■, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or f.r-c. In prose or rhyn - An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye'r A certain Bardie's rantin, drin: Some luckless hour will send h. To your black pit; But, faith ! he'll turn a corner iink.i An' cheat you yet. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ber O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake ! THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MA^ 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, she did lie. 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, Imt naelhing spak. At length poor Mailie silence brak. " O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' cast I 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' laml)s, an' packs o' woo' OF POOR MAILIE. 33 " Tell him, he was a Master kin', 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, Fraedogs, 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, WJ' 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, Uke their great Forbears, P'or 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 ! x'Vn', 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 blastit, moorland toop; But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, Wi' sheep o' credit Hke thysel ! "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,tliou'se get my blether." This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head. An' clos'd her een amang the dead ! POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. La NT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' ut tears trickling down your nose ; Our ' ardie's fate is at a close, . Past a' remead; ' st, sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead ! the loss o' warl's gear, :ould sae bitter draw the tear, ijr n.ak our Bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : ^T^'s lost a friend and neebor dear. In MaiUe dead. 1 aro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A liing half-mile she could descry him ; Wi* k'ndly bleat, when she did spy him. She ran wi' speed : ^'id mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. at she was a sheep o' sense, "ould behave hersel wi'mense; "'t, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. ^, 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 MaiHe 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 bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead. Wae 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. O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon ! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed ! I lis heart will never get aboon ! His Mailie's dead! 34 TO JAMES SMITH. TO JAMES SMITH. Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul i Sweet' ner of Life, and solder of Society / I oive thee much. Blair. D^R Smith, the slecest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Ovvre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet ^^'as 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; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan, AA.d 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 contra 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 ; But still the mair Tm 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 I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling 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, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, Forgot and gone ! But why c 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. This life, sae far's I under ' Is a' enchanted fairy-Ian Where pleasure is the mv That, wielde 1 ■ Maks hours like minute'- ^-^ Dance bv ' TO JAMES SMITH. 35 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 hoistin, hirplin owre the field, VVi' 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. We frisk away. Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here. We eye the rose upon the brier. Unmindful that the thorn is near. 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 cnr>V "n some cozie place, hey close the day. And others, like your humble servan', T' )or wights! nae rules nor roads'observin, right u- Vft, eternal swervin. They zig-zag on; cursl 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. | My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, " Ye Pow'rs ! " and wamj 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; And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, Until they sconner. " A Title, Dempster merits it; A Garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie Wealth to same 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'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin kal), Wi' cheerfu' face. As lang's the Muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e T never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose ; I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows As weel's I may; Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule. Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool. Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool * How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke ! 36 A DREAM. 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-scaifum, ram-stam boys. The rattlin squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — Ye ken the road. — Whilst I — but I shall baud me there- Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content with You to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. 7 hoHghts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason ; But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. [On reading, in t^e public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following 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 tine 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 M'rang, But ay unerring steady. On sic a day. For me ! before a Monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor : So, nae reflection on Your Grace, Your Kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the Race, 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; 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 I' the craft some day. A DREAM. 37 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 bonie barges An' boats this day. ^idieu, 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, W^ill Ye accept a compliment A simple Poet gies Ye? Thae bonny bairntime Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze Ye In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, For ever to release Ye Frae care that day. For you, young Potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly. That ere ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver ; Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, For a' their clishma-claver : There, Hi*T> n^ Afipcourt wha shone, Few better were or b»-aver; And yet, wi' funny, quee^ Sir John, He was an unco shaver For monie ? day. For you, right rev'rend Osnab'rrg, Name sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribban at your lug Wtid 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. 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 aim. An', large upon her quarter. Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonie 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, e'er the course o' Hfe 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. »8 THE VISION. THE VISION. DITAN FIRST. The sun had clos'd the winter day, The Curlers quat their roarin play, An' hunger'd Maukin laen her way To kail-yards green. While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. 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 pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 1 sat and ey'd the spewing 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 j\Iy 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, 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'j 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, M'as crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's Fd 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-brain'd, sentimental trace," Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with Honour. Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg ! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straugh*-, 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. THE VISION. 39 Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were lost: Vicre, 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-fetcli'd floods ; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, Vuld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore; Lnd many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. 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 gi-ace. 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, 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, 1 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, \ view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair; A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. Of kindred sweet, 'iVhen 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 Has 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. 40 THE VISION. " 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; Or, 'mid the venal vSenate's roar. They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest Patriot lore. And grace the hand, " And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, Charm or instruct the future 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. " Some hint the Lover's harmless wile; Some grace the Maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil, For humble gains. And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. " Some, bounded to a district-space. Explore at large INIan'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, Pleld ruling pow'r : I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. " With future hope, I oft would gaze. Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times. " I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the North his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. *' Or when the deep green-mantl'd Earth Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the 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 accent?, 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; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUW. 41 " 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 Coila's plains, Become thy friends. " Thou canst 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; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade, Vet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. "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. " To give my counsels all in one. Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the dignity of Man, With Soul erect; And trust, the Universal Plan Will all protect. " And wear thou this " — she solemn 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. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these -maxims tnake a rule. And lump them, aye thegither ; Zl^^ Rigid Righteous zls-^yi?^/, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight. May hae some pyles o' caff in ; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random Jits 0' daffin. Solomon. — Eccles. vii. 16. 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 faihngs and mischances. Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, And shudder at the niff"er. 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' hiding. 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. 42 TAM SAMSON'S ELECY. 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 Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous 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. TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. An honest uiaiis the noblest work of God. — Pope. Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? Or Robinson again grown weel. To preach an' read? " Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel, " Tarn Samson's dead !" Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane. An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean. In mourning weed; To Death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead ! The Brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel. Like ony bead; Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson's dead ! When Winter muffles up his cloak. And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the Curlers flock Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock, Tam Samson's dead ? He was the king o' a' the Core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need; But now he lags on Death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately Sawmont sail, And Trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And Eels weel kend for souple tail, And Geds for greed. Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wait Tam Samson dead! Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a'; Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw; Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal Fae is now awa', Tam Samson's dead ! That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed ; But, Och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! Tam Samson's dead ! TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 43 In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters; In vain the burns came down like water*., An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, " Tarn Samson's dead ! " Owre niony a weary hag he limpit. An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, TiK coward Death behind him jumpit Wi' deadly feide; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Tarn vSamson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed; " Lord, five ! " he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tarn Samson's dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsinan youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, " Tam Samson's dead ! " There, low he lies, in lasting rest; E-erhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch and breed; Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! When. August winds the heather wave. And sportsmen wander by yon grave. Three vollies let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead. Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest hio saul, whare'er he be ! Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : He had twa faults, or maybe three. Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we : Tam Samson's dead ! THE EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots, 'jpare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye win near him. PER contra. Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, Te.'l ev'ry social, honest billie To cease his grievin, For yetjunskaith'd by Death's gleggullicj Tam Samson's livin ! 44 HALLOWEEN. HALLOWEEN.i [The following Poem will by many readers be well enough understood; but for the sake of thos« v/ho are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give som« account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry m the west of Scotland. The passion 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 honour the Author with a perusal,, to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own. R. B,] Yes ! let the rich deride, the pro7cd disdain. The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; To me more dear, cot/genial to my heart. One native charm, thati 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; Amang the borie, winding banks. Where Doon rins, wimpHn, 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' haud 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 lasse's 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. 1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are feald on that night to hold a grand anniversary. R. B. 2 Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. R. B. 3 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. < The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. R. B. 5 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. If any i/z>v/, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the CHStock, that IS the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition, Lastly, the stems, or to give ihem their ordinary appellation, the ri*nfs, are placed eomewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings infO the boilftC RrWi accpr^ing to the priority of placing the rmfff, the names in que«tipr>i R. B« HALLOWEEN. 45 Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'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'i them To lie that night. The lasses staw 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 skiil'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. Jean slips in twa, Md' 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. 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. An' darklins grapit for the bauks, 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. 1 They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third Stalk wants the tap-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. R. B. 2 When the corn is in a doubtful state, it being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., 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-hotise. R. B. 3 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. ♦ Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions; Steal out, all alone, to the /^?7'.', and darkling, throw into the pot R clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and towards the latter end something >vill hold ^he thread; demand Wha hands f i.e., who hokisf an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and nurnamo of y§ur future spouse* Ri B, 46 HALLOWEEN. vVee Jenny tc her Graunie says, " Will ye go \vi' me, Graunie? " 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 night. " Ye little Skelpie-limraer'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.raind'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. " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, "A clever, sturdy fallow; " His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, " That liv'd in Achmacalla ; *' He gat hemp-seed,'- I mind it weel, -'An' he made unco light o't; " But monie a day was by himsel, " He was sae sairly frighted " That vera 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. He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin; The graip he for a harrow taks. An' haurls at hisjcurpin: 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 I.enox' march, To keep his courage cheary ; 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 Grtimphie Asteer that night ! 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 Tam Kipples That vera night. 1 Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some tr.jditions 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. 2 Steal out unperceived and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, 1 saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, " come after me and harrow thee." R. B. » This charm mus^ likewise be Ferformed unperceived a.id alone. Yon go to the barn and HALLOWEEN. 47 She turns the key, wi' caiinie thraw, An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca', Syne bauldly in she enters; A ration 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 i 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 blype? cam haurlin Affs nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was. As cantie as a kittlin : But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, She gat a fearfu' settlin ! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,'-' To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whyies owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyies round a rocky scar it strays; Whyies in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyies glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyies 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 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 cheary; 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. open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; for there is danger that the bettig about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down ddrn 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, having both the figure in question and the appfearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life. R. B. 1 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-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 conjugaJ yoke-fellow. R. B. • i i 2 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 question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side o'" it. R. B. 3 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 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. * Sowens, with butter instead of milk tQ them, i% alwivs the Halloween Supper. R. ■»» 48 THE yOLLY BEGGARS. THE JOLLY BEGGARS. A CANTATA' RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or, wavering like the bauckie bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte. And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; A.e night, at e'en, a merry core O' randie, gangrel bodies, III Poosie-Nansie's held the splore. To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted and they sang; Wi' jumping and thumping. The verra girdle rang. First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, She blinket on her sodger; An' aye he gies the towsie drab The tither skelpin' kiss. While she held up her greedy gab. Just like an aumous dish; Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering, and swaggering, He roar'd this ditty up — AIR. Tune — " Soldier's Joy." I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. My 'prentiship I pass'd where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abramj I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c, I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. Lai de daudle, &c. And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg. And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum, Lai de daudle, &c. What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks. Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; WHien the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. THE yOLLY BEGGARS. 49 RECITATIVO. He ended; and the kebars sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore : A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar. AIR. Tune — " Soldier Laddie."' I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons M'as my daddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &c. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch. So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church; He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. RECITATIVO. Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; They mind't na wha the chorus teuk. Between themselves they were sae bizzy \ At length, \A' drink and courting dizzy, He stoitered up an' made a face; Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy, Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 50 THE yOLLY BEGGARS. AIR. Tune — "Auld Syr Svmon." Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, Sir Knave is a fool in a session; He's there but a 'prentice I trow, But I am a fool by profession. My grannie she bought me a beuk, And I held awa to the school; I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae of a fool? For drink I would venture my ne^ J* •, A hizzie's the half o' my craft; But what could ye other expect, Of ane that's avowedly daft? I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffing. I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, For towzling a lass i' my daffin. Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer; There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, A tumbler ca'd the Premier. Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad — It's rivalship just i' the job. And now my conclusion I'll tell, For faith I'm confoundedly dry; The chiel that's a fool for himsel', Gude Lord, is far dafter than I. RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling. For monie a pursie she had hooked. And had in monie a well been dooked; Her dove had been a Highland laddie. But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman : Tune — "O, an ye were dead, Gm'd»tan." A Highland lad my love was born, The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn : But he still was faithfu' to his clan. My gaJlant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, my braw John Highland, man ! Sing, ho, my braw John HighlanJman 1 There's no a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. And gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, ' fear | A WIN7ER mcHr. 55 A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wkeresoe'er yo7i are. That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm / How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. Your loop'd atid zvindow'd raggedtiess, defend you. From seasons such as these ? Shakes PEAiw. 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 shovv'r. Or whirling drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet booked, 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 pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffl'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 — 5G A IVINTER NIGHT. " 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, " W^hose 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, " 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, " Stretch'd 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 EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 57 " The wretch, already crushed low, "By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? "Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; " A brother to relieve, hoM^ 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. But deep this truth impress'd my mind Thro' all His works abroad. The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. f While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving 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 chinila lug, 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. 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 ! yamiary— [1784]. 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 guile. 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, mair: It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest : 58 EPISTLE TO DAVIE. If happiness hae not her seat And ceiitte in the breast, We may bs wise, or rich, or great, Kut 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 ar.d I, Wha drudge end drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never reasing toil ; Think ye, are we less blest than they, WTia 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 ! Bailh 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; 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'll 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'; Ve 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 more dear immortal part. Is not more fondly dear ! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest. 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 still 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 glo\\rin owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus Mill limp. Till ance he's fairly het; 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. THE LAMENT. 59 THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND S AMOUR. Alas / how oft does Gooditess ivoinid itself, And sweet Affection /r^z/^ the spring of woe / Home. THOU pale Orb, that sibnt 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, unwarining beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. 1 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 Forever 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 : 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 l)oast? 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 em- ploy'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 ! 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 aftright ; Ev'n day, all-bitter brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. 6o DESPONDENCY. O! thou bright Queen, expanse 'ho o'er th' [sway ! Now highest reign'st, with boundless Oft has 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. Oh! in strong remembranct scenes set! Scenes, never, never to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget. Again I feel, again I burn ! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh : O life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road. To wretches such as I ! Dim-backward as I cast my view. What sick'ning scenes appear ! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'. Too justly I may fear ! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er, But with the closing tomb ! Happy, ye sons of busy life. Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon d wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same ; You, bustling, and justling. Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless. Find every prospect vain. How blest the Solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, Within his humble cell. The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well ! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream. The ways of men are distant brought, A faint-collected dream : While praisings and raising His thoughts to Heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring. He views the solemn sky. Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part; The lucky moment to improve. And just to stop, and just to move. With self-respecting art : But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys. Which I too keenly taste. The Solitary can despise. Can want, and yet be blest ! ' He needs not, he heeds not. Or human love or hate. Whilst I here, must cry here. At perfidy ingrate ! Oh ! enviable, early days, [maze, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchang'd for riper times, To fee the follies, or the crimes. Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court. When manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage ! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim-declining age. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY N/Cf-rr WINTER. A DIRGE. The wintry west extends his blast, ,And hail and rain does hlaw; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth, The blinding sleet and 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 vSupreme, 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. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the Poor. Gray My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride, 1 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; rhe 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 hameward bend. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 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' flichterin noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie. His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toU. 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 : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw 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 weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her 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 wi' 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 sought the Lord aright ! " But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; i( THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 6^^ 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. 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 ! " he says, with solemn air. 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; 64 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 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 Heaven's commamd-. 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 circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. r Compar'd with this, hovi^ 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 enrol. 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 Heav'n the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 65 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their Httle ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 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 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; 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 \\armest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 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. '') Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; ^ho 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 ! 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, I spy'd a man, whose aged step vSeem'd weary, worn with care; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, . And hoary was his hair. tc oung stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend Sage; Dost thirst of wealth thy step constrain, I 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 time has added proofs, That Man was made to mourn. 66 A PRAYER. Co 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. 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, "^hen 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 frames ! 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; 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 ! A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear ! If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly in my breast. Remonstrates I have done ; Thou know'st that Thou hast form'd me With passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short. Or frailty stept aside. Do Thou, All Good ! for such Thou art, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd. No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and Goodness stiU Dclighteth to forgive. LINES. 67 STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms; Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence ! " Fain promise never more to disobey ; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray. Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below ! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, And still the tumult of the raging sea : W^ith that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong furious passions to confine, For all unfit I feel my powers to be. To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, I know Thou wilt me hear; When for this scene of peace and love, I make my pray'r 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 lovely 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 darlingyouth, In manhood's dawning blush; Bless him, thou God of love and truths Up to a parent's wish. The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand. Guide Thou their steps 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 ! Sta- verses of the ninetieth psalm. THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore : Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad. But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And like the rootless stubble tost, Before the sweeping blast. For why? that God the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wdcked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. 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 ! THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling-place ! Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand. Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command; That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame. From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. Return ye into nought ! " Thou layest them, with all their cares. In everlasting sleep; As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep ; They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither'd and decay'd. TO RUIN. 69 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. The bonie 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; 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 upteais 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 ! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who longwithwants 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 1 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the i)aisy'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 RUIN. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie. And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Tho' thick'ning and black'ning Round my devoted head And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd While life a pleasure can afford. Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! No more I shrink appall' d, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day; My weary heart its throbbings cease.. Cold-mould'ring in the clay? No fear more, no tes^r more. To stain my lifeless face, Enclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace ! 70 EFISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, FOR A NEW year's GIFT, JANUARY I, I787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you move than India boasts. In Edwin's simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps too true; But may, dear Maid, each lover ptove An Edwin still to you ! 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'U try the world soon, my lad. And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, 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 may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye, free, aff han' your story tell, When wi' a 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. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it; I wsve 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 smiley Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justify 'd by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Not for a train attendant; B:it for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To baud 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. ON A SCOTCH BARD. V fhe great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist-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 tcmpest-drit '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 phrase, "God send you Still daily to grow wiser; [speed," And may ye better reck the rede, Than ever did th' Adviser ! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live an' never think. Come mourn wi' me ! Our billie's gi'en us a jink. An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea ! The bonie lasses weel may wiss him. And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea ! O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble. That's owre the sea ! Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear. An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear : 'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear. In flinders flee; He was her Laureat monie a year That's owre the sea ! He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a berth afore the mast. An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock. On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, ■ Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin', Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin', He dealt it free : The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel. An' hap him in a cozie biel; Ye'll find him ay' a dainty chiel. And fu' o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie .* Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily. Now bonilie ! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea ! 72 A DEDICATION. TO A HAGGIS. /AIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, ar thairm : Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As iang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdles like a distant hill. Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight. An' cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich ! Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak tire hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner ! Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit : Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care. And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware That jaups in higgles; But, if you want her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis ! A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid. An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace, Perhaps related to the race; Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. Set up a face, how I stop short. For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do. Sir, wi' them wha [fou ; Maun please the great fulk for a wame- For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig. Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him. Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ! He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only — he's no just begun yet. The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me), On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be. He's just — nae better than he should be A DEDICATION. 73 I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says he winna break it; Ought he can lend he'll not refus't, Till aft hisguidness is abus'd; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : As master, landlord, husband, father, lie does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of damnation; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore. But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane. Ply ev'ry art, o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing. I>earn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. And damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 3 When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, Avith his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him: While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, ' And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Stillloudershrieks,andheavier groans! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my Dedication; But when divinity comes 'cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review. To dedicate them, Sir, to You : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour^ And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said, ever pray : But that's a word I need na say : For prayin I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. That kens or hears about you, Sir. — " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen : Five bonie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able. To serve their King and Country Weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days; Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow ! !"J I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; 74 TO A LOUSE. But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, [ am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Vour much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances. While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am. Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor? But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! While recollection's pow'r is given, If, in the vale of humble life. The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognise my Master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand — my Friend and Brother ! 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. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle. In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Y^our thick plantations. Now haud ye there, ye're oat o' sight, Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet ! ye'U 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 nosa out. As plump and gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum ! I 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 ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's niakin ! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. Are notice takin ! 1 % '^C O \^ad 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 1 EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 75 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. Edina 1 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, High 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 : 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 seamy 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 pity.'ng 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. 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 hng'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April i, 1785. 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 frioji'j I praj' excu§t; On Fasten-een 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 lenfTth vyg had a hearty yokin At sang ?ibout, r<5 EPISTLE TO JOHN LA PR A IK. 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 Aveel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beatcie's wark ! " "^hey 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. 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 docs on me glance, X 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. WTiat'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; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely 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 rne ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK 77 At dance or fair; Maybe some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline roce, 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 friendship, should give love an' place To catch-tKe-plack ! I dinna like to see your face. Nor hear your crack, Lut 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 conclade my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent. While I can either sing, or whissle, Your friend and servant. TO THE SAME. April 21, 1785. While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik. This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor. To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, Mdth weary legs, Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs. Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite. My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie. She's saft at best, and something lazy. Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie. An' something sair." Her dowff excuses pat me mad; " Conscience," says I, " Ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. " Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts. Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly. Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, An' thank him kindly ! " Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it: An' if ye vvinna mak it clink. By Jove I'll prose it ! " Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp j Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch ! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's but a bitch. 78 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake niy leg, As lang s I dow ! Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year : But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city Gent, Behind a kist to lie an' sklent, Or purse-proud, big M'i' cent per cent ; An' muckle wame. In some bit Brugh to represent A BaiUe's name? Or is 't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, Wha thinks himselnaesheep-shankbane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks? " O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift. Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a' their pride ! " Were this the charter of our state, " On pain o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond reniead; But, thanks to Hea\en ! that's no the gata We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran. When first the human race began, " The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, And none but he ! " O mandate glorious and divine ! The followers of the ragged Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl. Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl. The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys In some mild sphere. Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year ! TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 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 flatterin strain. OCHILTREE. May, 1785. 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. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho* in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, J Sparge exguse ye, (O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts III suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes W^d stow'd his pantrj^ |) TO WILLIAM SIMPSO]^. 79 Vet 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 Poets 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; vShe 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; 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 fit 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 fearless 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, 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' Hfe an' light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night ' The niusq, 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 T, wi' pleasure. Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure, Fareweel,"my rhyme-composing brither!* We've been owre langunkenn'd toither: 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, ixi faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. 8o TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. rOSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this New-Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft have been Maist hke to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewin. An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it. Both loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. An out o' sight. An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels wei-e alarm'd: The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd . Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks. Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbad, by strict commands. Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe Ye'll find ane plac'd ; An' some, their new-light fair avow. Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin Wi' girnin spite. To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-Hght herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they call balloons. To tak a flight. An' stay ae mcJnth amang the moons, An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them. The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a " moonshine matter " ; But the' dull-prose folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we Bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 8t EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' diinkin ! There's monie godly folks are thinkin, Your dreams an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Straught to auld Nick's. Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, druken rants, Ye make a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants. Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back. Think,wicked sinner, wha ye'reskaithing, It's just theblue-govvn badge an'claithing O' saunts; takthat,ye lea'e themnaithing To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect, Yon sang, ye'U sen't, wi' cannie care. And no neglect. Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 1 gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor, wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport. Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, Deil-ma-care ! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail. An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear ! The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by. An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by. For my gowd guinea; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair. When time's expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. 82 WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole. Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance. Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her syren air May delude the thoughtless pair; Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold. Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate. Is not — art thou high or low? Did thy fortune ebb or flow? Did many talents gild thy span? Or frugal Nature grudge thee one? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. There solid self- enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break. Till future life, future no more. To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before. Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadsman of Nith-side. Gi-ENRmoEL Hermitage, June ■zZth, 1788 FROM THE MS. Thou whom chance may hither lead. Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour, Happiness is but a name, .' Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor gleam, Fame, an idle restless dream : Peace, the tenderest flower of spring; Pleasures, insects on the wing ; Those that sip the dew alone. Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom devour. Crush the locusts, save the flower. For the future be prepar'd. Guard, wherever thou canst guard; But thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past give thou to air. Make their consequence thy care : Keep the name of Man in mind. And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence, with lowly heart. Him whose wondrous work thou art: Keep His goodness still in view. Thy Trust, and Thy Example too. Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadsman of Nithe-side. ELEGY. 8> ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. DWELL2R in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark ! Who in widow-weeds appears. Laden with unhonour'd years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ! STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face — Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting- grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took — but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of ever- lasting reot ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine' eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear. Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HLS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GODl. Btit now his radiant course is run, For Matthew s course was bright ! His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heav'nly 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. 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 stl' shall mourn By wood and wild, \yhere, haply, Pity strays forlorn, f ^^e man wi'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, Qf foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to liji, 84 ELEGY. Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye rosss on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. 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. Mourn, 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, 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, thuu 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 flight. Ne'er to return. 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 \ i*-nd weep thee ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief. And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae common tale o' grief, For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast. Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man^ A look of pity hither cast. For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart; For Matthew was a brave man. J LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 8s If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man; Here hes wha weel had won thy praise, For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad Hfe itself resign, man; The sympathetic tear maun fa', For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man; This was a kinsman o' thy ain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er gude wine did fear, n.an; This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man. If only whiggish whingin sot. To blame poor Matthew dare, mai May dool and sorrow be his lot, For jNIatthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her rheets 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 M^ng; The merle, in his noontide bow'r. Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis mild wi' many a note. Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank. The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o' bonie France, Where happy I hae been, Fu' lightly rase 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 ee. 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 ! 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, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave ! S6 TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. EPISTLE TO R. GR-\HAM, ESQ. When Nature her great master-piec^; design'd, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind. Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. The lead and buoy are needful to the net : The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks the unyielding mass with grave designs Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er. Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more; Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. Such as the shghtest breath of air might scatter ; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it — a Poet. Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow. When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage endss A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find; And, to support his helpless woodbine state, ^ttacb'd Jiim to the generous truly great, TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 87 A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham, Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no seltish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverl)'d, wisdom's hard wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, (Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) Who make poor "will do" wait upon "I should" — We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? Ye M'ise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know. Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! Seek not the proofs in private life to find; Pity the best of words should be but wind ! So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. They persecute you all your future days ! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again; The piebald jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift; That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 88 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRA, ESQ. Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; ^^11 Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and aeprest 4^1 (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) : • ^^^1 Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor Misery, heark'ning to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? Thou, Nature, partial Nature, 1 arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground: Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard! A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur. Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well- won bays, than life itself more dear. By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life. Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, A LAMENT, 89 Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injur 'd page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage ! So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son. Dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the Herce extremes Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she tills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder " some folks " do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck brainj In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 1 dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears:) Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath. With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, Laden with years and meikle 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 ydars; His locks were bleached white wi' time. His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang. The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. A LAMENT. ** Ye scattei'd birds that faintly sing, The rehques of the vernal quire ! V"e woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year ! V few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; Kut 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. My noble master lies m 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 hfe 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, [round; Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me 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 ! IMust thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime? Why did I live to see that day? A day to me so full of woe? O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! , *' The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been, The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me ! " LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITR FORD, BART., WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron, lov'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. t TAM O SHANTER. 91 TAM O' SHANTER. A TALE. Of Brownyis and of BogiUs full in this Biike. 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 mico happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That he 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 bonie lasses.) O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellumj That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 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 monie 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; 92 TAM a SHANTER. Tam lo'ed him like a vera blither; 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. 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 borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. — Nae man can tether time or tide; — The hour approaches 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 talcs the road in, As ne'er poor sinner v/as abroad in. The wind blew as '^wad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'^; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'di 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; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-AUoway w^as 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; TAM C SHANTER. 93 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; Wi' 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, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance; 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' hfe bereft, The grey 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; 94 TAM a SHANTER. They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carliu swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, O Tam ! 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, \ wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, Fo< ar blink o' the bonie burdies ! But wi«^her'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping ^nd flinging on a crummock, I wonder dic^na turn thy stomach. But Tam kend what was what fu' brawii4,^ 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 bonie boat. And shook baith meikle corn and b«ar. And kept the country-side in fear,) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 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), 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 fiidg'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; ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'U get thy fairin ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits tliy 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. ' 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 Tam 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 inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 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 chield's amang you taking notes. And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, mark weel — And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin At some black art. — Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer. Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. And you deep read in hell's black grammar. Warlocks and witches, Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Yc midnight bitches. 96 ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rath' \\ n tiiun fii '; But now he's quai hesv tu i. le, Anc" dog- And taen the — Antiqi .' , I think they calj i He has a fouth o 1 ' - c 1 ets : Rusty aim caps ai Wad haud the Lo. .ts, tackets A t(. And pan itch-pat Be iure the Flood. iackets Of Eve's first fir- r; Auld Tubalcain's 1 fender; That which distir .;nder O' 1 A broom-stick c l;.v ..lv,u ... 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 chield, 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 ! ON SEf II < A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WMlCH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. [April, 1789.J Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains; No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 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 luffian's aiin, and mourn thy hapless fate. TO MISS CRUIKSHANK. 97 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH-SHIRE, 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; tVhile Summer with a matron grace Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. Vet 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, 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. TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely Flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! Never Boreas' hoary path. Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights ! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem; Till some evening, sober, calm, Dropping dews, and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings, And every bird thy requiem sings ; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. AD thy tale, thou idle page. And rueful thy alarms : eath tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its l)eauties low. 98 PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That Nature finest strung : ^o Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wrung. Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn To scenes beyond the grave. Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. 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. How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride. Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. And drink my crystal tide. The lightly-jumping 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. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, Ple'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonie 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, thelintwhite cleat-, 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 sheltering safe retreat, From prone-descending show'rs. x\nd here, by sweet endearing stealth. Shall meet the loving pair. Despising worlds with all their wea«th As empty, idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their chf*^'" The hour of heav'n to grace, j And birks extend their fragrant ai ^ To screen the dear embrace. THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 99 ller'^ haply too, at vernal dawn, Some /nusing 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-swel^'ing 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 dresl My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster's nest, The close e^nbow'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 — " Athoie's honest men. And Athoie's bonie lasses ! " THE KIRK'S ALARM. A SATIRE. A Ballad Tune — "Push about the Brisk BowV Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, " That what is not sense must be nonsense." Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack. To strike evil-doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense upon onie pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, And orator Bob is its ruin. D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw. Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa. Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Then lug out your ladle, deal bvimstane like adle, And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, Foi- puppies lik«i you there's but few. L.crC, THE KIRK OF SCOT LAND'S ALARM. Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny. Unconscious what evils await? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits : Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark. He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your " liberty's chain " and your wit ; O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book no the waur, let me tell ye ! Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride. Of manhood but sma' is your share; Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock To crush common sense for her sins. If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. lOT Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns. Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. Poet Barns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? You muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies monie a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! Wlien fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O' a' the numerous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, — Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see ! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' niis'ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw. Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ; — Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmont's Toothache WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep. My savage journey, curious, I pursue. Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides. The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; I02 BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. Th' outstretching lake, embosonrd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side; The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam — Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods ■ Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to sooth her bitter, rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan. And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. J ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, Arwi ward o' mony a prayer, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. November hirples o'er the lea, Chill, on thy lovely form; And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw. Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw. May He, the friend of woe and want. Who heals life's various stounds. Protect and guard the mother plant. And heal her cruel wounds. But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair in the summer morn : Now, feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our lan4. SECOND EFISTLE TO DA VIE. 103 WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow. As deep recoiling surges foam below. Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs. The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils. And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils — SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. AULD NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, P'or your auld-farrant, fren'iy 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 Darie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 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 a livin', Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; But just the pouchie put the nieve in. An' while ought's there, Then biltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nair mair. 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. 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. I04 THE INVENTORY. 1 THE INVENTORY, :n answer to the usual mandate sent by a surveyor of the taxes, requiring a return of the number of horses, servants, carriages, etc., kept. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle ; My han' afore's a gude auld has-been, An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been; My han' ahin's a weel gaun fiUie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie, An' your auld burrough monie a time. In days when riding was nae crime — Bat ance whan in my wooing pride I like a blockhead boost to ride. The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too !) I play'd my filUe sic a shavie. She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. My furr-ahin's a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd, — The fourth's, a Highland Donald hastie, A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie. Foreby a Cowte, o' Cowte's the wale. As ever ran afore a tail; If he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pun at least. — Wheel carriages I ha'e but few. Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; A.e auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg, an' baith the trams, are broken; I made a poker o' the spin'le, An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le. For men, I've three mischievous boys. Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock bauds the nowte in fother. I rule them as I ought discreetly. An' often labour them completely. Mossgiel, February 22, 178b. An' ay on Sundays duly nightly, I on the questions tairge them tightly; Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than my leg. He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as onie in the dwalling. — I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is. An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils dare na touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than w^eel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face. Enough of ought ye like but grace. But her, my bonie sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already. An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; Frae this time forth, I do declare, I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit ! — •\ The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, \ It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your buke, Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it Day an' date as under notit : Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns, I THE WHISTLE. 105 THE WHISTLE. A BALLAD. I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — " This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o'er. And drink them to hell. Sir, or ne'er see me more ! " Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; The son of great Loda was conqueror still. And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd. Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. And once more, in claret, try which was the man. " By the gods of the ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend. Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. io6 THE WHISTLE. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame. Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply. And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend? Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — " Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! " Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! " 1 TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 107 SKETCH INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite; How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white; How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — I sing; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, I care not, not I — let the Critics go whistle ! But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honor my story. Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, ISO man, with the half of 'em, e'er could go wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right; A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, For using thy name offers fifty excuses. Good Lord, what is man ! for as simple he looks. Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil. On his one ruHng Passion Sir Pope hugely labours, _ That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him? Pull the string, Ruling Passion, the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. One trifling particular. Truth, should have miss'd him ! For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. Mankind is a science defies definitions. Some sort all our qualities each to his tribe. And think Human-nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind. As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan In the make of the wonderful creature call'd Man, No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. Nor even two different shades of the same. Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Dilly for proud-nodding laurels ! [o8 TO DR. BLACKLOCK. My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, Your courage much more than your prudence you show it, In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would steal 'em. Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em, It is not, outdo him — the task is, out-thieve him. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. ELLISLAND, 2lST OCT., I789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! And are ye haie, 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 blavv the Heron south ! And never drink be near his drouth ! He tald mysel by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter; I Hppen'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 tir'd 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 gauger — 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. Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty lim- bics, 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,) 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 MISS BURNET. 109 PROLOGUE, WOKBN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW YEAR's DAY EVENING. [179O.J No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity; Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home : But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new-year ! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, " You're one year older this important day." If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion. But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word — " Think ! " Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit. Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle; That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him. Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering. Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! To you old Bald-pate smooths his M'rinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important — Now! To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive. For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it. Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. TO A GENTLEMAN. Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, And by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'dj Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens. To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? We saw thee shine in youth anc^ beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres : But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN •TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPEE, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. I Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. And, faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? This monie a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks j Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt : If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin; How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were savin or takin aught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame. In Britain's court, kept up the game : How royal George, the tord kuk o'eiT him ! THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. Ill Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a-s yet were taxd'; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera- girls; If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser, — A' this and mair 1 never heard of; And, but for you> I might despair'd of. So gratefu', back your news I send you. And pray a' guid things may attend you! Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. Remonstrance to the Gentleman to whom the foregoing Poem ivas addressed. Dear Peter, dear Peter, We poor sons of metre Are often negleckit, ye ken; For instance, your sheet, man, (Though glad I'm to see't, man,) I get it no ae day in ten. — R. B. LINES ON AN INTERVIEW 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 druken 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 quo- rum 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 ! And 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 stam- mer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlor hammer'd. I sidling shelter'd 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 T coald see, Mair than an honest plough* man. 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 RIGHTS OF WOMAN. PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. [nOV. 26, 1 792.] While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things. The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plaUj And even children lisp The Rights of Man; 112 MISS FONTENELLE. Amid the mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is, Protection. — The tender flower that hfts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. Our second Right — but needless here is caution, To keep that Right inviolate's the fashion. Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis Decorum. There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude men had naughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet ! — Now, thank our stars ! those Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred! Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest. That Right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life — immortal love, — Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? Then truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions ! Let Majesty your first attention summon, Ah ! 9a ira ! The Majesty of Woman ! ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1 795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. Still anxious to secure your partial favour. And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my Prologue -business slily hinted. " Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, ** I know your bent — these are no laughing times : I VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 1 13 Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears — Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears? With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land? " I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief; I also think — so may I be a bride ! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — To make three guineas do the work of five : Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap : Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise. VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ! But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song! Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears. As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious Virtue all the strain endears. And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals ! 114 POEMS. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk eneiv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers; 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; W^ee 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'sballats,Maro'scatches; 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 mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share A rival place? Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan— There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever ! Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays. Where bonie 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. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE LAST EDITION OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS. Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend. Nor thou the gift refuse. Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing Muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. Must bid the world adieu. (A world '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.) TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. "5 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; 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. POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD's PICTURE. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye. Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A pcor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry. Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of this epocha make such a fuss, That gave us the Hanover stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. But, loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground. Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye. And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky., Your eourge to the latest i? bright, ii6 ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE. SKETCH. — NEW-YEAR DAY. [1790.] TO MRS. DUNLOP. A This day Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again : I see the old, bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine To wheel the equal, dull routine. The absent lover, minor heir. In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press. Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's wi*;h the hounds. The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) Fromhousewife cares a minute borrow — — That grandchild's cap will do to- morrow — And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver? " Another year has gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ? "The passing moment's all we rest on ! " Rest on — for what? what do we here? Or why regard the passing year? Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more? A few days may, a few years must. Repose us in the silent dust; Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of Nature loudly cries. And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies; That on this frail, uncertain state Hang matters of eternal weight; That future-life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone; Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woful night. — Since then, my honor'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends; Let us th' important Now employ, And live as those that never die. Tho' you, with days and honors crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight — life's sorrows to repulse ; A sight — pale Envy to convulse;) Others may claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGl To Crochallan came, The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night; His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. His heart was warm, benevolent, and good, MONOD Y ON A. LAD Y. 1 1 7 INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENPENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, '795. Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; Virtue alone who dost revere. Thy own reproach alone dost fear. Approach this shrine, and worship here. MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true. And flowers let us cull from Maria's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam; Want only of wisdom denied her respect. Want only of goodness denied her esteem. ii8 ON MRS. RIDDED S BIRTHDA Y. SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLENRIDDEL. {April, 1794O No more ye warblers of the wood — no more ! Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. \ es, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! And sooth the Virtues weeping o'er his bier : The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY, NOVEMBER 4, i793- Old Winter with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — "What have 1 done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging,drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; " 'Tis done ! " says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. [jUNE 26TH, I796.] Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the Poet's prayer — That fate may in her fairest page, With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name; With native worth, and spotless fame, And wakeful caution still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare : All blameless joys on earth we find, And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward; So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. TO MR. SYME. VERSES 119 WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. Accept the gift a friend sincere Wad on thy worth be pressin'; Remembrance oft may start a tear, But oh ! that tenderness forbear, Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. My morning raise sae clear and fair, I thought sair storms wad never Bedew the scene ; but grief and care In wildest fury hae made bare My peace, my hope, for ever ! You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel For a' the joy I borrow, In solitude — then, then I feel I canna to mysel' conceal My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. Farewell ! within thy bosom free A sigh may whiles awaken ; A tear may wet thy laughin' ee. For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIR8T OF COOKERY. lyth December, IJQS- No more of your guests, be they titled or not. And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. y TO MR. SYME, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTBR. O, HAD the inalt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. yenisalem Taverfi, Djivifries. SONNET, I »N 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, 1 listen to thy strain: See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 20 TO A GENTLEMAN. So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds 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 Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. [DECEMBER, I795.] Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; Alake, alake, the meikle Deil Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. That one pound one, I saiily want it : If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. It would be kind ; Andwhilemy heart wi' life-blood dunted, I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin To thee and thine; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design. POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by fell death was nearly nicket : Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk; But by guid luck I lap a wicket. And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, My heal and weal I'll take a care o't A tentier way : Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, For ance and aye. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way The fumes of wine infuriate send; (Not moony madness more astray;) Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah why should I such scenes out- live? Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1 796. My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal; Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it. Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit, As they deserve : (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne wha wad starve?) Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; Oh ! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still. Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like baudrons by a rattan. Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on, He's off like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it isna fair, First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wine and bonie lasses rare. To put us daft; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider Snare O' hell's damn'd waft Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by. As aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on a tangs. Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murd'ring wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen : The Lord preserve us frae the Devil 1 Amen ! amen ! TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns; Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. And all the tribute of my heart returns. For boons recorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer, as the giver you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light! And all ye manysparkling stars of night; If aught that giver from my mind efface; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; Then roll to me, along your wani'ring spheres. Only to number out a villain's years ! EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. An honest man here lies at rest, As e'er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth: The friend of age, and guide of youth : Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, Few hearts with knowledge so inform'd : If there's another world,he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this. 122 VERSES WRITTEN A T SELKIRK. VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK, ADDRESSED TO MR. CREECH, 13TH MAY, 1 787. AuLD chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo'es best, Willie's awa ! Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco slight; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, An' trig an' braw : But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa ! The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; They durst nae mair than he allow'd, That was a law : We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa ! Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Frae colleges and boarding-schools, May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw; He wha could brush them down to mools, Willie's awa ! The brethren o' the Commerce-C'iaumer May mourn their losswi'doofu' clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a'; 1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, Willie's awa ! Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and Poets pour, And toothy critics by the score, In bloody raw, The adjutant o' a' the core, Willie's awa ! Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace As Rome ne'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, WiUie's awa ! Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw; Grief's gien his heart an unco' kickin', Willie's awa ! Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnin' blellum, And Calvin's folk, are tit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie's awa ! Up \^impling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempest blaw ; But every joy and pleasure's fled, Willie's awa ! May I be Slander's common speech; A text for infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw ; When I forget thee, Willie Creech, Tho' far awa ! May never wicked Fortune touzle him ! May never wicked men bamboozle him ! Until a pow as auld's Methusalem He canty claw ! Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem Fleet wing awa ! A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 123 INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED BY BURWS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. " Here lies Robert Fergubson, Poet, Born September 5th, .-751 — Died i6th October, 1774." No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied m-n nor animated bust; " This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 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 thanldess starv'd what they so much admir'd. This humble tribute \vith 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. A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. O THOU, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want ! We bless thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent : And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, INIay never worse be sent; But whether granted, or denied, Lord, bless us with content ! Amen ! A VERSE COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come; In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome. LIBERTY. A FRAGMEMT. Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn «ith swimming eyes; Where is that soul of Freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead ! Beneath the hallow'd tu:f where Wallace lies Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! Ye babbling Mdnds, in silence sweep j Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. Nor give the coward secret breath. 124 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. Is this the power in Freedom's war, That woirt to bid the battle rage? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring ! One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART. False flatterer, Hope, away ! Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day To prove our loyal truth; we can no more; And owning Heaven's mysterious sway, Submissive low adore. Ye honour 'd mighty dead ! Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, Your king, your country, and her laws ! From great Dundee who smiling victory led. And fell a martyr in her arms (What breast of northern ice but warms?) To bold Balmerino's undying name. Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame. Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. Nor unavenged your fate shall be. It only lags the fatal hour; Your blood shall with incessant cry Awake at last th' unsparing power; As from the chff, with thundering course. The snowy ruin smokes along, With doubling speed and gathering force. Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale ! So vengeance ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. Now Robin lies in his last lair. He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him : Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care. E'er mair come near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, Except the moment that they crush't him; For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em. Tho' e'er sae short, Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em. And thought it sport. Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. And counted was baith wight and stark, Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man ; But tell him, he was learn'd and dark. Ye roos'd him than ! TO J. LAPRAIK. 125 ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. [1787.] GUIDWIFE, 1 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 shearmg, 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, 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 \ighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een, That gart my heart-strings tingle j 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 : 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 sham.e 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 curple, 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'. Marcht 1787. GuiD speed an' furder to you, Johny, Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonie Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany TO J. LAPRAIK. SEPT. 13TH, 1785. The staff o' bread. May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y To clear your head. 126 THE TWA HERDS. May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your tickles aff their legs, Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags Like drivin' wrav-k; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack. I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stum pie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like onie clerk. It's now twa month that I'm your debtor. For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature On holy men, While Deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But mair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our no We sels; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us. But browster wives an' whisky stills, They are the ISIuses. Your friendship. Sir, I wlnna quat it. An' if ye make objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd. An' a' the vittel in the yard. An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitse Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty Sweet ane an' twenty ! But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, An' now the sinn keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quit my chanter; Sae T subscribe mysel in haste. Yours, Rab the Ranter THE TWA HERDS. [April, 1785.] Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor. But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war. Pope, O A' ye pious godly flocks, Weel feed on pastures orthodox, W^ha now will keep you frae the fox. Or worrying tykes? Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes? The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. These five and twenty summers past, O dool to tell ! Hae had a bitter black out-cast, Atween ihemsel. O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'U see how new-light herds wiU whistle, And think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle. Sin' I hae min'. O, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, To wear the plaid. But by the brutes themselves eleckit To be their guide. THE TWA HERDS. 127 What flock vvi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd soor Arminians tank He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank : O' sic a feast ! The thummart vial'-cat, brock and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the vv^ood. He smell'd their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in. And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. And sell their skin. What herd like Russel telPd his tale, His voice was heard thro' . muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. O'er a' the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale. At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. Or nobly fling the gospel club, And new-light herds could nicely drub. Or pay their skin. Could shake them owre the burning dub. Or heave them in. Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet. An' names, like " villain," " hypocrite," Ilk ither gi'en. While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, Say, " neither's liein " ! A' ye wha' tent the gospel fauld. There's Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee. That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. There's scarce a new herd that we get. But comes frae 'mang that cursed set I winna name, I hope frae heaven to see them yet In fiery flame. Dalryrnple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft hae made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mis- chief. We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And monie a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel. There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey nick quill. And that ye'U fin'. O ! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come join your counsels and your skills. To cowe the lairds, And get the brutes the power themsels To choose their herds. Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense That bites sae sair. Be banish'd owre the seas to France,' Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquenccj M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, And guid M'ALiith, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart con glance, May a' pack aff. 128 TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, BKCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. Sept. 17th, 1783,^ While at the stook the shearers cowr To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in 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, 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, and 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, and hauf-mile graces. Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gaun, misca't 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 Ey worthless skellums, A.n' no a Muse erect her head To cowe the blcUums? TO THE RE V. JOHN M'MA TH. l 2Q 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 could 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, o'er riglat an' ruth. To ruin straight. All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, "Who in her rough impertect line Thus daurs to namt thoe; 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' meritj By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But hellish spirit. 70 HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground ! Within thy presbyterial bound, A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd, Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd; (Which gies you honour,) Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner. Pardon this freedom 1 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. 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 ©nie 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. 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, and swearers swear, And singin there and dancing 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. O Lord ' yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg— ' Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O ! may it ne'er be a livin plague To my dishonour. An' rU ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. EPITAPH ON HOL V WILLIE. 13^ Besides I farther mauu allow, Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow; But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre 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 Gawn 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 icens how he bred sic a splore, As set ^he vvarld 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; Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds. O Lord my God, that Glib-tongued Aiken, My very heart and soul are quakin. To think how we stood sweatin, shakin. An' p — d wi' dread, While he, wi' hingin lips an' snakin' Held up his head. Lord, in the day of 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, And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me and mine Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen. EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has taen some other way, I fear the left-hand road. Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor silly body, see him ; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, Observe wha's standing wi' him. Yoar brunstane devilship, I see. Has got him there before ye; But baud your nine-tail cat a-wee, Till ance you've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye have nane; Justice, alas ! has gien him o'er, And mercy's day is gane. But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name^ If it were kent ye did it. 132 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties? — Common friend to you and me. Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock. Bide the surging billow's shock. 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. The eagle, from the cliffy brow. Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong Necessity compels. 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. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, W^here the mossy riv'let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend. And life's poor season peaceful spend Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rS you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, RECOMMENDING A BOY. Mosgavtlle, May 3, 178b. I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty. To warn you how that Master Tootle, Alias Laird M'Gaun, Was here to lure the lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. An' wad hae don't aff han' : But lest he learn the callan tricks. As faith I muckle doubt him. Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them; As lieve then I'd have then. Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example stiaught, I hae na onie fear. Ve'll catechiz.e him every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk — Ay when ye gang yoursel. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this comin' Friday, Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, The orders wi' your lady. My word of honour I ha'e gi'en, In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, To meet the Waild's worm: To try to get the twa to gree, An' name the airles an' the fee, In legal mode an' form : I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him; An' if a Devil be at a'. In faith he's sure to get him. To phrase you an' praise you. Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still. Of grateful Minstrel, burns. rO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 133 EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM, or CRAIGBN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETX CAKICER. Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; " See wha taks notice o' the Bard ! " I lap and cry'd fu' loud. " Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million; I'll cock my nose aboon them a', I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan I " 'Twas noble. Sir; 'twas like yoursel, To grant your high protection : A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, Is aye a blest infection. Tho', by his banes wha in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay. — And when those legs to gude, warm kail Wi' welcome canna bear me ; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' monie flow'ry simmers ! And bless your bonie lasses baith, I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ' And God bless young Dunaskin's laird The blossom of our gentry ! x\nd may he wear an auld man's b«ard A credit to his country. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CxLENRIDDEL. EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. EUisla7id, Monday Evenittf^ Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming; The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers^ Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir; But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. My goose -quill too rude is to tell all your goodness Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it 1 134 TO A LADY. VERSES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL S PICTURE. Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? And whose that eye of fire? A.nd whose that generous princely mien Even rooted foes admire? Stranger, to justly shew that brow. And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other M'orks admire. Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The noble ward he loves. Among the illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, It dwells upon Glencairn. TO TERRAUGHTV, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief \ Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief : Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief. Scarce quite half worn. This day thou metes threescore eleven. And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second-sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckles view wi' sorrow Thylengthen'd days on this blest morrow, May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah. In brunstane stoure — But for thy friends, and they are monie Baith honest men and lassies bonie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. In social glee, Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee ! Fareweel, auid birkie ! Lord be near ye. And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye; For me, shame fa' me. If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they ca'me. TO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES. Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses ; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses. A.nd fill them high with generous juice, As geneious as your mind; And pledge me in the generous toast — " The whole of human kind ! " " To those who love us ! " — second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us ! A third — "to thee and me. Level" SKETCH. 135 THE VOWELS. A TALE. *TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows; Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate. His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling Vowels to account. First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look'd backward on his v/ay. And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race The jostling tears ran down his honest face ! That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound j And next, the title following close behind, He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! In rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art ; So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! As trembling U stood staring all aghast. The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. SKETCH. A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; "Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : A man of fashion too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour; So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. i-i6 PROLOGUE. Much specious lore, but little understood; Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : His solid sense — by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. Still making work his selfish craft must mend. PROLOGUE FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit-night, Dumfries. [1790.] What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that ne^' sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? For comedy abroad he need na toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enow in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene. To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil. As able and as cruel as the devil ! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age : And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife. Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds. Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend thenij And aiblins when they winna stand the test. Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best J I ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. ■37 Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! For us and for our stage should onie spier, " Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?" My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, We hae the honour to belong to you ! We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good mithers, shore before ye strike — And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, For a' the patronage and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : God help us! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. ELEGY ON THE YEAR SKETCH. 1788, For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die — for that they'reborn : But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space What dire events hae taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire's tint a head. And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ! The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our gude wife's wee birdy cocks; The tane is game, a bludie devil. But to the hen-birds unco civil; The tither's something dour o' treadin, But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet. For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. And gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. Ye bonie lasses, dight your een. For some o' you hae tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep. How dowf and daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care. Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, Nae hand-cuffd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'^ Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man : As muckle better as you can. January i, 1789. VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOr's WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19TH, I787. Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd. And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! Why is the Bard unpitied by the world. Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures? ^3^ DELIA. LAMENT {see Note), 'VRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, "What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore ; "Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her. For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. Mo more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest. And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; But fairer still my Delia dawns. More lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay. Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear. DELIA. AN ODE. The flower-enamour'd busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip; But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! O let me steal one liquid kiss ! For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the M'estern wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff" and dell. Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train; Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well. Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. SIR JAMES HU'SfTER BLAIR. 139 Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately P'orm, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. The lightning of her eye in tears imbued, Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. — *' My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! '' With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride \ ** A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. — "I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. — " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. ** And I will join, a mother's tender cares. Thro' future times to make his virtues last. That distant years may boast of other Blairs," — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. IdO THE POET'S WELCOME. TO MISS FERRIER, ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. RLAIR. Nae heathen name shall I prefix Frae Pindus or Parnassus; Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, For rhyme-inspiring lasses. Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gi'en the body half an ee. Nine Ferriers wad done better ! La=t day my mind was in a bog, Down George's Street I stoited; A creeping cauld prosaic fog My very senses doited. Do what I dought to set her free. My saul lay in the mire; Ye turned a neuk — I saw your ee -^ — She took the wing like fire ! The mournfu' sang I here enclose, In gratitude I send you; And wish and pray in rhyme sincere, A' gude things may attend you I WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS], WHICH I PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 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. And when you read the simple artless rhymes. One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD i Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' me. If ought of thee, or of thy mammy. Shall ever danton me, or awe me, My sweet wee lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tit-ta or daddy. Wee image of my bonie Betty, I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, As dear !»4i' near my heart I set thee Wi' as gude will. As fi' the priests had seen me get thee That's Piit q' 1iW Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer tjian the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow ! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! My Jean's heart-rending throe ! Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my parental care; X faithful brother I have left. My part in him thou'lt share ! Adieu too, to you too. My Smith, my bosom frien'; When kindly you mind me, O then befriend my Jean ! When bursting angu7S>i f;ears my heart. From thee, my Jeany, must I part? Thou weeping answ'rest " no ! " Alas ! misfortune stares my face, And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go ! Thee, Hamilton^ and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu ! I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you ! All-hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore I It rustles, and whistles, I'll never see thee more ! EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRY: ESQ., OK THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONfi AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. FiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife. Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. And ye shall see me try him. 4 EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 145 I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears Who left the all -important cares Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons, And kissing barefit carlins. Combustion thro' our boroughs rode Whis«:ling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance. But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleedingj But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Caesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading. O J for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner! Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics. To win immortal honour. M* Murdo and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) Led on the loves and graces : She won each gaping burgess' heart. While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses. Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps. Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder s Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bared the treason under. In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig, who set at nought The wildest savage Tory : And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground. High-waved his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopean fury. Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation ! [45 EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. While Maxwelton, that baron bold, ^« 'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold, 9| And threaten'd worse damnation. '-^ To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, \ With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 1^1 Surpasses my descriving : ^^H Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie ! Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And Hell mix'd in the brulzie. As Highland crags by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle; As flames among a hundred woods; As headlong foam a hundred floods; Such is the rage of battle ! The stubborn Tories dare to die ; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before th' approaching fellers : The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers. Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Deoarted Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring : The muffled murtherer of Charles The Magna Charta flag unfurls, All deadly gules its bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham, Auld Covenanters shiver. (Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! Now death and hell engulf thy foes, Thou liv'st on high for evesf !) Still o'er the field the combat burns. The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But Fate the word has spoken. For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas ! oan do but what they can ! The Tory ranks are broken. a ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 147 O that my een were flowing burns ! My voice a lioness that mourns Her darhng cubs' undoing ! That I might greet, that I might cry, "While Tories fall, while Tories fly. And furious Whigs pursuing! "What Whig but melts for good Sir James? Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor ! Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! And Stewart, bold as Hector ! Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; And Melville melt in wailing ! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! And Burke shall sing, " O Prince, arise, Thy power is all-prevailing ! " For your poor friend, the Bard, afar Hs only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely ! So, when the storm the forest rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely. STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace, Discarded remnant of a race Once great in martial story? His forbears' virtues all contrasted — The very name of Douglas blasted — His that inverted glory. Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; But he has superadded more. And sunk them in contempt : Follies and crimes have stain'd the name, But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From aught that's good exempt- VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANKIG. As on the banks o' wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmei--morn I stray'd, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lambkins play'd. I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, When, from the eddying deep below, Uprose the geni\is of the sfieam. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave — " And came ye he.-e, my son," he cried, " To wander in my birken shade ? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Qr sing some faypuritQ Scottish maid, 148 EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. " There was a time, it's nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a' my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool, And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool; '• When glinting, through the trees, appear'd The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu' rose its ingle reek. That slowly curled up the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld. Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast its lane." " Alas ! " said I, " what ruefu' chance Mas twined ye o' your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? Hasstripp'd the cleedingo' your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast. That scatters blight in early spring? Or was't the wiT'fire scorch'd their boughs. Or canker-worm wi' secret sting? '' " Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; " It blew na here sae fierce and fell. And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd — As through the cliffs he sank him down — " The Morm that gnaw'd my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown," EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie. We never heed. But take it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. \Vhen idly goavan whyles we saunter, Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. Some black bog-hole. Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole. Hale be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl', Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in. tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon A fifth or mair, Th? melancholious, lazie croon, Q' csnkrie care, May still your life from day to day Nae " lente largo " in the play. But " allegretto forte " gay Harmonious flow A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — Encore ! Bravo ! A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang. An' never think o' right an' wrang By square an' rule, But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool. My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace — Their tuneless hearts ! May fire-side discords jar a base To a' their parts ! But hand, my careless come, your brither, r th' ither warl' if there's anither. An' that there is I've little swi'vher About the matter; We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, Fse ne'er bid better, ON STIRLING. 49 We've faults and failings — granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa'; But still, but still, I like them dearly — God bless them a' ! Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, The witching cursed delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnin spite. But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin' — An' every star within my hearin' ! An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet. Mossgiel, -ifOth October, 1786. My loss I mourn, but not repent it, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I were wonted. Some cantraip hour. By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted^ Then vive V amour I Faites mes haissemains respechteus^, To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky; no to roose yoUj Ye may be proud. That sic a couple Fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; But when in Ayr, some half hoar'j leisure, Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. Robert Burns- EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. ' Here iies a rose, a budding rose. Blasted before its bloom; Whose innocence did sweets disclose Beyond that flower's perfume. To those who for her loss are grieved, This consolation's given — She's from a world of woe relieved, And blooms a rose in heaven. EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON. Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, And empty all his barrels : He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink, In upright honest morals. I ON STIRLING. Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd. And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; But now unroof'd their palace stands. Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne. An idiot race to honour lost, WIfQ ]\WW th?m t>estj despise th?ni fflQstt so ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB. LINES ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS. Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who wTites like the Bible, Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel? REPLY TO THE MINISTER OF GLADSMUIR. Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. )J EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. land, this uncouth In this strange clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles. Nor limpit in poetic shackles; A land that prose did never view it. Except when drunk he stacher't through it; Here, ambash'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae ken face but Jenny Geddes. Jenny, my Pegasean piide ! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk she throws. While tears hap o'er her auld brown Was it for this, wi' canny care, Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? At hooves or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled? — O, had I power Hke inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good- morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race. And cast dirt on his godship's face; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma', sma' prospect of relief. And nought but peat reek i' my head. How can I write what ye can read? — Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. Robert Burns. ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'dby hunger'd Highland boors; Lo-d grant nae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotlan4 o' a life She likes— as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight, I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better Than let thwi ance out owre the waiei TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. ^51 Than up amang thae lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please ; Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts di- rected; Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire ! Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack- ville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance, To cowe the rebel generation. An' save the honour o' the nation? They an' be d d ! what right hae they To meat or sleep, or light o' day ! Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, But what your lordship likes to gie them ? But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna' say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a' tender mercies, June I, Anno Mundi, 5790. An' tirl the hallions to the birses; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour ! Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! An' if the wives an' dirty brats E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese, Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack Wi' a' their bastarts on their back ! Go on, my lord ! I lang to meet you. An' in my house at hame to greet yuu; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. The benmost neuk beside the ingle, . At my right han' assign 'd your seat 'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — Or if you on your station tarrow Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel desevvin't; An' till ye come — Your humble servant, BeELZEBUBo TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. Now Kennedy, if foot or ho"se E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss, Lord man, there's lasses there wad force A hermit's fancy, \nd down the gate in faith they're worse And mair unchancy. But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's And taste sic gear as Johnny brews, Till some bit callan brings me news That you are there, And if we dinna had a bouze I'se ne'er drink mair. It's no I like to sit an' swallow, Then like a swine to puke an' wallow, But gie me just a true good fallow Wi' right ingine. And spunkie ance to make us mellow, And then we'll shine. Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An' sklent on poverty their joke, Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you no friendship I will troke Nor cheap nor dear. But if, as I'm informed weel. Ye hate as ill's the vera deil, The flinty hearts that canna feel — Come, Sir, here's tae you; Ifae there's my haun' I wiss you weel, And gude be wi' you. i^2 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUN DAS, ESQ. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; Where to the whistling blast and water's roar, Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry ; Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way; While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale. And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail \ Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : Ye tempests rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. I li ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 153 TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. O, COULD 1 give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send ! Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend. But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy- An honest Bard's esteem. ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO. In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. Your heavy loss deplore; Now half-extinct your powers of song. Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring, screeching things around. Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies. LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE. The night was still, and o'er the hill The moon shone on the castle wa' ; The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang Around her, on the castle wa'. Sae merrily they danced the ring, Frae eenin' till the cock did craw; And aye the o'erword o' the spring, Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'. ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. A SECOND VERSION OF THE KIRK S ALARM. Orthodox, orthodox, Who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your con- science — There's an heretic blast, Has been blawn i' the wast That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense. Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense, ' Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-l)rewing; Provost John is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob is its ruin. Town of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin. D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye. Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three's ane an' twa> D'rymple mild, For preaching that three's ane an' twa. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff. Will be powder enough. And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons. And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. ^54 ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan. Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like aidle, And roar every note o' the damn'd. Rumble John, And roar every note o' the damn'd. Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head. That the pack ye'U soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal's just at your gates. Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book. And the book nought the waur — let me tell you; Tho' ye're rich and look big. Yet lay by hat and wig, And ye'U hae acalf's-head o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'U hae a calf's-head o' sma' value. Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a volley, Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit : O'er Pegasus' side, Ye ne'er laid a stride. Ye only stood by when he sh — , Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he sh — . Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie, What mean ye? what mean ye? If ye'U meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man. To havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken you nae better. Bar Steenie, Wi' people that ken you nae better. Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the doctor's your mark. For the Lord's holy ark, lie has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't. Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster. It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast. If the ass were the King o' the brutes, Davie Bluster, If the ass were the King o' the brutes. Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins ; If ill manners were wit. There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance. Cessnockside, Cessnockside, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, O' manhood but sma' is your share ! Ye've the figure, it's true. Even our foes maun allow, And your friends daurnasay he hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurnasay ye hae mair Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'U be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark. ELEGY ON PEG NICHOLSON. 155 Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire ? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy. She could ca' us nae waur than we are. Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. POSTSCRIPT. Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spared, A copy o' this I bequeath. On the same sicker score I mentioned before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. THE SELKIRK GRACE. Some hae meat, and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat. And sae the Lord be thanket. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON. Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. As ever trode on aim; But now she's floating down the Nith, An' past the mouth o' Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, An' rode thro' thick an' thin; But now she's floating down the Nith, An' wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. An' ance she bare a priest; But now she's floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. An' the priest he rode her sair; An'meikle oppress'd an' bruised she was, As priest-rid cattle are. ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FA\OURITE CHARACTER. Sweet naiivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf. Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself. Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected. Then indeed thou'dst act a part I THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. The Solemn League and Covenant Now brings a smile, now brings a tear; But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs : If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer. 156 THE KIRK OF LA MING TON. ON MISS JESSY LEVVARS. Talk not to me of savages From Afric's burning sun, No savage e'er could rend my heart, A.S, Jessy, thou hast done. But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, A mutual faith to plight. Not ev'n to view the heavenly choir, Would be so blest a sight. EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside? It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died. THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky, Yet still one Seraph's left on earth. For Jessy did not die. THE TOAST. Fill me with the rosy wine, Call a toast, a toast divine; Give the Poet's darling flame. Lovely Jessy l)e the name; Then thou mayest freely boast. Thou hast given a peerless toast. THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. As cauld a wind as ever blew, A caulder kirk, and in't but few; As cauld a minister's e'er spak, Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN HIM. •4 Thou flattering mark of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor : Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart. Does both the sexes honour. She show'd her tastes refined and just When she selected thee, Yet deviating own I must, For so approving me. But kind still, I'll mind still The giver in the gift; I'll bless her and wiss her A Friend above the Lift. WILLIE CIIALMEJZS. 157 INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME. There's death in the cup — sae beware ! Nay, more — there is danger in touching; But wha can avoid the fell snare ? The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! THE BOOK-WORMS. Through and through the inspired leaves. Ye maggots, make your windings; But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings. ON ROBERT RIDDEL. To Riddel, much-lamented man. This ivied cot was dear; Reader, dost value matchless worth? This ivied cot revere. WILLIE CHALMERS. Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets For sake o' WilUe Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name May cost a pair o' blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours. And faith ye'U no be lost a' whit, Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, And Honour safely back her, And Modesty assume your air. And ne'er a ane mistak' her : And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy Palmers ; I''^^c wonder then they've fatal been S,Q honest Willie Chalmers. I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou'd pouther'd prlestie, Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie : But oh ! what signifies to you, His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart's the royal blue. And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And host up some palaver. My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers. Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom. Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, For de'il a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon. And fructify your amours, — And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers. i5« REMORSE. TO JOHN TAYLOR. With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, (Jn foot the way was plying. Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker. Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet. And did Sol's business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet. Ye "^/ulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod — I'll pay you like my master. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. Wae M^orth thy power, thou cursed leaf ! Fell source o' a' my woe and grief! For lack o' thee I've lost my lass ! For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass ! I see the children of affliction Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction. I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile, Amid his hapless victim's spoil. For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore. Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R. B. Kyle. ■» THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, , Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he in- dorsed the subjoined reply : BURNS — EXTEMPORE. Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? REMORSE. Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish. Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine;" ''IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCES 159 But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — "Blame thy foolish self! " Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments. There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment. Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! O glorious magnanimity of soul ! THE TOAD-EATER. What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen? Lord ! a louse. Sir, is still but a louse, Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen. TO Sir, Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I am gay and hearty ! To tell the truth an' shame the Deil I am as fu' as Bartie : Mossgte', i/bO But foorsday, Sir, my promise leal Expect me o' your party. If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie. R. E I "IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; Above that world on wings of love I rise, I know its worst — and can that worst despise. "Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd; unpitied, unredrest, The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest." Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, Clarinda, rich rew^ard ! o'erpays them all ! '* THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE." Though fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — - i6o TAM THE CHAPMAN. I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. — ''I BURN, I BURN." " I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn By driving winds the crackling flames are borne," Now maddening, -wild, I curse that fatal night ; Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. In vain the laws their feeble force oppose : Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd fo«s In vain religion meets my sinking eye; I dare not combat — but I turn and fly; Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire; Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire ! Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne. Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone : Each thought intoxicated homage yields, And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! By all on high adoring mortals know ! By all the conscious villain fears below ! By your dear self! — the last great oath I swear; Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear ! EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMR Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head. His skull will prop it under. TAM THE CHAPMAN. As Tarn the Chapman on a day Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, "Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous, And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down the pack. And there blaws up a hearty crack; His social, friendly, honest heart, Sae tickled Death they could na part : Sae after viewing knives and garters. Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. FRAGMENT. i6i TO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSY STAIG's RECOVERY. Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny : You save fair Jessy from the grave ! An Angel could not die. FRAGMENT. Now health forsakes that angel face, Nae mair my dearie smiles; Pale sickness withers ilka grace, And a' my hopes beguiles. The cruel powers reject the prayer I hourly mak' for thee; Ye heavens, how great is my despair, How can I see him dee ! THERE'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY. There's n^ethin like the honest nappy ! Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 'Tween moin an' morn. As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn. I've seen me daez't upon a time; I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae hauf mutchkin does me prime. Ought less is little. Then back I rattle on the rhyme As gleg's a whittle ! PROLOGUE. SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL l6, I787. When by a generous public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted — honest fame; When here your favour is the actor's lot. Nor even the man in private life forgot ; What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow. But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song : But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar For genius, learning high, as great in war — Hail, Caledonia ! name for ever dear ! Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! Where every science, every nobler art — That can inform the mind, or mend the heart. Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream, Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beamj Here History paints with elegance and force, The tide of Empire's fluctuating course; l62 NATURES LAW. Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan. And Harley rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly love, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here ! But still the hope Experience taught to live. Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet, Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. O Thou, dread Power ! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land, Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire ; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. NATURE'S LAW. A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H., ESQ. Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed. Pope. Let other heroes boast their scars. The marks of sturt and strife : And other Poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life; Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber ! I sing his name and nobler fame, Wha multiplies our number. Great Nature spoke, with air benign, " Go on, ye human race ! This lower world I you resign; Be fruitful and increase. The liquid fire of strong desire I've pour'd it in each bosom; Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, And there, is Beauty's blossom ! " The Hero of these artless strains, A lowly Bard was he, Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains With meikle mirth an' glee; Kind Nature's care had given his share. Large, of the flaming current; And, all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He felt the powerful, high behest, Thrill, vital, thro' and thro' ; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due; Propitious Powers screen'd the young fiow'rs, From mildews of abortion ; And lo ! the Bard, a great reward, Has got a double portion I TRA GIC FRA GMENT. 163 Auld, cantie Coil may count the day, As aiinual it returns, The third of Libra's equal sway, That gave another Burns, With future rhymes, an' other times, To emulate his sire; To sing auld Coil in nobler style With more poetic fire. Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys. Long may she stand to prop the land The flow'r of ancient nations; And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, To endless generations ! THE CATS LIKE KITCHEN. The cats like kitchen; The dogs like broo; The lasses like the lads weel, And th' auld wives too. CHORUS. And we're a' noddin, Nid, nid, noddin. We're a' noddin fou at e'en. TRAGIC FRAGMENT. All devil as I am, a damned wretch, A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain. Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of distress. With tears of indignation I behold th' oppressor Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you; Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 1 had been driven forth like you forlorn, The most detested, worthless wretch among you ! O injur'd God ! Thy goodness has endow'd me With talents passing most of my compeers, Which I in just proportion have abus'd. As far surpassing other common villains. As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more. EXTEMPORE. ON PASSING A lady's CARRIAGE. [mRS. MARIA RIDDEL'S.] If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, Your speed will out-rival the dart : But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road. If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. r64 FRAGMENTS. 1 FRAGMENTS. Ye hae lien a' wrang, laL^ie, Ye've lien a' wrang; Ye've lien in an unco bed, And wi' a fremit man. O ance ye danced upon the knowes, And ance ye lightly sang — But in herrying o' a bee byke, I'm rad ye've got a stang. O GiE my love brose, brose, Gie my love brose and butter; For nane in Carrick or Kyle Can please a lassie better. The lav'rock lo'es the grass, The muirhen lo'es the heather; But gie me a braw moonlight, And me and my love together. Lass, when your mither is frae hame, Might I but be sae bauld As come to your bower-window. And creep in frae the cauld, As come to your bower-window, And when it's cauld and wat, Warm me in thy sweet bosom; Fair lass, wilt thou do that? Young man, gif ye should be sae kind, When our gudewife's frae hame, As come to my bower-window, Whare I am laid my lane. And warm thee in my bosom — But I will tell thee what. The way to me lies through the kirk; Young man, do you hear that? I MET a lass, a bonie lass, Coming o'er the braes o' Couper, Bare her leg and bright her een, And handsone ilka bit about her. Weel I wat she was a quean Wad made a body's mouth to water; Our Mess John, wi' his lyart pow, His haly lips wad lickit at her. O WAT ye what my minnie did, My minnie did, my minnie did, O wat ye wat my minnie did, On Tysday 'teen to me, jo? She laid me in a saft bed, A saft bed, a saft bed, • She laid me in a saft bed, And bade gudeen to me, jo. An' wat ye what the parson did, The parson did, the parson did. An' wat ye what the parson did, A' for a penny fee, jo? He loosed on me a lang man, A mickle man, a Strang man, He loosed on me a lang man. That might hae worried me, jo. An' I was but a young thing, A young thing, a young thing, An' I was but a young thing, Wi' nane to pity me, jo. I wat the kirk was in the wyte, In the wyte, in the wyte, To pit a young thing in a fright. An' loose a man on me, jo. CAN ye labour lea, young man, An' can ye labour lea; Gae back the gate ye cam' again, Ye'se never scorn me. 1 feed a man at Martinmas, Wi' arle pennies three; An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him. He couldna labour lea. The stibble rig is easy plough'd. The fallow land is free; But wha wad keep the handless coof, That coudna labour lea? \ EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. Jeni^jy M'Craw, she has ta'en to the heather, Say, was it the covenant carried her thither; Jenny M'Craw to the mountain is gane, Their leagues and their covenants a' she has ta'en; My head and my heart, now quo' she, are at rest^. And as for the lave, let the Deil do his best. 165 The last braw bridal that I was at, 'Twas on a Hallowmass day. And there was routh o' drink and fun, And mickle mirth and play. The bells they rang, and the carlins sang, And the dames danced in the ha'; The bride went to bed wi' the silly bridegroom, In the midst o' her kimmers a'. O Thou, in whom we live and move, Who mad'st the sea and shore; Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore. And if it please thee, Pow'r above, Still grant us with such store; The friend we trust, the fair we love, And we desire no more. Lord, we thank an' thee adore, For temp'ral gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more, Let William Hyslop give the spirit There came a piper out o' Fife, I watna what they ca'd him; He play'd our cousin Kate a spring, When fient a body bade him. And ay the mair he hotch'd an' blew, The mair that she forbade him. The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle. He hunted o'er height and owre howe. But fell in a trap On the braes o' Gemappe, E'en let him come out as he dowe. EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain, For few sic feasts ye've gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, For de'il a bit o't's rotten. ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, To thresh my back at sic a pitch? hae mercy wi' your natch, Losh, Your bodkin's bauld, I didna suffer ha'f sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times when I grow crou I gi'e their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-lous An' jpg-the-flae. i66 EXTEMPORE LINES. King Davie o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mangthe lasses such mischief As fiU'd his after Ufa wi' grief An' bloody rants, An' yet he's ranic'd amang the chief O' iang-syne saunts. And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants. My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts. At Davie's hip yet. But fegs, the Sessions says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan. Than garren lasses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither's ban Afore the howdy. This leads me on, to veil for sport, How I did wi' the Session sort — Auld Clinkum at the Inner port Cry'd three times, "Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin'." Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on. An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — I made an open fair confession, I scorn'd to lie; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me. A furnicator-loun he call'd me, An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me; I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, "But what the matter?" Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, I'll ne'er be better." " Geld you ! " quo' he, " and whatfore no ? If that your right hand, leg or toe. Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, You shou'd remember To cut it aff, an' whatfore no Your dearest member? '* " Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, I'd rather suffer for my faut, A hearty flewit. As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, Tho' I should rue it. " Or gin ye like to end the bother. To please us a', I've just ae ither. When next wi' yon lass I forgather, Whate'er betide it, I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither, An' let her guide it." But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, I said, " Gude night," and cam awa, And left the Session; I saw they were resolved a' On my oppression. EXTEMPORE LINES, AUSHTER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING : TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. The King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye; Or else the Deil's be in it. My bottle is iny holy pool. That heals the wounds o' care an' doolj And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out. THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 167 LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY's POCKET-BOOK. [mISS KENNEDY, SISTER-IN-LAW OF GAVIN HAMILTON.] Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were. THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! Who has no will but by her high permission; Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. EPITAPH ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY SQUIRE. As father Adam first was fool'd, A case that's still too common, Here lies a man a woman rul'd, The Devil rul'd the woman. EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life WMom we, this day, lament ! We freely wad exchang'd the wife. And a' been weel content. Ev'n as he is, cauld in his grafif, The swap we yet will do't; Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, Thou'se get the saul o' boot ANOTHER. One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her. She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a diffrent complexion. When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dead lord on a slender pretence, Not to shew her respect, but — to save the expense. i68 A TOAST. VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. We came na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise. But when we tirl'd at your door. Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts comei Your billy Satan sair us ! LINES ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTLE AND MRS. * * * SO LARGE. Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat. Ask why God made the gem so small. An' why so huge the granite ? Because God meant mankind should set That higher value on it. EPIGRAM WRITTEN AT INVERARY. Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case. Unless he come to wait upon The Lord their God, his Grace. There's naething here but Highland pride. And Highland scab and hunger; If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in his anger. A TOAST GIVEN AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATB THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY'S VICTORY, APRIL I2TH, 1782. Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost: That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found, For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution; And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and Tyranny damn'd; And who would to i jlierty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial! TO y. RANKINE. 169 LINES SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKIUE^ AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET's DECEASE. He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead ; And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE, ON H?S WRITING TO THE POET, THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART OF THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD TO HIM. I AM a keeper of the lavi^ In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa', Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', Breaks a' thegither. I hae been in for't ance or twice, And winna say owre far for thrice. Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a rumour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest. ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY. What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. The picture of thy mind ! ON THE SAME. No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts all were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools^ Not one of them a knave. ON THE SAME. Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, So ended in a mire ! TO THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, In quiet let me live : I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give. no ON A SCHOOLMASTER. VERSES TO J. RANKINE. Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. And monie a guilt- bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination. And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter; Asham'd himsel to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, " By God I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without at least, ae honest man. To grace this damn'd infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, " Lord God ! " quoth he, " I have it now There's just the man I want, i' faith," And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE, Searching auld vi'ives' barrels, Och, hon ! the day ! That clarty barm should stain my laurels; But — what'll ye say ? These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE REV. DR. B 'S VERY LOOKS. That there is falsehood in his looks I must and will deny; They say their master is a knave — And sure they do not lie. POVERTY. In politics if thou Avouldst mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, — be deaf and blind. Let great folks hear and see. ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. Here lie Willie Michie's banes; O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schoolin' of your weans, For clever deils he'll mak them t EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION, 17] LINES WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTBK OF YARICO IN THE DUMFRIES THEATRE, 1794. Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet notes of grief The rock with tears had flow'd. LINES. 1 MURDER hate by lield or flood, Tho' glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving war of Venus. The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty, I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty. LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KIl IG's ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; What are your landlords' rent-rolls? taxing ledgers: What premiers, what? even Monarchs' mighty gangers Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen? LINES WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures. Give me with gay Folly to live : I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give. EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. Tune — '^' K illiecrankie ."" LORD ADVOCATE. He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, He quoted and he hinted. Till in a declamation-mist. His argument he tint it : He gaped for't, he graped for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short, H? eked out >vi' law, mail, MR. ERSKINE. Collected Harry stood awee. Then open'd out his arm, man; His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, Or torrents owre a linn, man; The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man, 172 EPITAPH ON A COUNTPY LAIRD. LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF MISS BURNS. [SEE PAGE 473.] Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, Lovely Burns has charms — confess : True it is, she had one failing. Had a woman ever less? ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art, The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward. EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE, THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying. So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he appvoach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, " By God, I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load." EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose had turned out of doors, Heard'st thou yon groan ? — proceed no further, 'Twas laurel'd Martial calUng murther. EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON. Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, With grateful lifted eyes. Who said that not the soul alone, But body too, must rise : For had he said, " The soul alone From death I will deliver," Alas, alas ! O Cardoness, Then thou hadst slept for ever ! I A BARD'S EPITAPH. 173 EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : O Death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch Into thy dark dominion ! EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. Hie jacet ivee Johnny. Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know That death has murder'd Johnnie ! An' here his body lies fu' low For saul he ne'er had ony. EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter Hood in Death does sleep; To Hell, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll baud it weel thegither. EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Know thou, O stra..ger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name, (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. The Poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps. Whom canting wretches blam'd : But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd ! A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a M'him-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owie blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; 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. 174 EPITAPH ON A WAG. -1 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 tliis earthly hob, In low pursuit; Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'renceand attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride i The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; " For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken. To some other warl' Maun follow the carl. For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! Strong ale was ablution, — Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl W^as the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory. EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, WRITER, IN DUMFRIES. Here lies John Bushby, honest man I Cheat him, Devil, if you can. EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid whole weeks awa, Ypijr -yvives they ne'er had niiss'd ye, Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pasK To school in bands thegitber, O tread ye lightly on his grass. Perhaps h? w^s your fath^f. CRA CE BEFORE MBA T. ^ 7 5 EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED "THE MARQUIS,' WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd, If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. EPITAPH ON WALTER R [RIDDEL]. Sic a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev'n damn'd him When laid in his grave. «* In his flesh there's a famine," A starv'd reptile cries; " An' his heart is rank poison," Another replies. ON HIMSELF. Here comes Burns On Rosinante ; She's d poor, But he's d canty ! GRACE BEFORE MEAT. O Lord, when hunger pinches sore. Do thou stand us in need, And send us from thy bounteous store, A tup or wether head ! Amen. ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS. Lord, to account who dares thee call, Or e'er dispute thy pleasure? Else why within so thick a wall Enclose so poor a treasure ? IMPROMPTU ON AN INNKEEPER NAMED BACON WHO INTRUDED HIMSELF INTO ALL COMPANIB^ At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, And plenty of bacon each day in the year ; We've all things that's nice, and mostly in season. But why always Bacon ^zomt, give me a reason? ADDRESSED TO A LADY WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED, Rusticity's ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; But when the heart is nobly warm, The good excuse will find. Propriety's cold cautious rules Warm fervour may o'erlook; But spare poor sensibility The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 176 ON MR. M'MURDO. EPIGRAM. When , deceased, to the devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; " Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, " that crown shall wear never, I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever," LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. My blessing on ye, honest wife, I ne'er was here before : Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon knife — Heart could not wish for more. and Heaven keep you clear of sturt and strife, Till far ayont four score, And by the Lord o' death and life, I'll ne'er gae by your door ! TO Your billet, sir, I grant receipt; Wi' you I'll canter ony gate, Though 'twere a trip to yon blue warl*, Whare birkies march on burning marl : Then, sir, God willing, I'll attend ye, And to his goodness I commend ye. R. Burns. ON MR. M'MURDO. Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day. No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrow'd by the hand of care. Nor even sorrow add one silver hair ! Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. TO A LADY VTMO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. Fair maid, you need not take the hint. Nor idle texts pursue : ^Tv/zs guiUy sinners that he meant — Not angels such as you ! IMPROMPTU. How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced, Ye ugly, glowering spectre ? My face was but the keekin' glass, An' there ye saw your picture. TO A PAINTER. 177 TO MR. MACKENZIE, SURGEON, MAUCHLINE. Friday first 's the day appointed By the Right Worshipful anointed, To hold our grand procession; To get a blad o' Johnie's morals, And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels I' the way of our profession. rhe Master and the Brotherhood Would a' be glad to see you; For me I would l)e mair than proud To share the mercies wi' you. It Death, then, wi' skaith, then, Some mortal heart is hechtin', Inform him, and storm him. That Saturday you'll fetcht him. Robert Burns, Mossgiel, An. M. 5790. TO A PAINTER. Dear , I'll gie ye some advice You'll talc it no uncivil ; You shouldna paint at angels mair, But tiy and paint the devil. To paint an angel's kittle wark, Wi' auld Nick there's less danger*, You'll easy draw a weel-kent face. But no sae weel a stranger. LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER. You're welcome, Willie Stewart; You're welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art. Come, bumpers high, express your joy. The bowl we maun renew it; The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart. May foes be Strang, and friends be *f slack. Ilk action may he rue it; May woman on him turn her back, That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart ! ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. Honest Will to heaven is gane, And mony shall lament him ; His faults they a' in Latin lay. In English nane e'er kent them. SONGS. THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. Tune — "Miss Forbes' s Farewell to Ba7iff, or Ettrick Banks. *rWAS 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 : 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 hercharms shedoescompile; Ev'n there her other works are foil'd By the bonie 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 bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. Thenpridemight climb theslipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 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 every day have joys divine. With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. SONG OF DEATH. A GAELIC AIR. kjBNK. — A Jield of battle. Time of the day — Evening. The wounded and dying of tk$ victorious army are supposed to join in the song. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies. Now gay with the broad setting sun ! Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, Our race of existence is run ! • Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave ! Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant ! but knovf. No terrors hast thou for the brave ! AULD ROB MORRIS. 179 Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame ! In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands. Our King and our Country to save — While victory shines on life's last ebbhig sands, . O ! M'ho would not die with the brave ! MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-tinie is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deei, my jo? At noon the fisher seeks the glen. Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, It maks my heart sae cheery O To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. AULD ROB MORRIS. There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen. He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist. And I sigh as my ueart it Avad burst in my breast. had she but been of a lower degree, 1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me; O how past descriving had then been my bliss. As now my distraction no WQrds can express I i8o DUNCAN GRAY. NAEBODY. I HAE a wife o' my ain, ril partake wi' naebody; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spend. There — thanks to naebody; I hae nothing to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody. I am naebody's lord, I'll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody; If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody. MV WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing. This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. And think my lot divine. 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. Duncan fieech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, &c. Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, &c. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin*, Spak o' lovvpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, &c. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c. Slighted love is sair to bide. Ha, ha, &c. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha, &c. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, &c. Meg grcM' sick — as he grew well, Ha, ha, &c. Something in her bosom wrings. For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, &c. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, &c. Maggie's was a piteous case. Ha, ha, &c. Duncan couldna be her death. Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and cantie baith I Ha, ha, the wooing o't. O POORTITH. Tune — " / had a horse" O POORTITH cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' 'twerena for my Jeanie. O why should fate sic pleasure havCj Life's dearest bands 'intvvining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend 0:1 Fortune's shining? OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! i8i This warld's wealth when I think on, It's pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't. O why, &c. Her een sae bonie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword aye. She talks of rank and fashion. O why, &c. O wha can prudence think upon. And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon. And sae in love as I am? O why, &c. How blest the humble cotter's fate ! He woos his simple dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state. Can never make them eerie. O why should fate sic pleasure have. Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why see sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining? GALLA WATER. There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' 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 bonie 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, that's the chiefest warld's treasurel LORD GREGORY. O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempests roar; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r. Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile, frae her father's ha'. And a' for loving thee ; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it mayna be. LordGregory,minds't thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love, 1 lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for aye be mine ! And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast : Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest. Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see ! But spare, and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me ! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! WITH ALTERATIONS. Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, O, open the door to me, Oh ! Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true. Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 82 JESSIE. Caulcl is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! The wan moon is setting behind the white wave. And time is setti/ig with me, Oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side. Never to rise again. Oh ! MEG O' THE MILL. Air — *' O, bonie Lass, will yon lie in a Barrack.*' O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl; She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that is fix'd on a niailen! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! JESSIE. Tune — " Bonie 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 sweet side o' the Nith's winding river. Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; To equal young Jessie you seek it mi vain; Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover^ And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. LOGAN BRAES. '83 O, fresh is ihe rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily at evening close; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. WANDERING WILLIE. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, hand awa hamej 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 ee; 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. LOGAN BRAES. Tune — ^' Logan Water." O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie's bride; And years sinsyne 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, Par, 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; Blithe 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. 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 ! 1 84 PHILLTS THE FAIR. THERE WAS A LASS. Tune — " Bonie Jean." There was a lass, and she was fair, At kiik and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean. And ay she wrought her mammie's wark. And ay she sang sae merrily : The blythest l^ird 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 M'ill break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep and kye. And wanton naigies nine or ten. He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; A.nd 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' bonie 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. Cut didna Jeanie's heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her ee, A.S 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? 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. PHILLIS THE FAIR. Tune — " Robiti Adair." While larks Avith little wing Fann'd the pure air. Tasting the breathing spring. Forth I (lid fare : Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn ! did I cry, Phillis the fair. In each bird's careless song Glad did I share; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there : Sweet to the opening day. Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom ! did I say, Phillis the fair. Down in a shady M'alk, Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare : So kind may Fortune be, Such make his destiny. He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair. BY ALLAN STREAM. Tune— 'M//a« Water. '^ By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi; The winds were whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen'd to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie ; And ay the wildwood echoes rang — O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 1 WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 1S5 O, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She,sinking,said"rm thineforever !" While monie a kiss the seal imprest, The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her shortening day Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain thesoulinspeechless pleasure, Or, thro' each nerve the rapture dart, Likemeetingher,ourbosom'streasure? HAD I A CAVE. Tune — ' ' Robiti A dair." Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close. Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air? To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury. Then in thy bosom try^ What peace is there ! WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. Tune — "i7/y Jo, Jatiei." O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me. And come na unless the black-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin to me. And come, &c. O whistle, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee. Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. Yet look, &c. O whistle, &c. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court na ankher, tho' jokin ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear, &c. O whistle, &c. i86 WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE. Tune — " My Jo, Janet." Husband, husband, cease your strife. Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife. Yet I am not your slave, sir. " One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it man or woman, say, My spouse, Nancy?" If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord. And so good-bye allegiance ! " Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy ! Yet I'll try to make a shift, My spouse, Nancy." ^ My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it : When you lay me in the dust, Think, think how you will bear it. " I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse, Nancy." Well, sir, from the silent dead Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. " I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse, Nancy." DELUDED SWAIN. Tune — " The Collier's Dochter." Dei.i'DED swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. The billows on the ocean The breezes idly roaming. The clouds' uncertain motion, They are but types of woman. ! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature? If man thou wouldst be named. Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow; Good claret set before thee : Hold on till thou art mellow. And then to bed in glory. SONG. Tune — " The Quaker's Wife" Thine am I, my faithful fair. Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart. There to throb and languish : Tho' despair had wrung its core That would heal its anguish. Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure ! Turn away thine eyes of love. Lest I die with pleasure ! What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning ! Love's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning, WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? A NEW SCOTS SONG. Tune — " The Sutor's Dochter" Wilt thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart Wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul. That's the love I bear thee ! 1 swear and vow that only thou vShalt ever lie my dearie — Only thou, I swear and vow, Shalt ever be niy dearie. 1 HARK! THE MA VIS. Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me. Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that y;iou lo'es me — Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. BANKS OF CREE. Tun;^: — " The Flowers of Edinburgh." Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has toll'd the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid? 'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark in the grove His httle faithful mate to cheer. At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. And art thou come? and art thou true? O welcome, dear, to love and me ! And let us all our vows renew. Along the flow'ry banks of Cree. ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. Tune — " O'er the Hills and far away." How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my Sailor lad? How can I the thought forego, He's on the seas to meet the foe? Let me wander, let me rove. Still my heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are aye with him that's far away. When in summer's noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant. Haply in this scorching sun My Sailor's thund'ring at his gun : Bullets, spare my only joy ! Bullets, spare my darling boy ! P'ate, do with me what you may, Spare but him that's far away ! On the seas, &c. At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power; As the storms the forest tear. And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, All I can — I weep and pray. For his weal that's far away. On the seas, &-c. Peace, thy olive wand extend. And bid wild War his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet : Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales Fill my Sailor's welcome sails. To my arms their charge convey. My dear lad that's far away. On the seas, &c. HARK! THE MAVIS. Tune — " Ca' the Yowes to the Knoxves. Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonie dearie. Hark ! the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang, Then a faulding let us gang. My bonie dearie. Ca' the, &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, &c. i88 IlOJrV LANG AND DREARY. Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy-bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery. Ca' the, Sic. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonie dearie. Ca' the, &c. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die — but canna part, My bonie dearie. Ca' the, &c. While waters wimple to the sea; While day blinks' in the lift sae hie; Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, Ye shall be my dearie. Ca' the, &c. SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. T:vtiK—" Ofiagh's Water-fali:' Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'erarching Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. Her smiling, sae wyling. Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure. Unto these rosy lips to grow ! Such was my Chloris' bonie face. When first her bonie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion. Wad make a saint forget the sky; Sae warming, sae charming. Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature — auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair ; Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley. The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang : There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a' ? HOW LANG AND DREARY. Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.'^ How lang and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. CHORUS, For oh, her lanely nights are lang; And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.. When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my dearie, And now that seas between us roar, How can I be but eerie ! For oh, &c. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how dreariv"^ ! It wasna sae ye glinted by. When I was wi' my dearie. For oh, &c. m THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune — " Deil tak the Wars Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature I Rosy morn now lifts his eye. Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Now thro' the leafy woods. And by the reeking floods, ■J FAREWELL, TLLOU STREAM. 189 Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray : The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. Phoebus, gliding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair. The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky: But when, in beauty's light, She meets my ravish'd sight. When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart — 'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. LASSIE Wr THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS. Tune — " Rothiemurchus' s Rattt." CHORUS. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie 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'U be my dearie O? Lassie wi', &c. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi', &c. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray. The weary shearer's hameward way. 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' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie. Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O? THE AULD MAN. Tune — " The Death 0/ the Linnet." But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoic'd the day, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled. On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age; My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days. And nights o' sleepless pain ! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why com'st thou not again? FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. Tune — " JVancy's to the Greenwood gane." Farewell, thou stream that wir^ding flows Around EHza's dwelling! O Mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling : Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein. Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover : The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, Betray tne hapless lover. 190 CONTENTED WP LITTLE. I know thou docin'st ine to despair, Nor wilt nor canst relieve me; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me ! The music of thy voice I heard. Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd. Till fears no more had sav'd mc : Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. The wheeling torrent viewing, 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin. 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 : My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch. And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch, A tov»'mond 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 jad gae : Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain. My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again ! " MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune — " There'' II never be peace till Jamie comes hame" 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 la^fn, 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. 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 mc — now Nannie's awa. O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET 191 SWEET FA'S THE EVE. Tune — " Craigieburn-wood." Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blythe awakes the morrow, But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 'I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither. When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree. Around my grave they'll wither. O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? Tune — " Let me in this ae night" O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? Or art thou wakin, I would wit? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night ; For pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet; Tak pity on my weary feet. And shield me frae the rain, jo. O let me in, &c. The bitter blast that round me blaws. Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. let me in, &c. HER ANSWER. O TELL na me o' wind and rain. Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! Gae back the gait ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. CHORUS. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a' this ae night, 1 winna let you in, jo. The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours. Is nocht to what poor she endures. That's trusted faithless man, jo. I tell you now, &c. The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead. Now trodden like the vilest weed; Let simple maid the lesson read. The weird may be her ain, jo. I tell you now, &c. The bird that charm'd his summer day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo. I tell you now, &c. SONG. Tune — " Humours of Glen." Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers^ A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean, 192 ADDRESS TG THE WOOD LARK. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace. What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 'TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE EE. Tune — " Laddie^ lie near me." 'TwAS na her bonie blue ee was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast phghted me love o' the dearest ! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD- LARK. TUNE- IVhere'll bonie Ann lie. 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. Then 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 ! HOW CRUEL ARE THB^ PARENTS. Tune — " John Anderson my Jo'* Hov^ cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And to the wealthy booby Poor woman sacrifice. Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate. Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flies. To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries; Till of escape despairing. No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, Anil drops beneath his feet. FORLORN, MY LOVE. 193 MARK YONDER POMR Tune — " Deil tak the Wars" Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What are their showy treasures? What are their noisy pleasures? The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then, the heart alarming. And all resistless charming, In love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown; Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's rap- turous roll. I SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. Tune — " This is no my ain hotise" O THIS is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her ee. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no, &c. She's bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrallj And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no, &c. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the ee. O this is no, &c. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no, &c. O BONIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. Tune — '^ I wish my love was in a mire." O BONIE was yon rosy brier. That bloomssaefair frae haunt o' man; And bonie she, and ah, how dear ! It shaded frae the e'enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. How pure amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 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 burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. FORLORN, MY LOVE. Tune — " Let me in this ae night.'" Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me, But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. And mingle sighs with mine, love. 194 LAST MAY A BJ^A IV WOOER. Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, love. O wert, &c. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. To poison fortune's ruthless dart — Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. O wert, &c. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet ! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O wert, &c. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. Tune — " Lothian Lassie." Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me : I said there was naething I hated like men. The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, Andvow'd for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean : The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying ! A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers. But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her. Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there. I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie. AL THa THO U MA UN NE VER BE MINE. 195 I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover'd her hearin, And liow her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet- But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tune — " Balinantona ora." AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. CHORUS. Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher. Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes. Then hey, &c. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest. The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. Then hey, &c. ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. Tune — " Here's a health to thein that's aiva, 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 ! iq6 THE YOUNG HIGHLANU ROVbR. 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, &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 ee; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's cruel decree — Jessy ! Here's a health, &c. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. CHORUS. Bonie lassie, wdll ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonie 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. Bonie lassie, &c. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing. Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie 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. Bonie 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. Bonie lassie, &c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er sha.l draw a wish frae me, Supremely ble^t wi' love and thee. In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c. THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Tune — " Morag." Loud blaw the frosty breezes. The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be his warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon ! The trees now naked groaning. Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blythely singing, And every flower be springing, Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. When by his mighty warden My youth's return \ to fair Strathspey, Ajid bonie Castle Gordon. MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 197 I STAY, MY CHARMER. Tune — ^' An gille duhh czar dhubh." Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go? Cruel charmer, can you go ? By my love so ill requited; By the faith you fondly plighted; By the pangs of lovers slighted; Do not, do not leave me so ! Do not, do not leave me so ! FULL WELL THOU KNOW'ST. Tune — " Rothicmurchus' s rant." CHORUS. Fairest maid on Devon banks. Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside. And smile as thou wert wont to do ? Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, Couldst thou to malice lend an ear? O; did not love exclaim, " Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so? " Fairest maid, &c. Then come, thou fairest of the fair. Those wonted smiles, O, let me share; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall knovA'. Fairest maid, &c. STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing. Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, • Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engag'd, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly wag'd, But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. Not a hope that dare attend; The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend ! RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. Tune — " M'Grcgor of Ritaras lainctit." Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring : " Farewell, hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! " O'er the past too fondly wandering. On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, O, how gladly I'd resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee ! " MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Tune — " DruiJnioji dubh." Musing on the roaring ocean Which divides my love and me ; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law; Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear. Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me; Downy sleep, the curtain draw; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him that's far awa ! 19S THE LAZY MIS r. BLYTHE WAS SHE. 1 UNE — " Andro and his cttttie gun." CHORUS. Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben : Blythe by the banks of Ern, And blythe in Glentur'.c glen. By Ochtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, &c. Ker looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was Hke a simmer morn ; She tripped by the banks of Ern As light's a bird upon a thorn. Blyihe, &c. Her bonie face it was as meek As onie lamb's upon a lee; llie evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. Blythe, &c. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands 1 hae been; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blythe, &c. PEGGY'S CHARMS. TUNE- -*' Neil Genu's lamentation /o-r Abercairtiy.'" Where, braving angry winter's storms. The lofty Ochils rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes. As one who, by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonish'd doubly, marks it beam With art's most polish'd blaze. Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, And blest the day and hour. Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, ^Vhen first I felt their pow'r ! The tyrant death with grim control May seize my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. THE LAZY MIST. Irish Air—" Coohin.'' The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Conceahng the course of the dark- winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown» And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ;_ How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain How little of life's scanty span may remain : What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn; What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! This life's not worth having with all it can give, For something beyond it poor man sure must live. I I LOVE MY JEAN. 199 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. Tune — " The Shepherd's Wife." A ROSE-BUB 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, vShall 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. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune — " /nvercattld's reel." CHORUS. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. Ye would na been sae shy; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor. Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink. Whene'er ye like to trv. O Tibbie, I hae, &i-. But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean^ Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high, O Tibbie, I hae, &c, Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'U cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry, O Tibbie, I hae, &c. But if ye hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye, O Tibbie, I hae, &c. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price. Were ye as poor as I. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. There Jives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark. For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark; Ye need na look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. I LOVE MY JEAN. Tune — "il/zij Admiral Gordons Strathspey.'" Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west. For there the bonie lassie lives. The lassie I lo'e best : There v,'ild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever M'i' 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 bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. 200 THE HAPPY TRIO. O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! TuNB — " My Love is lost to meT O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! Or had of Helicon my fill; 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 bonie 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. THE BLISSFUL DAY. Tune — " Seventh of Nove^nber'' The day returns, my bosom burns. The blissful day we twa did meet; Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight. Or nature aught of pleasure give; While joys above my mind can move. For thee, and thee alone, I live ! When that grim foe of Hfe below Comes in between to make us part; The iron hand that breaks our band. It breaks my l)liss — it breaks my heart. THE BRAES O' BALLOCH^ MYLE. Tune — " Miss Fortes' s farewell to Baviff." 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'U 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 bonie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Balloch- myle. THE HAPPY TRIO. Tune — " Willie brew' d a peck o' maut" 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 no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; 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, &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 ! We 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. ^ TAM GLEN. 201 THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. Tune — " TJic blathrie o'L^' I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een,- Twa lovely een o' bonie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, Her lips like roses wat wi' dew. Her heaving bosom lily-white; — It was her een sae bonie blue. She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd. She charm'd my soul I wist na how; And ay the stound, the deadly wound. Cam frae her een sae bonie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed; She'll aiblins listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonie blue. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. John Anderson my jo, John, When WQ were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven. Your bonie 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 canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. TAM GLEN. Tune — " The muckitig o' Geordie's byre. My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity; But what will T do wi' Tarn Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow. In poorlilh 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 ordaia'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the Valentines' 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 bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. GANE IS THE DAY. Tune — " Gtiid-wife count the laiviti." Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light. For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And bluid-red wine's the risin' sun. CHORUS. Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin, Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggie niair. ^UNG LASSIE DO? There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', But here we're a' in ae accord. For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. Then guidwife count, &c. My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' care and dool; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. Then guidwife count, &c. MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny, My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood; Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree; Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WP AN OLD MAN? TUNE- What can a Lassie do.'' What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian ! Bad luck on the penny, &c. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang : He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please hirn do a' that I can; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavor to follow her plan; I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him, And tlien his auld brass will buy me a new pan. BESSY AND HER SPINNIN WHEEL. 203 O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! Tune — " Thg Moudiewort" An O for ane and twenty, Tarn ! An hey, svi^eet ane and twenty, Tarn ! I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, An I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. They snool me sair, and hand me down. And gar me look like bluntie. Tarn ! But three short years will soon wheel roun', And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn. An O for ane, &c. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier. An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. An O for ane, &c. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam; But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An O for ane, &c. THE BONIE WEE THING. Tune — "' The Lads of Saltcoats." BoNiE wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, was thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty. Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonie wee, &c. THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune — *' Robie Dottna Gorack." The Thames flows proudly to the sea. Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me. Where Cummins ance had high com- mand : 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; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, W^here lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! BESSY AND HER SPINNIN WHEEL. Tune — " Bottom of the Pvnch Bo^vl." O LEEZE me on my spinnin 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 On lofty aiks the cushats wail. And echo cons the doolfu' tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays ; I 204 FAIR ELIZA. The craik amang the cUver 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 Bessy at her spinnin wheel? COUNTRY LASSIE. Tune — " John, come kiss me now." In simmer when the hay was mawn. And corn wav'd green in ilka field. While claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield; Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what will;" Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, " O' guid advisement comes nae ill. " It's ye hae wooers monie ane. And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale A routhie butt, a roiithie ben : There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; Tak this frae me, my bonie hen. Its plenty beets the luver's fire." " For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me : But blithe's the blink o' Robie's ee, And weel I wat he loe's me dear : Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." " O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ! The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But aye fu' han't is fechtin best, A hungry care's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare^ An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink th*- yill." " O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve The gowd and siller canna buy : We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve brings peace and joy. What mair hae queens upon a throne?" FAIR ELIZA. Tune — " The bonie br ticket Lassie." Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part. Rue on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faiihfu' heart ) Turn again, thou fair Eliza; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise ! Thee, dear maid, hae T offended? The offence is loving thee; Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom. Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom. In the pride o' sinny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens in his ee. Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me. SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.. She's • fair and fause /hat causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle and lang: She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart. And I may e'en gae hang. J THE POSIE. 205 A coof cam in \vi' rowth o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear, But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonie lass gang. VVhae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind. Nae ferJie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind : O Woman lovely, Woman fair ! An Angel form's faun to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, I mean an Angel mind. THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, •\*here wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the Hly it is fair. And in her lovely bosom Pll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air. And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May, The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day. But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear : The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve. And I'll place it in her breast, and Pll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, A^d this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 206 GLOOM\ DECEMBER. THE BANKS O' BOON. Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's delight. '" Ye banks and braes o' bonie 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. rhou'lt break my heart, thou bonie 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 bonie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve. And fondly sae aid 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. \Vi' 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' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie 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 bonie 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 bonie Doon, To see the wood-bine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love, And sae did I o' mine. \Vi' 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. GLOOMY DECEMBER. Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! Ance mair I hail thee M'i' sorrow and care ; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. Since my last hope and last comfort is gone; Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. AFTON WATER. 207 BEHOLD THE HOUR. Tune — " Oran Gaoil." Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! Thou goest, thou darhng of my heart : Sever'd from thee can I survive ? But fate has will'd, and we must part ! I'll often greet this surging swell; Yon distant isle will often hail : " E'en here I took the last farewell; There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowls round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : " Happy, thou Indian grove," I'll say, "Where now my Nancy's path maybe! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me? " WILLIE'S WIFE. Tune — " Tibbie Fcnvler in the Glen." Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie; He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. She has an ee, she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour : Hve rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin beard about her mou. Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wife, &c. She's bow-hough 'd, she's hein shinn'd. Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; She's twisted right, she twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther; Sic a wife, &c. Auld baudrons by the ingle sits. An' wi' herloof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-water Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her 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 ^eeps over the Iqa, The sweet-scented birlc shades my Mary and me> 208 THE LOVELY LAS^i OF INVERNESS. 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 flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. L,OUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? Tune — " My Mother's aye gloivring o'er me.''' Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean? Dyvour, beggar loons to me, I reign in Jeanie's bosom. Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me : Kings and nations, swith awa ! Reif randies, I disown ye ! BONIE BELL. The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, And surly winter grimly flies : Now crystal clear are the falling waters. And bonie blue are the sunny skies; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning. The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; All creatures joy in the sun's returning. And I rejoice in my bonie Bell. The flowery spring leads sunny summer. And yellow autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, Till smiling spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. Old Time and Nature their changes tell. But never ranging, still unchanging I adore my bonie Bell. FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. Tune — " The Highland Watch' s farewell." My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake o' somebody ! Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous lave, O, sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free. And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not ? For the sake o' somebody ! O MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, As the mirk night o' December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she I dare na name. But I will aye remember. And dear, &c. And here's to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum. And here's to them that wish us weel, May a' that's guid watch o'er them; And here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum. And here's to, &c. THE LOVELY LASS OF INVEIiNESS. The lovely lass.'o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasui'e can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! And aye the saut tear blins her ee : Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and bretl'-^-n three. A VISION. 209 Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see; And by them hes the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's ee ! 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. A RED, RED ROSE. Tune — " Wis haw's favourite." Q, MY luve's like a red, red rose. That's newly sprung in June : O, my luve's like the melodic That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie 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. And fare thee weel, my only luve. And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 0, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN ? Tune — ** T/ie bonie Lass in yon town'' D, WAT ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on. Vow haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree : How blest, ye flow'rs that round her blaw. Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! How blest, ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, Vnd doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear ! The sun bhnks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town. And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower. That I wad tent and shelter there. sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 1 careless quit all else below, But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. And she — as fairest is her form. She has the truest, kindest heart. 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; CHORUS. 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; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. 2IO JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roarings swell and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 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 venture't in my rhymes. O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Tune — " The Lass of Livingstone.'* 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. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. Tune — " The deuks dang o^er 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. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rushy, 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 ! 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 I 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 lassie, O ! JOCKEY'S TA'E^ THE PART- ING KISS. Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gane; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs \^•ith me remain. 1 BONIE ANN. 211 Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my lave, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, Sound and safely may he sleep, , Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! He will think on her he loves. Fondly he'll repeat her name; For where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame. PEGGY'S CHARMS. My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair. Her native grace so void of art; F.ut I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway. Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look that rage disarms. These are all immortal charms. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early ; When a' the hills are cover'dwi' 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 wiftter fairly. Up in the morning, &c. THO' CRUEL FATE. Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, As far's the pole and line; Her dear idea round my heart Should tenderly entwine. Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl; And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean. I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING. I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam; List'ning to the wild birds singing. By a falling, crystal stream : Straight the sky grew black and daring; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring, O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasures I enjoy'd; But lang or noon, loud tempests storming A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. She promis'd fair, ar d per form'd butill ; Of monie a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me stiil. BONIE ANN. Ye gallants bright, I red you right, Beware o' bonie Ann : Her comely face sae fu' o' grace. Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night. Her skin is like the swan; Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span. Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, And pleasure leads the van; In a' theircharms, and conquering arms. They wait on bonie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands, But love enslaves the man : Ye gallants braw% I red you a', Beware o' bonie Ann. 212 THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. MY BONIE MARY. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' till it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonie lassie. 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 bonie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, Theglitteringspears 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 bonie Mary. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 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 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. 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. THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. Tune — " Neil Cow's la»:ent." There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, That he from our lasses should wander awa; For he's bonie and braw, weel-favour'd witha', And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; His fecket as white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae. And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. . His coat is the hue, &c. For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw; But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen him. And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fane/, — But th^ laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. YON WILD MOSSY MOUNT A LVS. 2^3 THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T. Tune— " East nook o" Fife'' vO WMA my babie-clouts will buy? Wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me whare I lie? The rantin dog the daddie o't Wha will own he did the faut ? Wha will buy my groanin maut? Wha will tell me how to ca't? The rantin dog the daddie o't. When I mount the creepie-chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, The rantin dog the daddie o't. Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will mak me fidgin fain? Wha will kiss me o'er again? The rantin dog the daddie o't. I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. I DO confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in luve; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets^ Thy favours are the silly wind That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy, How soon it tines its scent and hue When pu'd and worn a common toy ! Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while; Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside, Like onie common weed and vile. YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed ; Where the grouse, &c. Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy moors ; For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strathj For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' lore. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; O' nice education but sma' is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be. But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 214 OUT OVER TRE FORTH. WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR? Wha is that at my bower door? O wha is it but Findlay; Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. What mak ye sae Hke a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay; Before the morn ye'll work mischief; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Gif I rise and let you in; Let me in, quo' Findlay; Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if ye should stay; Let me stay, quo' Findlay; I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Here this night if ye remain; I'll remain, quo' Findlay; I dread ye'll learn the gate again; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. What may pass within this bower — Let it pass, quo' Findlay; Ye maun conceal till your last hour; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. FAREWELL TO NANCY. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! Deepinheart-wrungtearsI'llpledgethee, W'arring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? 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, W^e had ne'er been broken hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. Ae fond kiss, and then ive sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledga thee, W^arring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. THE BONIE BLINK O' MARY'S EE. Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, By Girvan's fairy haunted stream The birdie's flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, There wi' my Mary let me flee, There catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, Is aften laird o' meikle care; But Mary, she is a' my ain. Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! Then let me range by Cassillis' banks Wi' her the lassie dear to me. And catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! OUT OVER THE FORTH. Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its High- lands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. But I look to the west, M'hen I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me. THE BONIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWAY. Tune — "Owre the hills and far aivay." O HOW can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa? BANKS OF DEVON. 215 It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But ay the tear comes in my ee, To think on him that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown'd me a' : But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonie lad that's far awa. The weary winter soon will pass. And spring will cleed the birken- shaw : And my sweet babie will be born, And he'll come hame that's far awa. THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. Tune — " Banks of Banna y Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na' ; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms, I give and take with Anna ! Awa^ thou flaunting god o' day ! Awa, thou pale Diana ! Ilk star gae hide thy tM'inkling ray When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night, Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna ! POSTSCRIPT. The kirk and state may join, and tell To do such things I mauna : The kirk and state may gae to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine o' my ee, To live but her I canna; Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna. BANKS OF DEVON. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! But the boniest 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 M'ing 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. 2l6 THE DEinS A WA WP THE EXCISEMAN. ADOWN WINDING NITH. Tune — " The inuckin o Geordie^s byre.'''' Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. CHORUS. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare; Whciever has met wi' my Phillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, . For she is Simplicity's child. Awa, &c. The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer. Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Awa, &c. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis cau vie : Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. Awa, &c. Her voice is the song of the morning That wakes through the green ^spread- ing grove When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa, &c. But beauty how frail and how fleeting. The bloom of a fine summer's day ! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. Awa, &c. STREAMS THAT GLIDE. Tune — " Morag" Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains ! Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd w ith foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands; These, their richly-gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly 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 bonie Castle Gordon. THE DEIL'S AWA' WF THE EXCISEMAN. The De'il 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 De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Excise- man. " There's threesome reels, and foursome reels. There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Inn' Was — the De'il's awa wi' the ENcist; man. We'll n)ak our maut," t^'c. 1 WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 217 BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. Tune — " Liggeram cosh." Blithe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me : Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring : Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, Sighing, dumb, despairing ! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling. Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling. O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR. Tune — *^ Hughie Graham." O WERE my love yon lilac fair, \Vi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! But I wad sing on wanton wmg, When youthfu' May its bloom r^ new'd. O gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew. Into her bonie breast to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light. COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. Tune — " Cauld kail." Come, let me take thee to my breast. And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld's wealth and grandeur : And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. Than sic a moment's pleasure : And by thy een, sae bonie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. WHERE ARE THE JOYS. Tune — " Saw ye my Father? " Where are the joys I have met in the morning. That danc'd to the lark's early sang? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild woods amang? No more a-winding the course of yon river. And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure^ But sorrow and sad sighing care. 2l8 MY CHLORIS. Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly winter is near? No, no, the bees hmnming round the gay roses, Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have I known : All that has caus'd this wreck in my bosom, Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : Come, then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. O SAW YE MY DEAR. Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." O SAW ye my dear, my Phely? O saw ye my dear, my Phely? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love. She vvinna come hame to her Willy. What says she, my dearest, my Phely? What says she, my deareit, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee her Willy. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou'st broken the heart o' thy Willy. THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. Tune — "Fee him, father." Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever; Thou hast left m.e ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Only should us sever; Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never ! Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is breaking; Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken ! MY CHLORIS. Tune — " My lodging is on the cold ground. '* 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? O PHJLL Y. 219 The shepherd, in the flowery glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a tiner 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 'tif na love like mine. CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. Tune — " Dainty Davie. ^^ It was *he charming month of May, When aU the flowers 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. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. 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. LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. Tune — " Duncan Gray'^ Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love. Let not woman e'er complain. Fickle man is apt to rove : Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove ? Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : Sun and mcon but set to rise. Round and round the seasons go. Why then ask of silly man, To oppose great Nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can — You can be no more, you know. O PHILLY. Tune — " The soiv^s tail^ HE. O Philly, happy be that day When, roving thro' the gather'd hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly. SHE. O Willy, aye I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love. Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers above To be my ain dear Willy. As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly. As on the brier the budding rose StJU richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. HE. The milder sun and bluer sky, That crown my harvest cares wi' joyj Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is the sight o' Philly. 220 JOHN BAKLE YCORIV. The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring As meeting o' my Willy. HE. The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly. SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet Is nocht sae fragrant or sie sweet . As is a kiss o' Willy. HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly. SHE. What's a' the joys than gowd can gie ! I care na wealth a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy. JOHN BARLEYCORN. A BALLAD. There was three Kings into the east, Three Kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down. Put clods upon his head. And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came. And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter'd mild. When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To shew their deadly rrge. They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart. Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back. And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim. They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe. And still, as signs of life appear'd. They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all, Forhecrush'dhim between two stones. Andthey hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise; 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy : 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 221 CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS? Tune — " Jiofs m/e." Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Well thou know'st my aching heart, And canst thou leave me thus for pity? Is this thy plighted, fond regard. Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy? Canst thou, &c. Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — But not a love like mine, my Katy. Canst thou, &c. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune — " Aye luaukin o." Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care, Can I cease to languish. While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish? Long, &c. Every hope is fled. Every fear is terror; Slumber e'en I dread, Every dream is horror. Long, &c. Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine. But my Chloris spare me ! Long, &c. WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. A FRAGMENT. Tune — " Gillie rankie. ' ' When Guilford good our Pilot stood. An' did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An' did nae less, in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man : But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage Was kept at Boston ha', man; Till WiUie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man : Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian bluid to draw, man, But at New York, wi' knife an' fork. Sir Loin he hacked sma', man. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost his way, ae misty day. In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. An' did the Buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man. Then Montague, an' Guilford too, Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, The German Chief to thraw, man : For Paddy Burke, hke ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 222 FAREWELL TO ELIZA. Then Rockingham took up the game; Till death did on him ca', man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man; Saint Stephen's boys, v*' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man. Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man. Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race, Led him a szix faux pas, man: The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, " Up, Willie, waur them a', man ! " Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class Be-north the Roman wa', man : An' Chatham's wraith, inheavenlygraith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man,) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, "Willie, rise ! Would I hae fear'd them a', man? " But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co. GowfFd Willie like a ba', man. Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man; An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood. To make it guid in law, man. THE RIGS O' BARLEY. Tune — " Corn rigs are bonie.''^ It was upon a Lammas night. When corn rigs are bonie, 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; I set her down, wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley; I ken't her heart was a' my ain; 1 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 ha-^ 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. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonie : I'll ne'er, forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie. FAREWELL TO ELIZA. Tune — " Gilderoy.''^ From thee, EHza, I must go. And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my Love and me. They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. - Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more ! But the last throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part. And thine that latest sigh ! MOPF WEST UN WINDS. 223 MY NANIE, O. Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa' to Nanie, 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 Nanie, O. My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young : Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonie, O : The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nanie, 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 Nanie, 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 Nanie, O. Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nanie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 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 warly 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, C\ Green grow, &c. But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' M'arly cares, an' warly men. May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! Green grow, &c. For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : The wisest man the warl' saw. He 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. NOW WESTLIN WINDS. Tune — " / had a horse, I had nae niairJ'* 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 plainj. 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: 24 THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. Thto' 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 soUtary wander; Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 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 rusthng 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'rSj Not autumn to the farmer. So dear can be, as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer ! THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. Tune — " Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern lefsfly.^* No churchman am I for to rail and to write. No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a snare, For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are there, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair. That the big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. " Life's cares they are comforts," a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown. And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair, For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. THE FAREWELL. 225 THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE COUNTRY. Tune — " Roslin Castle." The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Von mui-ky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left 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. Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie 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 bonie 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 bonie banks of Ayr. THE FAREWELL. TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES's LODGE, TARBOLTON. Tune — "Guid flight, and Joy be wV you a\" Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few. Companions of my social joy I [ Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba'. With melting heart, and brimful eye, PU mind you still, tho' far awa'. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft, honour'd with supreme command. Presided o'er the sons of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright. Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa' ! May freedom, harmony, and love, Unite you in the grand design. Beneath th' Omniscient eye above, The glorious Architect Divine ! That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till Order bright, completely shine. Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. And You, farewell ! whose merits claim* Justly, that highest badge to wear ! Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, To Masonry and Scotia dear ! A last request permit me here. When yearly ye assemble a'. One round, I ask it with a tear. To him, the Bard that's far awa'. AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE BOAT. Tune — " Jackie'' s grey breeks." Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues. Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. All freshly steep'd in morning dews. CHORUS. And maun I still on Menie doat. And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. An' it winna let a body be ! In vain to me the cowslips blaw. In vain to me the vi'Iets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw. The mavis and the lintwhite sing. And maun I still, &c. 226 AULD LANG SYNE. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, \Vi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. And mauu I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I. And maun I still, &c. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistles shill, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c. Come Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. When Nature all is sad like me ! And maun I still on Menie doat. And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For its jet, jet black, an' its like a hawk. An' it winna let a body be ! HIGHLAND MARY. Tune — " Katharine 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' monie 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 I O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for ay the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly ' And n-,r ' '- ' Tha/; But stif Shall ii»v. . .^^igaiciii*^ - ^ J . AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgc/^ And never brought to min*? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days o' lang syne? CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear. For luld lang syne. We'll t \k a cup o' kindness yet For .'uld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes. And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot Sin auld lang syne. For auld, &c. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, From mornin sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'4 . Sin auld lang syne. For auld, &c. BANNO CKB URN. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. 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. BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. Tune — " Hey tuttie tattte." Scots, wha ha^ wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie. Now's the day, and now's the hour; Alb iloL ^tionf o' battle lower; Tho' death in ev'ry shape ap'pea wer The wretched have no more to (" But round my heart the ties are That Hp<>-f ' "• "'j^'d w'-'- ' wna can fill a coward s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's King and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? Caledonian ! on wi' me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall — they sha''l be free! Lay the proud usurpers low.l Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do, or die ! THE GALLANT WEAVER. Tune — " The auld ivife ayont the fire y Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By monie a flow'er and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. [ Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 1 They gied me rings and ribbons fine; I And I was fear'd my heart would tine. And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, To gie the lad that has the land; But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; While bees rejoice in opening flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver. SONG. Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; But ah ! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair ! Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. To hope may be forgiven; For sure, 'twere impious to despair So much in sight of heaven. 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, and a' that. Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves theii wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor. Is King o' men for a' that. 228 DAINTY DA VIE. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that. The pit'i 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, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that. That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. DAINTY DAVIE. Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Daint)j 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, Then through the dews 1 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. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. Tune — " The hopeless lai/er.'^ Now spring has clad the groves in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers; The furrow'd M'aving 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 wimphng 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. 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 me 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 blithe 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. 6 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 nae mair ! What tongue his woes can tell ! Within whose bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. CALEDONIA. 22g CLARINDA. Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy? We part — but by these precious drops That till thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day : A.nd shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER. Tune — " Caledonian Hjtni's delight.'''' Why, why tell thy lover. Bliss he never must enjoy? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie ? O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme ! Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, Wake thy lover from his dream? CALEDONIA. TUNE- Caledonian Hunt's delight." There was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung : (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore, " Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall ru«» ! " With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn : But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand; Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land. Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shorej The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 1 o wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 2,30 ON THE BA TTLE OF SHERIFF-MUTR. O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. ON THE BATTLE OF S^ERIFF-MUIR, BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. TUNE- The Cameronian rant." " O CAM ye here the fight to shun. Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were you at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?" I saw the battle, sair and teugh. And reeking-red ran nionie a sheugh. My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough. To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at .Kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and blude out- gush 'd, And monie a bouk did fa', man : And great Argyle led on his files, I \\:at they glanced twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broad- swords clash'd. And thro' they dash'd, and iiew'd and smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs. And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs. And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, W^hen bayonets oppos'd the targe. And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o' death, till, out of breath, They fled like frighted doos, man. " O how deil, Tam, can that be true ? The chase gaed frae the north, man : I saw mysel, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man ; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. They took the brig wi' a' their might. And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight; But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, And monie a huntit, poor red-coat. For fear amaist did swarf, man." tid 1 O WFIA IS SHE THAT 10' ES ME? 231 My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus Ir'^ds had nae guid-will, That day their neebors' blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen Amang the Highland clans, man; I fear my lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; But monie bade the world guid-night; Then ye may rell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man. THE DUMFRIES VOLUN- TEERS. Tune — " Push about the jorum.^'' April, 1759. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware. Sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas. And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink to Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! Fal de ral, &c. O let us not like snarling tykes In wrangling be divided; Till, slap, come in an unco loon 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 claut may fail in't; But deil a foreign tinkler loon 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, &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 ! 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. O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME? Tune — " Morag. ' ' O WHA is she that lo'es me, And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me. As dews o' simmer weeping. In tears the rose-buds steeping. O that's the lassie o' my heart. My lassie ever dearer ; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her. If thou shalt meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming, That e'en thy chosen lassie, Ere while thy breast sae warming, Had ne'er sic powers alarming; O that's, &c. If thou hadst heard her talking. And thy attentions plighted, That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted. And thou art all delighted; O that's, &c. If thou hast met this fair one ; When frae her thou hast parted. If every other fair one, But her, thou hast deserted. And thou art broken-hearted; O that's, &c. 232 O, ONCE I LOVED A BON IE LASS. CAPTAIN GROSE. Tune — " Sir John Malcolm" Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? Igo, and ago, If he's amang his friends or foes? Iram, coram, dago. Is he South, or is he North? Igo, and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies? Igo, and ago. And eaten like a wether-haggis? Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abram's bosom gane? Igo, and ago. Or haudin Sarah by the wame? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! Igo, and ago, As for the deil, he daur na steer hin), Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit th' enclosed letter, Igo, and ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor. Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stanes in store, Igo, and ago. The very stanes that Adam bore. Iram, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo, and ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O'T. First when Maggy was my care. Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married — spier nae mair- Whistle owre the lave o't. Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonie Meg was nature's child — Wiser men than me's beguil'd; — Whistle owre the lave o't. How we live, my Meg and me. How we love and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see — Whistle owre the lave o't. Wha I wish were maggots' meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write — but Meg maun see't — Whistle owre the lave o't. O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONIE LASS. Tune — " I ant a Man unmarried." O, ONCE I lov'd a bonie lass, Ay, and I love her still. And whilst that virtue warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell. Fal lal de ral, &c As bonie lasses I hae seen. And monie full as braw. But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. A bonie lass, I will confess Is pleasant to the ee, 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. She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel : And then there's something in her gait Gars onie dress look vveel. 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. ;ast I d THE DEAN OF FACULTY. •^zi YOUNG JOCKEY. VouNG Jockey was the blithest lad In a' our town or here awa; I u' blithe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! He roos'd my een sae bcnie blue, He roos'd my waist sae genty sma'; An' aye my heart came to my mou. When ne'er a body heard or saw. My Jockey toils upon the plain, Thro' wind and weed, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lea I look fu' fain When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. An' aye the night comes round again, When in his arms he takes mb a'; An' aye he vows he'll be my ain As lang's he has a breath to draw. M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. FAREWELL,ye dungeonsdeu-k and strong. The wretch's destinie : M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring and 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 svi'ord ! 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 he. Sae rantingly, &c. Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright. And all beneath the sky ! May coward shame disdain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! Sae rantingly, &c. THE DEAN OF FACULTY. A NEW BALLAD. Tune — " The Dragon of Wafitley." Dire was the hate at old Harlaw That Scot to Scot did carry; And dire the discord Langside saw, For beauteous, hapless Mary : But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job — Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. Among the first was number'd; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, Commandment the tenth remember'd. Yet simple Bob the victory got, And won his heart's desire ; Which shews thatheavencan boil the pot. Though the devil piss in the fire. Squire Hal besides had, in this case, Pretensions rather brassy. For talents to deserve a place Are qualifications saucy; So their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit's rudeness, Choseone whoshould owe it all, d'ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness. As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight Of a son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob'j purblind, mental vision; Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, Till for eloquence you hail him. And swear h^ has the Angel met That met the Ass of Balaam. In your heretic sins may ye live anddie^ Ye heretic eight and thirty ! But accept, ye sublime Majority, My congratulations hearty. With your Honors and a certain King, In your servants this is striking — The more incapacity they brinir, The more they're to your liking. «34 ON CESSNOCK BANKS. ['LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. £'ll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonie Jean again. There's nane sail ken, there's nana sail guess. What brings me back the gate again. But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. And stownlins we sail meet again. She'll wander by the aiken tree When trystin-time draws near again; And when her lovely form I see, haith, she's doubly dear again ! A BOTTLE AND FRIEND. Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! What \Aad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end. What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man : — Believe me, happiness is shy. And comes not ay when sought, man. I'LL KISS THEE YET. Tune — " The Braes d" Balquhidder" CHORUS. I'll kiss thee yet, yet, And I'll kiss thee o'er again, An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonie Peggy Alison ! . Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 1 ever mair defy them, O; Young Kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O ! * I'll kiss thee, &c. \\Tien in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O; I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! I'll kiss thee, &c. And by thy een sae bonie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever, O; — And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never, O ! I'll kiss thee, &c. ON CESSNOCK BANKS. Tune — " If he be a Butcher neat and trim'' On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lasses a' she far excels, An' she has twa sparkling rogueish She's sweeter than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen. And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish She's stately like yon youthful ash That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn With flow'rs so white and leaves so green. When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her looks are like the vernal May, When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, WTien flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene f And gild the distant mountain's brow; 1 An' she has twa sparkling rogueish Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. YOUNG PEGGY, 235 Her teeth are like the nightly snow When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murmuring streamlets flow ; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen ; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. With fleeces newly washen clean. That slowly mount the rising steep : An' she has twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently st''rs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish He^ voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nesthng in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. An' chiefly in her rogueish een. PRAYER FOR MARY. Tune — " Blue Bonnets." 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; Let my Mary's kindred spirit Draw your choicest influence 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. YOUNG PEGGY. Tune — " Last time I cam o'er the Mtiir." Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning : Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips more than the cherries bright, K richer dye has grac'd them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them : Her smile is as the ev'ning mild. When feather'd pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting. Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe. Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming Spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage Winter. Distraction's eye no aim can gain Her winning powers to lessen; And fretful Envy grins in vain. The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, From ev'ry ill defend her; Inspire the highly favour'd youth The destinies intend her; Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom, TO MARY. THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME A SONG. By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey : And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame— - There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd^ It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down. Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; But till my last moment my words are the same — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. THERE WAS A LAD. Tune — " Dainty Davie." There was a lad was born in Kyle, But what'n a day o' what'n a 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 and sma', But ay a heart aboon them a'; He'll be a credit till us a', We'll a' be proud o' Robin. But sure as three times three male 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 waui So blessings on thee, Robin ! Robin was a rovin' Boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin Boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin. TO MARY. Tune — " Ewe-btights, Marion." Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic's roar? A O sweet grows the lime and the orange And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. i THE SODGER'S RETURN. 237 I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn bythe 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; plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join. And curst be the cause that shall part us ! The hour, and the moment o' time ! 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 hghted 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? {{ love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown ! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. THE SODGER'S RETURN. Tune — " The Mill Mill 6." When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning. Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And moi?y a widow inourning : 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; 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 bonie 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. 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 ! ^3S MY FATI/ER WAS A FARMER. The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And lind 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 deairv ! 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. MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. Tune- The Weaver and his Shuttle, O. My father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world my course I did determine, O Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O My talents they were not the worst : nor yet my education, O Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken; O And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; G I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion; O The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; O But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; O So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O For one, he said, tc labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O. Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber: O No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; O I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice* I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther ; O But as daily bread is all I need, 1 do not much regard her, O. When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me; O Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly; O But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer' before you, O. 4 O i WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE. 239 A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tune — " Finlayston House." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darhng's heart; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart ! iiy cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So f^ll the pride of all my hopes, M/ age's future shade. Th e'er did grow; And a' that she has made o' that, Is ae poor pund o' tow. There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyond the ingle low, And ay she took the tither souk To drouk the stowrie tow. (^uoth i, For shame, ye dirty dame, (iae spin your tap o' tow ! She took the rock, and wi' a knock She brak it o'er my pow. At last her feet — I sang to see't — Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow ! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. THE PLOUGHMAN. Tune — " Up wV the Ploughman.'''' The ploughman he's a bonie lad, His mind is ev£r true, jo, His garters knit below his knee, His bonnet it is blue, jo. CHORUS. Then up wi't a', my ploughman lad, And hey, my merry ploughman; Of a' the trades that I do ken. Commend me to the ploughman. My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, He's aflen wat and weary; Cast off the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my Dearie ! Up wi't a', &c. I \A ill wash my ploughman's hose. And I will dress his o'erlay; I will mak my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early. Up wi't a', &c. I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston, The boniest sight that e'er I saw Was the ploughman laddie dap^'D Up wi't a', &c. Snaw-white stockins on his legs, And siller buckles glancin'; A gude blue bannet on his head, And O, but he was handsome ! Up wi't u, &c. Commend me to the barn-yard, And the corn-mou', man ; I never gat my coggie fou Till I met wi' the ploughman. Up wi't a', &c. THE CARLES OF DYSART. Tune — " Hey, ca' thro'." Vr wi' the carles of Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the kimmers o' Largo, A.nd the lasses o' Leven. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado; Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. For we hae mickle ado. We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies to spend, And we hae pints to bring. We'll live a' our days, And them that come behind Let them do the like, And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle adc Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. For we hae mickle ado- I COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 269 WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. Tune — " Duncan Gray" Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! When a' the lave gae to their play, Then I maun sit the lee-Iang day, And jog the cradle wi' my tae, And a' for the girdin o't. Bonie was the Lammas moon — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Glovvrin' a' the hills aboon — Ha, ha, the girdin o't! The girdin brak, the beast cam down, I tint my cuich, and baith myshoon; Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — Wae on the bad girdin' o't ! But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. The beast again can bear us baith. And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, And clout the bad girdin o't. MY HOGGIE. Tune — " What luzll / do gin my Hoggie die? " What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? My joy, my pride, my Hoggie ! My only beast, I had na mae, And vow but I was vogie ! The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, Me and my faithfu' doggie; We heard nought but the roaring linn, Amang the braes sae scroggie; But the howlet cry'd frae the castle wa'. The blitter frae the boggie. The tod reply'd upon the hill, I trembled foi my Hoggie. When day did daw, and cocks did craw, The morning it was foggie ; An unco tyke lap o'er the dyke. And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. WHERE HAE YE BEEN. Tune — " Killiecrankie.'''' Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Where hae ye been sae brankie, O? O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O. An' ye hae been whare I hae been, Ye had na been so cantie, O; An' ye had seen what I had seen, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. I fought at land, I fought at sea; At hame I fought my auntie, O; But I met the Devil an' Dundee, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. An' Clavers got a clankie, O; Or I had fed an Athole gled. On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. Tune — " Cock up your beaver" When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town. He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather, — Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver ! Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu' sprush. We'll over the border And gie them a brush; There's somebody there We'll teach better behaviour — Hey, brave Johnnie lad. Cock up your beaver ! THE HERON BALLADS. FIRST BALLAD. Whom will you send to London town, To Parliament and a' that? Or wha in a' the country round The best deserves to fa' that? 270 THE ELECTION. *^ For a' that, an' a' that, Thro' Galloway and a' that ! Where is the laird or belted knight That best deserves to fa' that? Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, And wha is't never saw that? Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets And has a doubt of a' that? For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that ! The independent patriot, The honest man, an' a' that. Tho' wit and worth in either sex, St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; Wi' dukes an' lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that ! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a' that. But why should we to nobles jouk, And is't against the law that? For why, a lord may be a gouk, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that ! A lord may be a lousy loun, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that; But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, A man we ken, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that ! For we're not to be bought an' sold Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, Our representative to be. For weel he's worthy a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that ! A House of Commons such as he, They would be blest that saw that- THE ELECTION. SECOND BALLAD. Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there, For Murray's light-horse are to muster, And O, how the heroes will swear 1 An' there will be Murray commander. And Gordon the battle to win; Like brothers they'll stand by each other, Sae knit in alliance an' kin. And there will be black-lippet Johnnie, The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; And he gat na hell for his haddin' The Deil gets na justice ava' ; An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, A boy no sae black at the bane. But, as for his fine nabob fortune. We'll e'en let the subject alane. An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, But, Lord, what's become o' the head? An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; A wight that will weather damnation. For the Devil the prey will despise. An' there will be Douglasses doughty, New christening towns far and near! Abjuring their democrat doings, By kissing the — o' a peer; An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous Whose honour is proof to the storm, To save them from stark reprobation He lent them his name to the firm. But we winna mention Redcastle, The body e'en let him escape ! He'd venture the gallows for siller, An' twere na the cost o' the rape. An' where is our King's lord lieutenant, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? The billie is gettin' his questions. To say in St. Stephen's the morn. An' there will be lads o' the gospel, Muirhead wha's as good as he's true; An' there will be Buittle's apostle, Wba's more o' the bUck than the blu^^* AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 271 AlIi' there will be folk from St. Mary's, A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highly, — The deil ane will gie them his vote ! An' there will be wealthy young Richard, Dame Fortune should hing by the neck ; For prodigal, thriftless bestowing — His merit had won him respect : An' there will be rich brother nabobs, Though nabobs, yet men of the first; An' there will be Collieston's whiskers. An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst. An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie, Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; An' there will be trusty Kerroughlree, Whose honour was ever his law. If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, His worth might be sample for a'. An' can we forget the auld major, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys; Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, Him only 'tis justice to praise. An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimming's gude knight; An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, Wha, luckily, roars in the right. An' there, frae the Niddisdale's borders. Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie, That griens for the fishes an' loaves; An' there will be Logan MacDowall, Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there. An' also the wild Scot o' Galloway, Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. Then hey the chaste interest o' Brough- ton. An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, In Sodom 'twould make him a King; An' hey for the sanctified Murray, Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; He founder'd his horse among harlots, But gied the auld naig to the Lord, AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. THIRD BALLAD. (MAY, I7g6.) Wha will buy my troggin, Fine election ware; Broken trade o' Broughton, A' in high repair. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. There's a noble Earl's Fame and high renown. For an auld sang — It's thought the gudes were stown. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's the worth o' Broughton In a needle's ee; Here's a reputation Tint by Balmaghie. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's an honest conscience Might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' Tinwald — So was never worn. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's its stuff and lining, Cardoness' head; Fine for a sodger A' the wale o' lead. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's a little wadset Buittles scrap o' truth, Pawn'd in a gin-shop Quenching holy drouth. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's armorial bearings Frae the manse o' Urr; The crest, an auld crab-apple Rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Satan's picture, Like a bizzard gled. Pouncing poor Redcastle Sprawlin' as a taed. Buy braw troggin, &c ifji JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION. Here's the worth and wisdom ColUeston can boast; By a thievish midge They had been nearly lost. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Murray's fragments O' the ten commands; Gifted by black Jock To get them aff his hands. Buy braw troggin, &c. Saw ye e'er sic troggin? If to buy ye're slack, Hornie's turnin' chapman, — He'll buy a' the pack. Buy braw troggin, &c. JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMEN- TATION. Tune — " The Babes in the Wood:' TwAS in the seventeen hunder year O' grace and ninety-five, That year I was the wae'est man O' ony man alive. In March the three-and-twentieth morn. The sun raise clear and bright; But oh I was a waefu' man Ere to-fa' o' the night. Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land, Wi' equal right and fame, And thereto was his kinsman join'd The Murray's noble name. Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land. Made me the judge o' strife; But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke, And eke my hangman's knife. Twas by the banks o' bonie Cree, Beside Kirkcudbright's towers, The Stewart and the Murray there Did muster a' their powers. The Murray, on the auld gray yaud, Wi' winged spurs did ride. That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rade, He staw upon Nidside. An' there had na been the verl himsel', O there had been nae play; But Garlics was to London gane, And sae the kye might stray. And there was Balmaghie, I ween, In front rank he wad shine; But Balmaghie had better been Drinking Madeira wine. Frae the Glenkens came to our aid, A chief o' doughty deed; In case that worth should wanted be, O' Kenmure we had need. And by our banners march'd Muirhead, And Buittle was na slack; Whase haly priesthood nane can stain. For wha can dye the black ? And there sae grave Squire Cardoness, Look'd on till a' was done; Sae, in the tower of Cardonness, A howlet sits at noon. And there led I a Bushby clan. My gamesome billie Will; And my son Maitland, wise as brave, My footsteps follow'd still. The Douglas and the Heron's name We set nought to their score; The Douglas and the Heron's name Had felt our weight before. But Douglasses o' weight had we, The pair o' lusty lairds. For building cot-houses sae famed. And christening kail-yards. And there Redcastle drew his sword, That ne'er was stained wi' gore. Save on a wanderer lame and blind. To drive him frae his door. And last came creeping ColUeston, Was mair in fear than wrath; Ae knave was constant in his mind, To keep that knave frae scaith. YE J A COB J TES B Y NAME. 273 YE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. Tune — " Shawnboy" Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honour'd station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion ; A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion. Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide. Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim. Whose sovereign statute is order; Within this dear mansion may wayward contention Or withered envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre ! YE JACOBITES BY NAME. Tune — " Ye Jacobites by name." Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear^ Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame — You shall hear. What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law? What is right and what is wrang by the law? What is right and what is wrang? A short sword and a lang, A weak arm, and a Strang For to draw. What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar, What makes heroic strife fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th' assassin's knife, Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war. Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; Then let your schemes alone in the state; Then let your schemes alone. Adore the rising sun. And leave a man undone To his fate. 11 2 74 THE COLLIER LADDIE. SONG TUNE- -AH, CHLORIS. " Major Graham.^'' Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee. Yet let the friend be dear. Altho' I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne'er declare, I'll say, I wish thee well. The' a' my daily care thou art, And a' my nightly dream, I'll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem. WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. Whan I sleep I dream. Whan I wauk I'm eerie. Sleep I canna get, For thinkin' o' my dearie. Lanely night comes on A' the house are sleeping, I think on the bonie lad That has my heart a keeping. Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie, Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on my bonie lad, An' I bleer my een wi' greeti.n' ! Ay waukin, &c. KATHARINE JAFFRAY. There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, And down in yonder glen, O; And Katharine Jaffray was her name, Weel known to many men, O. Out came the Lord of Lauderdale, Out frae the south countrie, O, All for to court this pretty maid, Her bridegroom for to be, O. He's tell'd her father and mother baith, As I hear sindry say, O; But he has na tell'd the lass hersel' Till on her wedding day, O. Then came the Laird o' Lochinton Out frae the English border. All for to court this pretty maid. All mounted in good order. THE COLLIER LADDIE. O WHARE live ye my bonie lass. And tell me how they ca' ye? My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow my Collier laddie. see ye not yon hills and dales The sun shines on sae brawly : They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, If ye'U leave your Collier laddie. And ye shall gang in rich attire, W^eel buskit up fu' gaudy; And ane to wait at every hand. If ye'll leave your Collier laddie. Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly; 1 would turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier laddie. I can win my five pennies in a day. And spend it at night full brawlie; I can niak my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my Collier laddie. Loove for loove is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; [bread. And the warld before me to win my And fare fa' my Collier laddie. WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie. How can I be but eerie ! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours As ye were wae and weary ! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi' my dearie. \ IVAE IS MY HEART. 275 YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. Tune- The Carlin . naething. The priest anathemas may threat, — Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in; But when honour's reveille is beat. The holy artillery's naething. And now, I must mount on the wave. My voyage perhaps there is death in ; But what of a watery grave ? The drowning a Poet is naething. And now, as grim death's in ray thought, To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing : My service as long as ye've aught, And my friendship, by G — , M'hen ye've naething. VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS. He looked Just as your Sign-post lions do, As fierce, and quite ^ > hi miless too. PATIENT STUPIDITY. So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks, Strong on the Sign-post stands the stupid Ox. His face with smile eternal drest. Just like the Landlord to his guest. High as they hang with creaking din. To index out the Country Inn. A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, The very image of a Barber's Poll; It shows a human face and wears a wig, And looks, when well preserved, amazing < THE LETTERS OF BURNS. il THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. I. TO MISS ELLISON BEGBIE. [Although the exact date of the correspondence with Miss Ellison Begbie cannot be ascertained, there appears to be good reason for attributing it to some time about 1 780-1, and for believing that they are the earliest letters of the poet which have been preserved. EUison was the daughter of a small farmer, and was engaged, at the time of the correspondence, as domestic servant to a family on the banks of the Cessnock. She was an amiable, intelligent, but not particularly handsome girl, and Burns was evidently serious in his desire to marry her. It was on the eve of his removal to Irvine to try his hand at flax-dressing, with a view to getting the means of marriage, that he learned the hopelessness of his passion. Ellison had already given her heart to another. She was the heroine of the song, " On Cessnock Banks."] LOCHLEA. I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it is, my dear; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope He intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincferely wish that He may bless my endeavours to make your '''S6 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the roi*gner parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 3Q5 No. XIV. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK. [This is tne last of the Poet's letters to which he has written his name Burness. Eeforti itiis he had sometimes signed it as it now appears ; and as his poems were about to go to the press, he decided upon abiding by Burns.] Dear Sir Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786, I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you returned through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening. I here inclose you my " Scotch Drink," and " may the follow with a blessing for your edification." I hope, sometime before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we .chall have a gill between us in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be a great comfort and consolation to. Dear Sir, your humble Servant, Robert Burness. No. XV. TO MR. DAVID BRICE. TBurns had issued proposals for publishing his poems. In a letter written in April, 1786, and supposed to be addressed to Mr. Ballantine of Ayr, he refers to the intended publication, and adds, concerning his unhappy affair with Jean Armour — "Old Mr. Armour prevailed with him (Mr. Aiken) to mutilate that un- lucky paperi yesterday. Would you believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct, yet when he told me, the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news." To David Brice, a shoemaker in Glasgow, Burns speaks more fully.] Dear Brice, Mossgiel, June xith, 1786. I received your message by G. Paterson, and as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worth- less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don^t know ; one thing I do know — she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her : and, to confess a truth between you and ' This was of course the informal marriage contract he had signed with Jean. '■?o6 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I wonH tell her so if !. were to see her, which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It is not the losing her that makes me so uiT^appy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as T from my very soul forgive her ; and may His grace be with her and bless her in all her future life ! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget her ; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure : the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and farewell dear ungrateful Jean ! for never, never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print ; and to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages — it is just the last foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe me to be, dear Brice, Your Friend and Well-wisher, R. B. No. XVI. TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. MOSSGIEL, (^tk July, 1786. I have waited on Armour since her return home ; not from the least view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and, to you I will confess it, from a foolish hankering fondness, very ill-placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show that penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the Church, which for that very reason I intend to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater ; iniserere me. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers return them by Connell (the carrier). The Lord stand with the righteous. Amen, Amen ! R. B. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 305 No. XVII. TO MR. DAVID BRICE, SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. MossGiEL. x-jth July, 1786. I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as much time as to write to you Poor Armour is come back again to Mauchline. and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the house ; nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. 1 have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell y)u that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that yot' are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I leave the coun- try. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am. Dear Brice, yours, R. B. No. XVIII. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. My dear Richmond, Old Rome Forest, 30M July, 1786 ^ My hour is now come — you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders, within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the *' Nancy," Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am wandering from one friend"'s house to another, and, like a true son of the Gospel, " have nowhere to lay my head." I know you will pour an exe- cration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her mother until her latest hour ! I write in a moment of rage, re- flecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write no more. Let me hear from you by the return of coach. I will write you ere I go. I am, dear Sir, Yours, here and hereafter, R. B. 1 The Poet, when he wrote this letter, was skulking from Carrick to Kyle, and from Kyle ta Carrick : " Some ill-advised persons," he said, "had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law a» his heels." This was done, ho'vevoi, merely to get him V) ^uit the countrv.. 308 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. XIX. TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, MAUCHLINE. My dear Sir Monday morning, MossGlEL \AtigHst, 1786]. I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah-la-Mar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Chas. Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in consequence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of September, right for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it : — " I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. As lang's I dow." On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cum- nock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness for me among them : — " O woman, lovely woman! Heaven designed you To temper man ! — we had been brutej without you ! R. B. No. XX. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. [It was towards the end of July, 1786, that "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns," was published, and the following letter was written in the course of the next month.] My DE.-VR Sir Kilmarnock, August, 1786. Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. gave me much entertain- ment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th cur- rent, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made my public appear- ance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class. Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my Authorship ; but now you have them let them speak for themselves. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 309 Farewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you And 'mang her favourites admit you ! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him! And ony de'il that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him. R. B. No. XXI. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK. My Friend, my Brother. Mossgiel, Friday noon iSept.?\ You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my soul. I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visi^ from, My dear Sir, Your most devoted, R. B. No. XXII. TO MR. BURNES, MONTROSE. My dear Sir, Mossgiel, Sept. leth, 1786. I this moment receive yours — receive it with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend^s welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of my paternal friends carries as. far as it will go. 'T^s there that man is blest ! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being — the burning glow when he clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence — theoe nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart ; and the man who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not comply with your friendly invitation. • ••••• R. B. 3 1 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. No. XXIIl. TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. [To the suffering of remorse and humiliation which befell Burns through Jean .Armour, was added, about this time, the bitter grief of learning Highland Mary's (death.] Sir, Ayrshire [Oct.], 1786. I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other da}', and settled all our by- gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this you know is out of my power : so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha which, I think, will arrive at che payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed 01 my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantine, by publishing my poem of " The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection ; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, re- specting the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it; the; uncertainty of getting soon into business ; the consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to setthi on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the callj: of society, or the vagaries of the Muse. Even in the hour of social mirth my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands o the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in th' present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in th' scale against it. . . . You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical on some points o. our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of c life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then, hov should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of exisi ence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in th-. THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 3 1 1 dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy? O Thou great unknown Power! — Thou Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! • — I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of Thy works, yet Thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! . . . Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther misery . . . To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I sivv myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores " of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " standing idle in the market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. . . . You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance : but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it. — R. B. No. XXIV. TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. [Whil(i suffering from the depression consequent upon a long and painful sick ness, Mrs. Dunlop happened to meet with the " Cotter's Saturday Night," and was so stirred and delighted with it, that she at once despatched a messenger to Moss- giel, some fifteen miles off, with a letter expressing her admiration, and an order for half a dozen copies of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns' Poems.] Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 3 1 2 THE LE T TEjRS OF B URNS. handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those, whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ances- tor, the saviour of his country. " Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief! " * The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleas- ure, was "The Life of Hannibal;" the next was "The History of Sir William Wallace : " for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur — " Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat." I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I ex- plored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. — R. B. No. XXV. TO MRS. STEWART OF STAIR. Madam, 1786. The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., which never made their appearance, except to a triend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertain- ment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of " Ettrick Banks " [The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening ; and one of the finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman ; ^ but I have no common friend to procure me hat permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. . 1 Mrs. Dunlop, a daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, was descended from the brother df the hero. - Miss Alexander. I THE LE TTERS OF B URNS, 3 1 3 >»— • I am quite aware, Madam, what tnsk the world would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remem- ber ; — the reception I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. 1 I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in ex- alted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their infe- riors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. — R. B. No. XXVI. TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE, INCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER. [Of this meeting, which took place at Dugald Stewart's summer lodgings at Catrine, a few miles from Mossgiel, the Professor has left the following account : — " His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any- thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, and vanity. He took his share in con- versation, but not more than belonged to him; and Hstened with apparent atten- tion and deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accom- modation in his temper, he M'ould, I think, have been still more interesting; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything approaching to meanness and servility rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and originaUty of his language when he spoke in company, more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology."] Dear Sir, Monday mornifig; \Oct^^. I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying m^' devoirs tc * Burns had accompanied a friend on a courting expedition to Mrs. Stewart's ho'ise, and the report ot his genial humour and ooetical powers having reached the parlour fro"^ the serv*u»ts' room, Burns was invited to an interview with the lady of the house. 314 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. that plain, honest, worthy man, the Professor [Dugald Stewart] . Z would be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though 1 were not the object; he does it with such a grace. I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four parts Na- thaniel — and two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. The foregoing verses (see page iii) were really extempore, but a little corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of Dear Sir, Your very humble Servant, R. B. No. XXVII. TO MISS ALEXANDER. \ [Burns, walking one evening in the private grounds of Ballochmyle, met Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, the laird's sister, who, surprised to see a stranger there, started and hurried on. It was as an apology for this intrusion that Burns com- posed the poem referred to in the following letter. The lady's interpretation of its meaning was coloured by unfavourable reports of Burns' character, and neithe.- letter nor poem was ever acknowledged. Miss Alexander died in 1843, at the age of 88.] Madam, Mossgiel, iS/'/z November, 1786. Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name- less stranger has taken with you in the inclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can produce ; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic revetiT' as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my Muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature ir. all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over th:, 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 niust be a wretch indeed, who regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye you/ elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all th i property nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. THE LE r TERS OF B URNS. 3 1 5 Kven the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at siicli a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it [)reserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, — and such the hour, when in a corner of my pros- pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny ana Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with, such an object. What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. The inclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene. . . . I have the honour to be, Mac'am, Your most obedient and very humble Servant, R. B. No. XXVIII. TO WILLIAM CHALMERS AND JOHN McADAM. In the name of the NINE. Amen ! We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine, 1 Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent. To our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John McAdam, student practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right and wrong. Right Trusty: Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and vendors of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jin- glers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c. &c. &c. &c. male and female -- We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof We have here inclosed ; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of thai- most execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nickname of The DeiPs Yell Nowte : ^ and after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked 1 His birthday. 2 "The deil's yell nowte," according to Gilbert Burns, is here used as a scoffing epithet applieo to sheriffs' officers, and other executors of the law. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. song, to be consumed by fire in the presence v. all beholders, in abhor- rence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions . nd composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in person we hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. God save tlie Bard ! No. XXIX. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. [The Edinburgh expedition was undertaken in consequence of the following letter, writen by the blind poet, Thomas Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie, from whom it passed through Gavin Hamilton to Burns : — " I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertainments, of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations retarded my progress in reading the poems; at last, however, I have finished that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of nature's force and beneficence, exerted under numerous and formid- able disadvantages; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems; a vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly approved; and I think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have expressed my approbation in verse; but whether from declining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accomplish that agreeable intention. Mr. Stewart, Professor of morals in this University, had formerly read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name inserted among the subscribers : but whether this was done or not I never could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the performances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole impression is already exhausted. It were therefore much to be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numerous than the former, could immediately be printed; as it appears certain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of the author's friends, might give it a more universal circulation than anything of the kind which has been published within my memory."] My dear Sir, Mossgiel, xUh November, 1786. Inclosed you have " Tam Samson," as I intend to print him. I am thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come se'nnight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first. I am ever, Your much indebted, R. B. THE LE TTERS OF B UP.NS. 3 1 7 No. XXX. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE. [Burns reached Edinburgh on his first visit on the 28th November. Through Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, near Ayr, Burns was introduced to that gentleman's brother-in-law. Lord Glencairn, to the Hon. Henry Erskine, and other influential people. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer in Mauchline, was one of Burns' chief patrons in Ayrshire.] Honoured Sir, Edinburgh, Z?^ct?W(5^r7^A, 1786. I have paid every attention to your commands, but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- lands were bought by a John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh Mill, &c., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks. This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you with it ; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor better. For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. Through my Lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post. I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls " a friend that sticketh closer than a brother." The warmth with which he interests himself in my afifairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days showed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. I always rememoer Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap. Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! Amen! R. B 3i8 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. XXXI. TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., OF ORANGEFIELD. Dear Sir, {December xo,x^^(^'>.\ I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you, that he IS determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me — hummed over the rhymes — and as I saw they were extempore, said to myself they were very well ; but when I saw at the bottom a name that 1 shall ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething spak." 1 was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word. . . . I am naturally of a superstitious cast ; and as soon as my wonder- scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the cmshing of the cork rumps — a ducal coronet to Lord George Gorclon, and the Protestant interest, or St. Peter's keys to . You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in " auld use and wont.'' The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful Squire H. L., or the Reverend Mass J. M., go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of I'los — onl\ . one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and saipnurous tffluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." — R. B. No. XXXII. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., BANKER, AYR. My honoured Friend, Edinburgh, Tzt^ December, 1786. I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give you .^ome account of myself and my matters, which by the by is often no easy 'lask. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable head-ache and stomach complaint. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 319 bul am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. D'dirymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a mar vvhose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall remember when "-^e shall be no more. By his interest it is passed in the " Caledo- nian Hi-nt/' and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy o ihe second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. — I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of Glen- caiiU, with my Lord, and Lady Betty' — the Dean of Faculty — Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati: Pro- fessors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the Man of Feeling. An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire Bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got._ I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is very well. Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodi- cal paper called the Lounger,^ a copy of which I here inclose you. I was. Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, write you an account of my every step ; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. I have the honour to be, Good Sir, Your ever grateful humble Servant, R. B. ^ Lady Betty Cunningham, sister of Lord Glencairn. " The paper here alluded to was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated author of " The Man of Feeling." It recognizes in the poems "a genius of no ordinary rank," remarkable in itself without reference to the natural wonder excited by the fact that they were written by a man of such hurnble rank, without the advantages of a good education. " The power of genius," Mr. Mackenzie proceeds, " is not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions or in drpwing the scenery of nature. The intuitive glance with which a writer like Shakspeare discerns the characters of men, with which he catches the many changing hues of life, forms a sort of problem in the science of mind, of which it is easier to see the truth than to assign the cause. Though I am very far from meaning to compare our rustic bard to Shakspeare, yet whoever will read his lighter and more humorous poems, his Dialogue of the Dogs, his Dedication to G H , Esq., his Epistle to a Young Friend, and to W S , will perceive with what uncommon pene- tration and sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered station, has looked upon men and things." Mackenzie^then referred to the misfortunes which, as he had heard most probably from Dugald Stewart, had befallen the bard, and expressed a hope that some means might he found to provide for him in his native land. ^2Q -J HE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. XXXIII. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. My dear Friend, Edinburgh, December 20th, 1786. I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your letter ; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bactard wean; she said she "did na ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o' thae bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. I inclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like you : but it would not be like me to comply. Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketch- ing it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr. Parker.— R. B. No. XXXIV. TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITER, AYR. My dear Friend Edinburgh, December ^-jth, 1786. I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any for- giveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner; but of all men living, -I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; and Dy all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited majesty, preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a commentary o-n the Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third per- secution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the Less — after throwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from which he was miraculously pre- served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- stance not very uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, I inclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh — "Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 3 2 1 honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge-street. R. B. No. XXXV. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. My Lord Edinburgh, January, 1787. As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national pre- judices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour and welfare of my country : and as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine to be distinguished ; though till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gratified with the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your lordship.^ Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grate- ful acknowledgements ; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest.— R. B. No. XXXVI. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ. My honoured Friend, Edinburgh, January 14, 1787. It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate, "past redemption; "'^ for I have still this favourable symj^tom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. 1 am still "dark as was Chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about the lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but ^ Mr. Wauchope brought him ten guineas as a subscription for two copies of his second edition. 2 This is one of a great number of old saws that Burns, when a lad, had picked up from his mother, who had a vast collection of them. 32 2 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. Mr. Miller is no judge of land ; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin me. 1 am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grand Master Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meet- ing was numerous and elegant ; all the different lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great solemnity and honor to himself as a gentleman and a mason, among other general toasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns,"' which rung through the wdiole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, and trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, "Very well indeed ! " which set me something to rights again. I have to-day corrected my I52d page. My best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. I am ever, dear Sir, Your much indebted humble Servant, R. B. No. XXXVII. TO THE SAME. yamiary — , 1787. 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 heavens ! say I to myself, with a tideij of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here it is — jf Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair; How can ye' chant, ye little birds. And I sae fu' o' care? THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 323 No. XXXVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This is an acknowledgment of some extracts which Mrs. Dunlop had sent to Burns from her correspondence with Dr. Moore, author of "Zeluco," &c.] Madam, Edinburgh, is^A Jamiary, 1787. Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib — I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but though every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to Irm has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of "the sons of little men."" To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgracing the little character I have; and to write the author of "The View of Society and Manners" a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to- morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- son ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print ; and the inclosed, which I will print in this edition. ^ You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my "Vision'' long ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the " saviour of his country," which sooner or later I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet: alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite com^ pany — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observa- tion, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolishea 1 Stanzas in the "Vision," beginning " By stately tower or palace fair," and ending with the first Duan. Burns afterwards rejected several of the new stanzas before sending the book to press- Those omitted were chiefly panegyrics on country gentlefolk who had been kind to him. 324 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. ideas on my head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which a»-e reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height, where I am absolutely, feeling certain my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide wiil leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. 1 have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy ; and, however a friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and 1 do not wish to hear or say more about it. But, " When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking for- ward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground, with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and characier as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you c^n or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace.'' — R. B. No. XXXIX. TO DR. MOORE. gjj^ Edinburgh, January [i6i/i?], 1787. Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be no'.iced in such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticisn.s. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly m.c coo late : a peccant passage or two that I would certainly have a tered, were gone to the press. The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those : even who were autl.ors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition w?s, and still my strongest wish is, to please my com- peers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen -men and manners in a ditlerent phasis from what is common, which may a3sist THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 325 originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my cliaracter has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice I have lately had; and in a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson and Beatlie have painted the landscape, and Lyttelton and Collins describ'^d the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame.^ — R. B. No. XL. TO THE REV. G. LAWRIE. ■• NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. [Mr. Lawrie had written to Burns, urging him to visit Blacklock, the blind poet, and added a tew kindly words of warning as to the temptations of the new life on which the Poet had entered.] Reverend and dear Sir, Y.m^v.\}^Q.n,Febr7iary lth,^^%^. When 1 look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any account by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted attention: do me the justice to believe 2hat my delay by no means proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you, the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father. I thank you. Sir, with all my aoul for your friendly hints, though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but in reality, I have no great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the attention of mankind awhile; to it I owe my present eclat ; but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide which has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of modesty ; I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers before I came here ; I have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed early years. In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what 1 Vv'ould have expected in our friend, a ciear head and an excellent heart. 1 In his reply to this letter dated Jan. 23rd, 1787, Dr. Moore says: — " If I may judge of the author's disposition from his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of men by one of their own number, whom you have the happiness to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the poetical beauties, however original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire in your works: the love of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the inde- pendent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the Poet, and have made mc often regret that I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which would have been my seeing the author, last summer, when I was lonser in Scotland than I have been for many years." 326 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. By far the most a(^reeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be placed to the account of Miss Lawrie and her pianoforte. I cannot help re- peating to you and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Lawrie the other night, at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me who she was"; I told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He returned, there was something very striking, to his idea, in her appear- ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say " She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the Bv/eet simplicity of a country girl."" " My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret's. — R. E. No. XLI. TO DR. MOORE. Sir, Edinburgh, February xsih, 1787. Pardon, my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23rd. Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a country gentleman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me ; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss Williams has done me, please. Sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless de- spondency. I had never before heard of her : but the other day I got her Poems, which for several reasons, some belonging to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, two characteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and' the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why.i R. B. * Dr. Moore, writing on 28th February, says: — "You are a great favourite in my family; and this is a higher compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It includes almost all the profes- sions, and of course is a proof that your writings are adapted to various tastes and situations. My youngest son who is at Winchester School, writes to me that he is translating some stanzas of youi ' Hallowe'en' into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades." THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 327 No. XLII. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. [The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait to which the Poet alludes, »ras painted by Alexander Nasmyth — the work in each case being done gratu- itously. The engraving has a more melancholy air than the picture, and is of a swarthier hue : this change was made by the engraver, who caused the Poet to sit to him, and finished the copper from his face, in preference to working from the picture.] My Honoured Friend, Edinburgh, 7^?^r««r>'242'/;, 1787. I will soon be with you now, in guid black prent ; — in a week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- scribers' names ; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they must be sent into Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in my book, looking like all other /^ave in life, I have felt along the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all of them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me "through good report and bad report" — the love which Solomon emphatically says " is strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common friends. P.S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July. — R. B. No. LV. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [Burns was now on his first tour in the Highlands. His unsettled state, dissat- isfaction with his present circumstances, and anxiety for the future, gave a some- M hat morose, distempered turn to his thoughts, except when care was drowned in wild jollity.] My dear Sir, Akrachak, y74ne iztk, 1787. I write this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which siarvingly support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins. — R. B. No. LVI. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, LINLITHGOW. My dear Friend, J^^^e ^oth, 1787. On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the mornin;;-. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 3 3 7 movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs Jike angels, at intervals ; then v/e flew at " Bab at the Bowster/' " Tullochgorum/' " Loch Erroch Side," ' &c., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. When the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till the good-feliow hoar of six; except a few minutes that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; each man a full glass in his hand ; and 1, as priest, repeated some rhym- ing nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, and consequently, pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves " No vera fou but ^aylie yet." My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by' came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so oft' we started, whip and spur. My companions, t^hough seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past the Highlandman in spite of all his eiforts with the hair halter : just as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and threw his rider's breek- less a — e in a dipt edge ; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 1 have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house of Parnassus, and, like other younger sons of great families, I may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one indeed, of my former happiness ; that eternal propensity I always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have only * * * *. This last is one of your distant acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners; and in the train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters of Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what piques me is her conduct at the com- mencement of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her when I was in and after passing regularly the intermediate degrees between X'(\q. distant formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my care- less way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; and after her * Scotch reels. 338 THE LE TIERS OF BURA'S. return to , I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words farther I suppose than even I intended, flew off in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning; and wrote me an answer which measured me out very completely what an immense way I had to travel before I could reach the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop, down at my foot ike Corporal Trim's hat. As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recordecl in a few weeks hence at Linlithgow., in the chronicles of your niemory, by R. B. No. LVII. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. My dear Richmond, Mossgiel, yuiy 7th, 1787. I am all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder of right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to answer his indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions truly of that kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, to such good purpose, here, like other accomplices in robbery and plunder, will, now the piratical business is blown, in all probability turn king's evidence, and then the devil's bagpiper will touch him oif " Bundle and go ! " If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all this ; if not, 1 know you will swear to every word I said about him. I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and Inverary, and running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- landman ; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and down came Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at least four weeks before I dare venture on my journey to Edinburgh. Not one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more so ; but, at all events. I trust you will let me know of course how matters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor consola- tion to tell the world when matters go wrong : but you know very wel/ your connexion and mine stand on a different footing. I am ever, my dear Friend, yours, R. B. Ml THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 339 No. LVIII. TO DR. MOORE.' gjj^ Mauchline, August ■zd, 1787. For some months past I have been rambling over the country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, ori.^inating, as 1 take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country ; you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though I know' it will be often at my own expense : for I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 1 sometimes think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. After you have perused these pages, should vou think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that "the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a predicament he has more than once been in before. I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's office ; and. look- ing through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom ; but for me, " My ancient but ignoble blood Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me. My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who understood men, their manners and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances; consequently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farmhouse ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye, till they could discern between good and evil ; so with the assistance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years, I was by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an 1 The original copy of this letter transmitted to Dr. Moore >s uow in the British Museum. It iifTers very muck 'rom the printed version. 340 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. enthusiastic idiot ^ piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoohiiaster some thiashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was tea or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owe much to an old woman who resided in the family remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, j suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concern ing devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpiesi cl .'-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds oi poetry ; but had so strong an eft'ect on my imagination, that to this hour in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspiciou: places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in suclj matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake oflf these idl terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was " The Vision of Mirza,'' and a hymn of Addison's beginning, " How ar^ 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 — " I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my school books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were " The Life ol Hannibal," and the " History of Sir William Wallace." Hannibal gavq my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, v/hich will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut ir eternal rest. Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, betweer sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years afterwards to puzzle Calvinis with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresj 4r idiotic. THE LE T TEIZS OF B URNS. 3 4 1 same village. My young superiors never insulted the clouterly appear ance of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They wouli give me stray volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could pick up some observations, and one, whose heart, I am sure, not even the " Munny Begum'"' scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or VV^est Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of " Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in life when he married; I was the eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, was unlit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more, and to weather these two years, v^^e retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a b'-other (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears. This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching crea- ture, 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." In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, whidi, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm philos- ophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- strings thrill like an yEoIian harp; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love- inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; and it was her favourite reel to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song which was said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one of nis father's maids, with w^hom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he; for, excepting that he could smear 342 T VE LE T TERS OF B URNS. sheep, and cast peats, his iather living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft tlmn myself. Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- m.ent. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfort- ably nere, but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and cai'ried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary ai'e at rest ! It is during the time that we lived on this farm, that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted ,vith the ways of the world. What I know of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners of literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some Plays of Shakespeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Herveys Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs was my vade vieciim. 1 pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is. In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to strong passions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homers Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of fortune were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 343 little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze myself into it : the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very entrance! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriasm that made me fly solitude; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wiM logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or three met together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was tin pencha7it a Vadorable ntoitie die genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various ; sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that rec- ommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; and is with difiiculty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage : but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty they are matters of the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoyment. Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer^ on a smug- gling coast, a good distance from homj. at a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes oi swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent * Seventeenth Summer in the M. S., Dr. Currie has written above it in pencil, " Nineteenth or 344 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. from the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co-sines for a few dajs more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel — " Like Proserpine gathering (lowers. Herself a fairer flower ." It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain- ing week I staid I did nothing bvit craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's Works : I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This im- proved me in composition. I had met wit!i a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me, and a comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three- farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of the day-book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Vive Vamonr, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — "Tristram Shandy" and the "Man of Feeling" — were my bosom favourites. Poesy Avas still a darling walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except, "Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my printed pieces; "The Death of Poor Maillie," "John Barleycorn," and songs first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion which ended the forementioned school-business. My twenty-third year was to me an important aera Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine), to learn his trade. Tliis was an unlucky affair. My . . and to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burned to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father's head; and, what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in consumption ; and to crown my distresses, a belle Jille, whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 345 field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances oi morti- fication. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — depart from me, ye cursed ! From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic; but a great man in the neighbour- hood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering his situation in'life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch oat into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea; where, after a variety of good and ill-fortune, a little before I was ac- quainted with him he had been set on shore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without adding, that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever slw who was a greater fool than myself where woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here his friend- ship did me a mischief, and the consequence was, that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the " Poefs Welcome." ^ My reading only increased while in'this town by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but meeting with Fer- gusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell- hounds that growl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my hair- ijrained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every sober qualification, he was far my superior. I entered on this farm with a full resolution, "come, go to, I will be wise!" I read farming books, I calculated crops; I attended markets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buy- ing bad seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. ^ This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, "like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire." * " Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Child." 346 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque lamen- tation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramaits personcB in my " Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. " Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk- session so much, that ihey held several meetings to look over their spiri- tLiil artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point- blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, " The Lament." This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power ; I thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fel- low, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre incomiu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mo- ment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know myself had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I watched every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confi- dent my poems would meet with some applause ; but at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My van- itv was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 34 7 J had been for some days ?kulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia — " The gloomy night is gather- ing fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, tha\: away I posted for that city, with- out a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oiiblie 7/101, grand Dieii. si jamais je Vouhliel I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to "catch" the characters and ''the manners living as they rise." Whether I have profited, time will show. My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. — R. B. No. LIX. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. My dear Sir, Stirling, 26M August, 1787. I intended to have written you from Edinburgh, and now write you from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with a truly original, but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of che High-school in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for Old Caledonia over the hole in a blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn ; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very strong, but so very late that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from Edinburgh. I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. I will be at least three weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and have many people to call for. 34^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope Hughoc is going on and prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin. If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every other post ; but a dull, matter-of-fact business lik-s this scrawl, the less and sel- domer one writes, the better. Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever shall be, My dear Sir, Your obliged R. B. No. LX. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. [Mr. Tait, of Harvieston, was a connexion of Gavin Hamilton; Mrs. Tait, who was then dead, Mrs. Hamilton (Gavin's stepmother) who presided over the house- hold at Harvieston, and Mrs. Chalmers, were sisters.] My dear Sir, Stirling, 28M Au^ist, 1787. Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am delighted with their appear- ance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or two places, an old wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I rode from this town up the meandering Devon's banks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston ; and after spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. They are a family. Sir : though I had not had any prior tie, though they had not been the brother and sisters of a certain generous friend of mine, I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these sev- eral years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks now are. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than otherwise : and I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of those consumptive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatening him. His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. (I pat in the word still, to please Mrs. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features in his character; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the breast of a poet! Grace has a good figure, and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte ' I Daughter of Mrs. Hamilton. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 349 cannot speak in common terms of admiratiop : she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is elegant; her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness and the settled complacep.cy of good nature in the highest degree ; and her complexion, now that she has happily recovered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress: — " Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. That one would almost say her body thought." Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter yo\i. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm might own with pride ; then why do you not keep up more correspondence with these so amiable young folks? I had a thousand questions to answer about you I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told then that John was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was going on still very pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting with Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie ^ being rather a litde alarmingly ill of a sore throat somewhat marred our enjoyment. I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful com- pliments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie, i shall probably write him from some stage or other. I am ever. Sir, Yours most gratefully, R. B. No. LXl. TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE. [Mr. Josiah Walker, afterwards Professor, had met Burns at Edinburgh, ancl vas then engaged at Blair Athol as a tutor. He introduced Burns to the Athole family, and it was in commemoration of his very kind reception that the Piet wrote the piece accompanying this letter, " The Humble Petidon of Bruar-water.' Mrs. Graham and Miss Cathcart, mentioned below, were sisters of the Duchess.] My dear Sir, Invhkness, ^t^ Septeynber, 1787. I have just time to write the foregoing, and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr, NicoPs chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of * One of Mrs. Chalmers' married daughters, wife of Sir Hector Mackenzie. 350 THE LE TTERS OF BURNS. Athole of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so heip me God in my hour of need ! I shall never forget The "little angel-band!" I declare I prayed for them%ery sincerely 1 :o-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the trulv noble Duchess, with her smilincr litde seraph in her lap, at the head of the table : the lovely "olive plants- ^' as the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother : the beautiful Mrs "TT' ? ^f^'^^^"' ^^'^^^ MissC . &c. I wish I had the powers ot i^uido to do them justice! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality— markedly kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of conversation ~ Sir W Murray's friendship. In short, the recollections of all that polite, agree! able company raises an honest glow in my bosom. — R. L. No. LXII. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. My dear Brother, Edinburgh, x^th September, 1787. I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two days, and travelhng near six hui?dred miles, windings included. My farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the heart 01 the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Bredal- bane, down the Tay, among cascades and Druidical circles of stones to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence across Tav, and up ine ot his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 'Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spending nearly two days with his Grace and family ; thence many miles through a wild country among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, dll I crossed Spey and' went down the stream through Strathspey, — so famous in Scotch music,— t^adenoch, &c., till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family; and then crossed the country for Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition sa3S King Duncan was murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, where James Burness. from Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found our ^•mts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and "hale old women. John Cairn,* nough born the same year with our father, walks as vigorously as I can : they have had several letters from his son in New York. William Brand IS likewise a stout old fellow ; but further pardculars I delay till I see you. which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are noc worth .-ehearsing: warm as I was from Ossian's countrv, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or fertile carses? I slei)t at the famous Brodie of Brodle's one night, and dined at Gordon Casde next day, with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am thinking tc ' Husband of Elizabeth Burns, another aunt. Mr. Brand was, Isabel's husband. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 351 cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty and many compliments from the north to my mother ; and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a berth for William,^ but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. — R. B. No. LXIII. TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. September 26M, 1787. I SEND Charlotte 2 the first number of the songs ; I would not wait fer the second number ; I hate delays in little marks of friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in number second.^ You will see a small attempt on a shred of paper in the book ; but, though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of some kind : the whining cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline .... a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of " Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," Sec* I suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a copy of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. " I Wisdom dwell with Prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! Miss N. [immo] is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale of other years." In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity cf their motions, and — wish them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion dont fai eu 1 Burns' younger brother. 2 Charlotte Hamilton. 8 Qf the Scots Musical Museum. * Rev. John Skinner, father of Bishop Skinner. The Utter was ia the shape of a poetical address to th« " Country Ploughman." 352 THE LE T TERS OE B URNS. Vhonneur d'etre 7in miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, permanent pleasure, "which the world cannot give nor take away," I hope ; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth. — R. B. No. LXIV. TO THE SAME. Without date. I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that country. 1 am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man (qualities which are only a younger brother's fortune in our family), I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return into partnership with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance' of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air is admirable: true old Highland, It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which an Inverness lady sung me when I was there ; and I \^'as so charmed with it that I begged her to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number; so Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate ; thout^h I am convinced it is very well ; and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just. [Here follows the song of " The Banks of the Devon," given in page 215.] R. B. No. LXV. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., GORDON CASTLE. [Hoy was librarian at Gordon Castle — a character of the Dominie Sampson kind. " It was," says Mr. Robert Carruthers, "the business of Hoy, during the day, to store his mind with all such knowledge as the publications of the time sup- plied; and then over a bottle of claret, after dinner, impart to his Grace of Gordon, all that he reckoned valuable or important." Burns was delighted with his bhmt, straightforward manner, and the hbrarian strove, it is said, to repay it by giving the postboy a crown to contrive, no matter how, to stop the bard's departure from Fochabers. The fierce impetuosity of Nicol prevented ibis.] Sir, Edinburgh, 10th October, 1787. I will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of Christian principles — "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." I shall ceitainly, among my legacies, leave my latest curse to that unlucky predicament which hurried — tore me THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 353 away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league paragraphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and Time, under the ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eternally rank againsi him in hostile array. Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your acquaintance, by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edinburgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, set about collecting all our native songs and setting them to music; par- ticularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, the well-known musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, and your humble servant to the utmost of his small power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimeM for a fine air make a stanza, when it has no words. The brats, too tedious to mention, claim a parental pang from my bardship. I suppose it will appear in Johnson's second number — the first was published before my acquaintance with him. My request is — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," is one intended ibr this number, and 1 beg a copy of his Grace of Gordon's words to it, which you were so kind as to repeat to me. You may be sure we won't prefix the author's name, except you like, though I look on it as no small merit to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted. I do not well know where to write to you — I rather write at you ; but if you will be so obliging, immediately on receipt of this, as to write me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you in kind, though not in quality. Johnson's terms are : — each number a handsome pocket volume, to consist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price to sub- scribers, 5^. ; to non-subscribers, 6s. He will have three numbers, I conjecture. My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William Cruikshank's. St. James's-square, New- town, Edinburgh. I am, Sir, Yours to command, R. B. No. LXVI. TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. Reverend and venerable Sir, Edinburgh, Ji-^tfiJ^r25M, 1787. Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tullochgorum's mv delight!" The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making if they 354 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. please, but, as Job says — " O that mine adversary had written a book ! " — let thera try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks them, not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song- wrights, in our native manner and language. The only remains of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rests with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise " owre cannie " — a " wild war- "ock ; " but now he sings among the " sons of the morning." I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; but '^reverence thyself." The world is not om' peers, so we challenge the jury. We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of amuse- ment and happiness independent of that world. There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your best assistance. An engraver in this town has .set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music must all be Scotch. Urs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and the first musician in town presides over that department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every information remaining respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a very fragment business; but at the end of his second number — the first is already published — a small account will be given of the authors, particu- larly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," " John of Badenyon," and " Ewie wi' the crookit Horn,'' go in this second number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would wish them to continue in future times ; and if you would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others that you would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the other authors, — " Nill ye, will ye." One half of Scotland already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. I am, with the warmest sincerity. Sir, Your obliged humble servant, R. B. No. LXVII. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., GORDON CASTLE. Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 6iA NoveiTther, 1787. I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to me that I ought to send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 355 particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant — is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks : my return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still more precious breath : at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation. The Duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of " Tullochgorum," &c , and the late Ross at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song ; but, as Job says, "O that mine adver- lary had written a book!" Those who -think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business — let them try. I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian admonition — " Hide not your candle under a bushel," but " Let your light shine before men." I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I question if there are half a dozen better : perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious gift. I am, dear Sir, Your obliged humble Servant, R. B. No. LXVIII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., EDINBURGH. Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, November 23^, 1787. I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make any appointment to take us to Mr. ' Ainslie's to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution, present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, &c., I find I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock, if you have a leisure hour. You will think it romantic when I tell you, that I find the idea of your friendship almost necessary to my existence. You assume a proper length of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good things. I don't know upon the whole, if you 3 5 6 THE LETTERS OF B URKS. are one of the first fellows in GocPs world, but you are so to me. I tell you this just now in the conviction that some inequalities in my temper and manner may perhaps sometimes make you suspect that I am not so warmly as I ought to be your friend. — R. B. No. LXIX. TO MISS MABANE [afterwards MRS. COL. WRIGHT]. Saturday nooti, No. 2, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. Here have I sat, my dear iMadam, in the stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured iround ; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a complimentary card to accompany your trinket. Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, likewise, went under review ; but deliberative wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. I am, dear Madam, With all sincerity of enthusiasm. Your very obedient Servant, R. B. No. LXX. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Noz>ember 21, 1787. I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible that even you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate ; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; though, thank heaven, I have found at THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 357 last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss — a lover. Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. " Sonie folk hae a hantle o' fauts, an' T'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in CarricK by the title of the " Wabster's grace : " " Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we. Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! Up and to your looms, lads." R. B. No. LXXI. TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. Sir, [Edinburgh, December, 1787.] Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I l-ave. Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those ot your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by . . . friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me ; but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 1 am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in som« measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent attention to economy is ^.Imost inseparable from it; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way oi those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to \h^ politesse of life — yet is as poo/ as I am. 355 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent lortune at the plough-tail. I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story With a tear of gratitude, I thank you. Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integ- rity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have nj return. Sir, to make you for your goodness but one — a return which I am Dersuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your h?ppiness, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! — R. B. No. LXXII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON. My dear Sir, [Edinburgh, Decetnier, 1787.] It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire ; I seldom pray for anybody, " Pm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill o't; " but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold drams you will never more taste ; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drink- ing perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neg- lecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly befcoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunt- ing over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours, &c., R B. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 359 No. LXXIII. TO MISS CHALMERS. My dear Madam, Edinburgh, December, 1787. I just now have read yours. The poetic compHments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you out to the world at large ; and the circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I will; so look to it. Personal attractions. Madam, you have much above par ; wit, understand- ing, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems ; by second sight I suppose, for I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you may believe me, my dear Madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-jndged compliment. I wish to show the world the odds between poefs friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information, both the pieces go in. One of them, "Where braving angry winter's storms," is already set — the tune is " Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- cairny : " the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow^s collection of ancient Scots music; the name is ''Ha a Chaillich air 7no Dheithy My treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about Las Incas, only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's posses- sion. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of " Somebody " will come too late — as I shall for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my direction in town, so anything, wherever 1 am, will reach me. I saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipped spaniel, he talks of being with 3'ou in the Christmas days. Mr. has given him the invitation, and he is de- termined to accept it. O selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition, the whole affair is chimerical — yet he w/// gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners — taut pis I He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the value of two times two ! Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the amiable, the lovely , the derided object of their purse-proud contempt ! I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's recovery, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her: " As I came in by Glenap, I met with an aged woman; She bade me cheer up my heart, For the best o' my days was comin'." 36o THE LETTERS OF BURNS. This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, ix>t what they ought to be ; yet better than what they appear to be. " Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, That hideous sight — a naked human heart." Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. R. B. No. LXXIV. TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. I [The correspondence with Clarinda records one of the most interesting, although by no means creditable episodes of Burns's romantic life. The circumstances under which the letters were exchanged are explained in the Biographical Preface. It was at the house of Miss Nimmo, an elderly lady, known both to Burns and his friend, Miss Chalmers, that they first met at tea, according to Mr. Robert Chamber's reckoning, about the 4th of December; and the following letter, the first of a remarkable series, is an acceptance of Mrs. M'Lehose's invitation to tea, on Saturday the 8th. Mrs. M'Lehose preserved all Burns's letters, which she esteemed, in her own words, " precious memorials of an acquaintance, the recollec- tion of which would influence me were I to live fourscore." (Letter to Mr. Syme, 1796.) After his death she offered to select some passages for publication in the collected edition of his writings for the benefit of his widow and children. The person to whom she lent the letters for the transcription of the extracts she had chosen, copied them all, and published them in violation of his own engagement and against Mrs. M'Lehose's wish. Parts were given in Cromek's Reliques.'] Madam Tuesday Evening, [Z?<'c<';«3^r 6, 1787]. I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, and have not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave town this day se'nn'ght, and probably for a couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever regret that I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have a good deal of poetic merit ; and Miss [Nimmo] tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry: and 1 hope you will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable otf- hand je7i d'esprit. I have several poetic trifles, which I will gladly leave with Miss [Nimmo] or you, if they were worth house-room ; as tnere are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be for- gotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles. I am, Madam, with the highest respect, Your very humble Servant, THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 36E No. LXXV. TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. [An accident through a drunken coachman prevented Burns from keeping his engagement.] Saturday Even \^Dec. 8]. I CAN say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night I was to have had that very great pleasure — I was intoxicated with the idea; but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one ot my knees, that I can't stir my leg oflf the cushion. So, if I don't see you again, I shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner. I determined to cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion ; but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account for it — I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a stranger to me ; but I am an odd being. Some yet unnamed feelings — things, not principles, but better than whims — carry me farther than boasted reason ever did a philosopher. Farewell ! every happiness be yours. Robert Burns. No. LXXVI. TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. [Mrs. M'Lehose, in condoling with him on his accident, said, " Were I your sister I would call and see you," and enclosed some verses she had written after reading the little poem he had sent her, modestly disclaiming the idea of their being poetry.] I STRETCH a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card on the rack of my present agony. Your friendship. Madam ! By heavens, I was never proud before I Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good poetry ; mine were indeed pardy fiction, and partly a friendship which, had I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led me — God of love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies. I swear solemnly, (in all the tenor of my former oath) to remember you in all the pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! To-morrow, and every day, till I see you, you shall hear from me. Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely ic have. ;62 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. LXXVII. TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 1 [In her rejoinder Mrs. M'Lehose reminded her correspondent that, though practically a widow, she was still a wife, and asked him playfully whether he could, Jacob-like, wait seven years for a wife at the risk of being even then dis- appointed.] Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation had on his friends, when "they sat down seven days and seven nights astonied, and spake not a word.'' "Pay my addresses to a married woman ! " I started as if I had seen the ghost of him I had injured : I recollected my expressions : some of them indeed were, in the law phrase, *' habit and repute," which is being half guilty. I cannot positively say. Madam, whether my heart might not have gone astray a little ; but I can declare, upon the honour of a poet, that the vagrant has wandered unknown to me. I have a pretty handsome troop of follies of my own; and, like some other people's retinue, they are but undisciplined black- guards i but the luckless rascals have something of honour in them : they would not do a dishonest thing. To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted a.ad widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and gratitude to protect, comfort, and cherish her; add to all, when she is perhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble minds, the mind, too, that hits one's taste as the joys of heaven do a saint — should a vague infant idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtlessly peep over the fence — were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the poor, airy straggler brought before you, trembling, self-condemmed, with artless eyes, brimful of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge, you could not, my dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death " without benefit of clergy?" I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of "seven years : " but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the same allusion : — " The Patriarch to gain a wife, Chaste, beautiful and young, Served fourteen years a painful life, And nev°r thought it long. " Oh, were you to reward such cares, And life so long would stay. Not fourteen but four hundred years Would seem as but one day.'' I have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, and you may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no better way of con- suming your time ; but finding fault with the vagaries of a poet's fancy is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of the Hellespont. My limb now allows me to sit in some peace : to walk I have yet no prospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground. J THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 363 7 have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a chaos of nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into the fire, and call me an idle, stupid fellow ; but whatever you may think of my brains, believe me to be, with the most sacred respect and heartfelt esteem, My dear Madam, your humble Servant, Robert Burns. No. LXXVIII. TO MISS CHALMERS. [It is worth while to break the continuity of >:he Clarinda correspondence, by interspersing other letters written by Burns at the same time, in order to illustrate his state of mind at that period, and to enable readers to judge of the artificial character of the passionate addresses to that lady.] Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thunderstorm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a "quadruple alliance" to guarantee the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half-way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft. I would give my best song to my worst enemy — I mean the merit of making it — to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the Batiks of the Devon, which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The Ochil-hills 1 you shall probably have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches ! — R. B. No. LXXIX. TO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., ADVOCATE. [Enclosing verses on the death of the Lord President, Robert Dundas of Armiston, who died December 13, 1787.] Sir, The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so it lay by, an ill-digested ' The song m honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning, " Where braving angry winter's storms." I ''age 19S.) 364 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of sub- jects are much hackneyed ; and, besides, the waitings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse's lire ; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, Sir, Your obliged humble Sen^ant^ R B. No. LXXX. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, x^th Dec, 1787. I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my hardship, not on poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best leg with an air, and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth after the long-expected shower ! I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre Poverty ; attended as he always is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, and still my motto is — I dare! My worst enemy is inoi-meme. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light- armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, caprice and passion, and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. R. B. No. LXXXI. I TO CLARINDA. [In the rest of the letters between Mrs. M'Lehose and Burns, she signs herself Clarinda, and he Sylvander.] Friday Evening [December 21]. I BEG your pardon, my dear " Clarinda," for the fragment scrawl I sent you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman for whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 365 veneration, called in just as I had begun the second sentence, and I v/ould r.ot make the porter wait. I read to my much-respected friend several of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I had copied out He began some criticisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informeo him they were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of such lines ; and jf you know anything of Professor Gregory, you will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do love you, if possible, still better for hav- ing so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch expression you please in its place. I believe there is no holding converse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amia- ble woman, much less a gloriously amiable fine woman., without some mix- ture of that delicious passion whose most devoted slave I have more than once had the honour of being. But why be hurt or offended on that account? Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his head against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of love, and add to it the generous, the honourable sentiments of manly friendship, and I know but one more delightful morsel, which few, few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to strawberries : it not only gives the fruit a more elegant richness, but has a peculiar deliciousness of its own. I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion. ^ I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if any friend should give any copies without my consent. You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of this kind) , how much store I have set by the hopes of your future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, but I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a strange Will-o'-wisp being ; the victim, too frequently, of much impru- dence and many follies. My great constituent elements are pride and passion. The first I have endeavoured to humanise into integrity and honour ; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm in love, religion, or friendship — either of them, or all together, as I hap- pen to be inspired. 'Tis tme T never saw you but once ; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once ! Do not think I flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda : I have too much pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other; but of all God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the most permanent im- pression. I say the most permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can promise either in my prepossessions or powers. Why are vou unhappy? And why are so many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can wish? You have a hand all benevolent to give : why were you denied the pleasure'' J Probably the verses on the Death of the Lord President. 3 ft 6 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. You have a heart formed — gloriously formed — for all the most refined luxuries of love: why was that heart ever wrung? Oh Clarinda! shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and ii where the chill north wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery I fields of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserve most ^' of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head ; they were the wages of my labour : but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy fate, and dashed your cup of life with undeserved sorrow ? Let me know how long your stay will be out of town ; I shall count the hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your seeing me just now; and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edinburgh adieu. Lord ! why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look back with the pang of unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last winter, these three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost ! Per- haps, though, 'twas better for my peace. You see I am either above or incapable of dissimulation. I believe it is want of that particular genius. I despise design, because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. I am interrupted. Adieu, my dear Clarinda ! Sylvander. No. LXXXII. TO CLARINDA. My dear Clarinda, Your last verses have so delighted me, that I have copied them in among some of my own most valued pieces, which 1 keep sacred for my own use. Do let me have a few now and then. Did you, Madam, know what I feel when you talk of your sorrows! Good God ! that one who has so much worth in the sight of heaven, and is so amiable to her fellow-creatures, should be so unhappy ! I can't venture out for cold. My limb is vastly better ; but I have not any use of it without my crutches. Monday, for the first time. I dine at a neigh- bour's, next door. As soon as I can go so far, even in a coach, my first visit shall be to you. Write me when you leave town, and immediately when you return ; and I earnestly pray your stay may be short. You can't imagine how miserable you made me when you hinted to me not to write. Farewell. Sylvander. THE LE 1 ' TERS OF B URNS. 3 7 No. LXXXIII. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, IRVINE. [Richard Brown is the " very noble character, but hapless son of misfortune," to whom Burns »efers in his memoir as having had a great influence on his youth. 1 My dear Sir, Edinburgh, 30M Dec, 1787. I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure than Fortune^s kindness to you since those days in which we met in the vale of misery; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiment for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent share. My Will-o'-wisp fate you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent to- gether in Eglinton Woods ? You told me, on my repeating seme verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I derived that idea, of my own pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or three months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayr- shire, and we shall meet; "and faith I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet cast out ! " I have much to tell you " of men, their manners, and their ways ; '' per- haps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found sub- stantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered, but not a different man : the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the steady affectionate husband, the fond and careful parent. For me, I am just the same Will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind bf wisdom ; but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tor- nadoes, which blow me into chaos. All-mighty love still reigns and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this moment ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key ot which I cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by the following verses which she sent me the other day. . . . My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu ! 368 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. LXXXIV. TO CLARlNrA. [Mrs. M'Lehose, as is evident from the allusions in Burns's letters, repeatedly sent him verses of her own composition. The lines referred to in the following letter will give a fair idea of her poetical gifts. " Talk not of Love— it gives me pain. For Love has been my foe : He bound rKc in an iron chain, Avid plunged me deep in woe. •' But Friendship's pure and lasting joys My heart was form'd to prove — The worthy object be of those, But never talk of Love ! ** The hand of Friendship I accept — May Honour be our guard ! Virtue our intercourse direct. Her smiles our dear rew?.rd."] {After New Yearns day, 1788.] You are nght, my dear Clarinda : a friendly correspondence goes for nothing, except one write their undisguised sentiments. Yours please me U)r their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours, which, I assure you, is to me a high recommendation. Your religious sentiments, Madam, I revere. If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter as real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend ; — *' I am not mad, most noble Festus ! '^ Have you ever met a perfect character? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of them? For instance, I am perhaps tired with and shocked at a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies ; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, because the most unafFetted devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character — • I join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But let me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a secret pride in these endowments and emendations? Have I nothing of a Presbyterian sourness, a hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regu- lar neighbours? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and number- less modifications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own eyes, we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and which the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the ordinary observer ? My definition of worth is short: truth and humanity respecting our fellow-creatures ; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, will oae day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of unbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. Where 1 found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightly mention. THh LETTERS OF BURNS. 5O9 any attendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the consequences of human nature. I can easily enter into the subUme pleasures that your strong imagination and keen sensibility must derive from religion, particularly if a little in the shade of misfortune ; but I own I cannot, without a marked grudge, see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming a woman, as my friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a circumstance that would put it in the power of somebody (happy somebody !) to divide her attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. You will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical knowledge of the English language. So far from being inaccurate, you are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one, whom I wish you knew. Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an excellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the Scots Musical Museu?n, a work publishing by a friend of mine in this town. I want four stanzas; you gave me but three, and one of them alluded to aii expression in my former letter ; so I have taken your two first verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a third ; but you must help me to a fourth. Here they are : the latter half of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho ; I am in raptures with it. " Talk not of Love, it gives me pain, For Love has been my foe: He bound me with an iron chain, And sunk me deep in woe. " But Friendship's pure and lasting joys My heart was form'd to prove : There, welcome, win and wear the prize, But never talk of love." Your friendship much can make me blest, O why that bliss destroy? [only] Why urge the odious one request, [will] You know I must deny? The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your choice, and have left two words for your determination. The air is " The Banks of Spey," and is most beautiful. To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a much-valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding you at home (and I will send one of the chairmen to call) , I would spend from five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I cannot do more at this time, as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss , as I return home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will spend another evening with you at any rate before I leave town. Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of your faults. I am ignorant what they are ; but I am sure they mus'- 3 yo THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. be such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental accomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous narrow soul who would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have any other way than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse minds are not aware how muc-h they injure the keenly-feeling tie of bosom-friendship, when, in their foolish officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for recollecting. People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a certain intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or lowered, or even too nearly approached. You need make no apology for long letters: I am even with you. Many happy new-years to you, charming Clarinda! I can't dissemble, were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as I have done, and does not love you, deserves to be damned for his stupidity! He who loves you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damned for his villany! Adieu. Sylvander. p.S. — What would you think of this for a fourth stanza? Your thought, if love must harbor there. Conceal it in that thought, Mor cause me from my bosom tear, The very friend I sought. No. LXXXV. TO CLARINDA. [Refererence is here made to the second interview between Bums and Mrs. M'Lehose; along with the letter he sent his autobiography.] Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, like the •' ten righteous persons in Sodom," save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable months and years of life. One of these hours my dear Clarinda blest me with yesternight. " One well-spent hour, In such a tender circumstance for friends, Is better than an age of common time ! " — Thomson. My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude in support- ing what cannot be remedied — in short, the wild broken fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a favourite hero of mine. I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my life : it is truth, every word of it, and will give you a just idea of the man whom you have honoured with your friendship. I am afraid you will hardly be able to make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I shall muse on, deliciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's core : they will be in time enough for a week to come. I am truly happy THE LE T TERS OF B URNS, 3 7 - your headache is better. Oh, how can pain or evil be so daringly unfeel- ing, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form ! My little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. My every, strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda ! Sylvander. I know not what I have written, I am pestered with people around me. No. LXXXVI. TO CLARINDA. [A tender rebuke from Clarinda about his want of religion drew from him this reply.] Tuesday Night [Jan. Zl]. I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are luke- warm in that most important of all things, " O my soul, come not thou into their secrets ! " I feel myself deeply interested in your good opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is our Author and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be (not for His sake in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts^ the object of our reverential awe and grateful adoration: He is almighty and all- bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other sort of devotion. " He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to everlasting life ; " consequently it must be in every one's power to embrace His offer of " everlasting life ; " otherwise He could not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth, and charity, though it does not weril heaven, yet is an absolutely necessary prerequisite, without which heaven can neither be obtained nor enjoyed ; and, by Divine promise, such a mind shall never fail of attaining "everlasting life:" hence the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to Himself, into the hands of Jesus Christ — a great personage, whose relation to Him we cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is [that of] a guide and Saviour ; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. These are my tenets, my lovely friend ; and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jamie Deans's grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire : *' Lord, grant that we may lead a gude life ! for a gude life makes a gude end ; at least it helps. weel." I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and ma;y guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, " Talk not of love," iic, 372 rilE LETTERS OF BURNS. for indeed he has "plunged me deep in woe ! ^' Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, "in the companion, the friend, and the mistress." One indeed 1 could except — one, before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the first of women ! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core — but I dare not look in on it — a degree of agony would be the consequence. Oh, thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion — thou mayst, thou dost poison my peace, but thou shalt not t?int my honour — I would not, for a single moment, give an psylum to the most distant imagination, that would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my existence. May she be as happy as she deserves ! And if my tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom. DonH guess at these ravings ! I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. ^ It has been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours' bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me but the port. One 'Tis now " witching time of night;" and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchant- ments and spells ; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it. You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; may good angels attend and guard you as constantly as my good wishes do I " Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces." John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my pillow to-night. Oh for a little of the cp.rt-horse part of human nature ! Good- night, my dearest Clarinda ! Sylvander. No. LXXXVII. TO CLARINDA. [Clarinda writes to say she cannot imagine who is the fair one he alludes to in his last epistle. She first thought of his Jean, though uncertain whether she has his " tenderest, faithfulest friendship." She cannot understand that bonnie lassie — refusing him after such proofs of love; and admires him for his continued fondness towards her. She promises again to give him a nod at his window.] Thursday Noon {Jan. lo']. I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; bu*: you don't look to the propei story for a poet's lodging, " Where Sptculation roosted near the sky." I could almost have thrown myself over for very vexation. Why didn't you look higher? It has spoilt my peace for this day. To be so near my 1 Mrs. M'Lchose had promised to pass through his Square about two in th« afternoon, and give hipi a nod if he were at the window of his room and she could discovei it I THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 373 charming Clarinda; to miss her look while it was searching for me! I am sure "the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever. I am sorry for your little boy : do let me know to-morrow how he is. You have converted me, Clarinda (I shall love that name while I live: there is heavenly music in it!). Booth and Amelia I know well. Your sentiments on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just and noble. "To be feelingly alive to kindness and to unkindness" is a charming female character. What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only know for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in my horizon when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has almost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been as usual in its zenith, I had certainly blabbed something that would have pointed out to you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of me, something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was merely chance or kind stars that it did not, I had been undone. You would never have written me, except, perhaps, once more. Oh, I could curse circumstances ! and the coarse tie of human laws which keeps fast what common sense would loose, and which bars that happiness itself cannot give — happiness which otherwise love and honour would warrant ! But hold — I shall make no more " hairbreadth 'scapes.'' My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both strong and eternal. I told you I had but one male friend : I have but two female. I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandish- ments of flattery and courtship. Her I register in my heart's core by Peggy Chalmers : Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. She is worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the highest compliment I can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember SVLVANDER. No. LXXXVIII. TO CLARINDA. Saturday Morning, Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust me when I say 'tis also my favourite topic ; but mine is the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial di- vinity ; as I firmly believe, that every honest, upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don't send them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love, or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. " Reverence thyself" is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I think I told you Lord Bolingbroke's saying to Swift — " Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faults, I love thee entirely ; make an effort to love me with all mine." A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friend 374 THE LETTERS CF BURNS. ship. I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, Clarinda — you merit it all. Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation. I could fondly love you. judge, then, what a maddening sting your reproach would be. " Oh I have sins to Heaven, but none io yoit!'"' With what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet tlie Fly. I hope to be able to see you on foot, about the middle of next week. I am interrupted — perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me — but J won't anticipate blame. Oh Clarinda ! did you know how dear to me is your look of kindness, your smile of approbation, you would not, either in prose or verse, risk a censorious remark. ' Curst be the verse, how well so'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe ! " No. LXXXIX. TO CLARINDA. Sylvander. You talk of weeping, Clarinda : some involuntary drops wet your lines &s I read them. Offend me, my dearest angel! You cannot offend me — you never offended me. If you had ever given me the least shadow of ofTence, so pardon me, my God, as I forgive Clarinda. I have read yours again ; it has blotted my paper. Though I find your letter has agitated me into a violent headache, I shall take a chair and be with you about eight. A friend is to be with us at tea, on my account, which hinders me from coming sooner. Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded ex- pressions. For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to bear my own mind. Your unhappy Sylvander. No. XC TO CLARINDA. [After a third interview Clarinda owns her high appreciation of Burns's char- acter: "Our last interview has raised you very high in mine [esteem]. I have met with few, indeed, of your sex who understood delicacy in such circumstances." Still she fears she may be the victim of her sensibility.] Monday Even, ii o'clock. Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it; and before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with rapture : but behold, it was some fool, who had taken it into his head to turn poet, and made me an offering of the firstfruits of his nonsense. " It is not poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation of Martial, a I THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 375 famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose- notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance, waiting somebody ; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did — TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, ETC. Oh thou, whom poesy abhors' Whom prose has turned out of doors ! Heard'st thou yon groan? — proceed no further! 'Twas laurelled Martial calling raurther! I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening. Next week I must sing — The night is my departing night. The morn's the day I maun awa'; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine But wishes that I were awa' ! What I hae done for lack o' wit, I never, never can reca' ; I hope ye're a' my friends as yet — Gude night, and joy be wi' you a' ! If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier ; but I would not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace. I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of inco- herence. The only mtity (a sad word with poets and critics !) in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart *' reigns and revels ! " ♦' What art thou, Love? whence are those charms, That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? For thee the soldier quits his arms, The king turns slave, the wise man fool. In vain we chase thee from the field, And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke : Next tide of blood, alas, we yield, And all those high resolves are broke ! " I like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one's ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his Muse — " Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so." My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on niy own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! Sylvander. 376 THE LE T TERS OE B UKNS. No. XCI. TO CLARINDA. Tuesday Evening \7an. 15?]. That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted ; but I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. Oh Clarinda ! why will you wound my soul by hinting that last night must have lessened my opinion of )'Ou? True, I was "behind the scenes " with you : but what did I see ? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence ; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friend- ship, love, and pity. These I saw : I saw the noblest immortal soul creation ever showed me. I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you are complaining. 1 have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with one friend hurts you if you cannot tell every tittle of it to another. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be anything else than an object of His divine approbation? I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel ! how soon must we part! and when can we meet again? I look forward on the horrid interval with tearful eyes. What have I lost by not knowing you sooner ! I fear, I fear my acquaintaince with you is too short, to make that lasting impression on your heart I could wish. Sylvander. No. XCII. TO CLARINDA. Sunday Night {Jan. 20?]. The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indisposi- tion to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me all this evening to write to my dear Clarinda ; but " Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves." I cursed them in my soul : they sacrilegiously disturb my meditations on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man ! A little alarm last ni^ht and to-day that I am mortal, has made such a revolution in my spirits ! there is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the mind. I have no idea of the courage that braves Heaven. 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can scarce hold up my head ; but I am happy you don't know it, you would be so uneasy. Sylvander. THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 377 Monday Morning. I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning, on the whole ; but I have a horrid languor on my spirits — " Sick of the world and all its joy, My soul in pining sadness mourns : Dark scenes of woe my mind employ, The past and present in their turns." Have you ever met with a saying of the great and likewise good Mr. Locke, author of the famous Essay on the Himiatt Understanding f He wrote a letter to a friend, directing it " Not to be delivered till after my decease." It ended thus — "I know you loved me when living, and will preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is — that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu ! I leave my best wis.hes with you. — J. Locke." Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. Thou Almighty Preserver of men ! Thy friendship, which hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure it shall all the future days and nights of my life be my steady care ! The idea of my Clarinda follows : — " Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mix'd with God's, her loved idea lies." But I fear inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence, and the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps " such things are. " One honest man I have great hopes from, that way ; but who, except a romance writer, would think on a love that could promise for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too, with slender hopes of fmition? For my own part, I can say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou art the man ; " I dare, in cool resolve, I dare declare myself that friend and that lover. If womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is ; and feel I shall be miserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, or one sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess superior to any woman I ever saw : her exalted mind, aided a little perhaps by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiam. May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel ? The next Wed- nesday again will, I conjecture, be a halted day to us'both. I tremble for censorious remarks for your sake ; but in extraordinary cases, may not usual and useful precautions be a little dispensed with? ' Three evenings, three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past — I dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow evening; 'twill be a farewell call. I have written out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last half-sheet. What a strange, mysterious faculty is that thing called imagi- nation ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world ; but I have often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be en- joyed by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter to \sic'\ , in 378 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I just as we are at present, the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our minds — and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary sup- plies for the wants of nature at all times and easily within our reach ; imagine further that we were set free from the laws of gravitation which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without inconvenience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of creation — what a life of bliss snould we lead in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love ! I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous Mahometan; but I am certain I should be a happy creature, beyond any- thing we call bliss here below ; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you too. Don't you see us hand in hand, or rather my arm about your lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars ; or surveying a comet flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark the passing pomp of a travelling monarch ; or in a shady bower of Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love and mutual converse, rely- ing honour, and revelling endearment — while the most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready, spontaneous language of our souls ? Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart, so is it of mine ; what incentives then to, and powers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being whose un- searchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired every sense and feeling ! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper. Sylvander. No. XCIII. TO MISS CHALMERS. Now for that wayward unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke meas- ures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me upon his honour that I should have the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me ! a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions. ]'I wish that I were dead, but Pm no' like to die!" I had lately "a hair-breadth 'scape in th' imminent deadly breach" of love, too. Thank my stars, I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyed (worse frightened) than hurt." — Interruption. I have this moment got a hint ... I fear I am something like — undone — but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride, and unshrinking reso- lution ; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world ! You must I THE LE r TERS OF B URNS. 3 ;79 not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn-hope. Seriously, though, life presents me with but a melancholy path : but — my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on. — R. B. No. XCIV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh, yaniiary -21, 1788. After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a mis- erable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet — a little more conspicuously wretched. i am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop House. — R. B. No. XCV. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY. [It had long been a favourite project with Burns to get a place in the Excise. Through the influence of the friends appealed to in the following letters, his name was placed on the list of candidates to be appointed as vacancies occurred.] Sir, When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole House, I did not so soon think of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shak- speare, asked old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers : " Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master." For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. \ou know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a super- visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 380 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with anything like busi- ness, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of lifep in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable manner which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws | of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued I him. ■ I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be ap- pointed to a division — where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been to(? often so distant from my situation? — R. B. No. XCVI. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [This appeal was not successful in obtaining Lord Glencairn's patronage in matter.] My Lord, I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am going to make to you ; but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise : I am told that your lordship's interest will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, enbolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude. My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will probably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and after the assistance which I have given, and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hundred pounds; and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old age. These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved from the matures t delib- eration ; and now I am fixed. I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage is the strength of my hopes ; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill-qualified to dog the heels THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 381 of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial ; but to your lordship I have not only the honor, the comfort, but the pleasure of being Your lordship's much and deeply indebted humble Servant, R. B. No. XCVII. TO CLARINDA. [The next letter to Clarinda was written on the d^^y following their fourth meeting.] Thursday Morning [January 24?]. " Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 1 have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms have few, very, very few parallels among her sex ; why, or how she shoula fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairum-scairum poet whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill-humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to see how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again ; you have cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my making ; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, which no svoman of any age ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters of this age are better able to confer." Evening, 9 o'clock. I am here, absolutely so unfit to finish my letter — pretty hearty after a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set the song finely. I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your healtU twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this world. Sylvander. 382 THE LETTERS OF B>JRNS. No. XCVIII. TO CLARINDA. [Mrs. M'Lehose's letter after the last interview shows she was well aware of the delicate, not to say dangerous footing of her acquaintance with the Poet : " I am neither well nor happy to-day : my heart reproaches me for last nighl. If you wish Clarinda to regain her peace, determine against everything but what the strictest delicacy warrants. . . . Do not be displeased when 1 tell you I wish our parting was over. At a distance, we shall retain the same heartfelt affection and interestedness in each other's concerns; but absence will mellow and restrain those violent heart agitations which, if continued much longer, would unhinge my very soul, and render me unfit for the duties of life."] [Friday, February i?j Clarinda, my life, )-ou have wounded my soul. Can I think of your being unhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic elegance of language, without being miserable ? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from you that " you will not see me to-morrow night — that you wish the hour of parting were come ? " Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. . . . Why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms ; every word of which cuts me to the very soul ? You know, a hint, the slightest significa- tion of your wish, is to me a sacred command. Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and me ; and I pledge you Sylvander's honour — an oath I daresay you will trust without reserve — that you shall never more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, my love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted looks. . . . I have marked the line of conduct — a line, I know, exactly to your taste — and which I will inviolably keep ; but do not show you the least inclination to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you know you may confide, is a cruel sin against sensibility. " Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at once : take care that you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie that unites us." Clarinda, I would not have stung yoj^r soul — I would not have bruised your spirit, as that harsh, crucifying " Take care,""' did mine; no, not to have gained heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half transgressed the laws of decorum, if he did not show more chastised, trembling, faltering delicacy, than the many of the world do in keeping these laws? Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace ! I love to madness, and I feel to torture ! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself that I have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain ! Would I do it willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification make me do so? Oh, did you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put oiT a meeting v;ith the man who adores you ; who would die a thousand deaths before he would injure you ; and who must soon bid you a long farewell ! 1 had proposed bringing my bosom fiiend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow evening, at his strong request, to se.e you ; as he has only time to staf THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 3^3 with us about ten minutes, for an engagement. But I shall hear from you ; this afternoon, for mercy's sake ! — for, till I hear from you, I am wretched. Oh, Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with my dearest threads of life ! Sylvander. No. XCIX. TO CLARINDA. 1 WAS on the way, my love, to meet you (I never do things by halves) when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morning to see a brother of his, who is newly arrived from France. I am deter- mined that he and I shall call on you together. So look you, lest I should never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night. Mary^ and you may put off tea till about seven, at which time, in the Galloway phrase, " an the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," expect the humblest of your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We only propose staying half an hour — "for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment — all ^Ise is of the stuff of stocks and stones. Sylvander. No. C. TO CLARINDA. Sunday N'oon. I HAVE almost given up the Excise idea. I have been just now to wait on a great person, Miss ''s friend . Why will great people not only deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their fas- tidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorily wise? I have been questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and schooled for my inscription on the Stirling window. Come, Clarinda! — " Come, curse me Jacob ; come, defy me Israel ! " Sufiday Night, I have been with Miss Nimmo. She is indeed " a good soul," as my Clarinda finely says. She has reconciled me, in a good measure, to the world with her friendly prattle. Schetki has sent me the song, set to a fine air of his composing. I have called the song "Clarinda:" I have carried it about in my pocket, and hummed it over all day. Monday Morning. If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on you and ^nds you in the arms of peace, except where it is charmingly ^ One of Mrs. M'Lehose's friends. 384 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of mind, so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world, when I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation — a consciousness of Almighty friendship — that I am sure I shall soon be an honest enthusiast. " How are thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence! " I am, my dear Madam, yours, Sylvander. No. CI. TO CLARINDA. fin her next and several subsequent letters, Clarinda still dwells on Burns's want of religious faith. " Sylvander," she says, " I believe nothing were a more im- practicable task than to make you feel a little of genuine Gospel humility. Believe me, I wish not to see you deprived of that noble fire of an exalted mind which you eminently possess. Yet a sense of your faults — a feeling sense of them — were devoutly to be wished." Another interview preceded the following letter from Sylvander.] Sunday Morning. I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda ; according to my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next devote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy — happiness that the world cannot give. I kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to bestow : your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country ; and he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that " the earth owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, can bestow. Sunday Evening-. You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it p^ives, to bosom the kind feelings of friend- ship and the formal throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of louring resent- ment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the immor- tal part of man. If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects of tUiim, it would be something in their favour; but these miserable pas- J/T , like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 385 Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love ! do Thou give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup ! Is it a draught of joy ? — warm and open my heart to share it with cordial, un- envying rejoicing. Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ? — melt my heart with sincerely sympathetic wo. Above all, do Thou give me the manly mind that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments which I would wish to be thought to possess. The friend of my soul ; there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there, may the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination ! Did you ever meet with the following lines sj^oken of religion — your darling topic "i — '^'Ti'i this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; '7'ts this that gilds the horrors of our night; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels its dart; Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies." I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with them, that I have them by me, copied at school. Good-night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda ! Sylvander. No. CII. TO CLARINDA. [Clarinda's letters grew more passionate as the correspondence draws to a close. " Never," she writes, " were there two hearts formed so exactly alike as ours. At all events, Sylvander, the storms of Hfe will quickly pass, and * one unbounded spring encircle all.' Love, there, is not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. Oh God ! I must lay down my pen." Mr. Robert Chambers says he has heard Clarinda, at seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one heart that she had ever found herself able entirely to sympathise with, but which had been divided from her on earth by such pitiless obstacles.] Thursday Night. I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me in your bosom gives me pain. If there is no man on earth to whom your heart and affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where you please. The (Jod of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be bestowed on somebody; and even all the imprudence lies in bestowing them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is conclusive, as it certainly is, I must be allowed to " talk of love." It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter : it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and restraint 386 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. is the death of a friendly epistle ; but there is one passage in 3'our last charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, nor often came up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future poetic production, and get immortal fame by it. 'Tis when you bid the scenes of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda ? I would detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous blockhead. I have loved women of ordinary merit, whom I could have loved for ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable individual of the beauteous sex that I ever met with ; and never woman more entirely possessed my soul. I know myself, and how far I can depend on passion's swell. It has been my peculiar study. I thank you for going to Miers. Urge him, for necessity calls, to hare it done by the middle of next week : Wednesday the latest day. I want it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, and only then, your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a reverence akin to devotion. To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night ! I am perfectly stupid, as I supped late yesternight. Sylvander, No. cm. TO CLARINDA. Saturday Morning. There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of love and friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what our fevourite Thomson calls "philosophic melancholy." The sportive insects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity, or the worms, that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth; they need no Clarinda — they would despise Sylvander, if they dared. The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters ! they need a resting-place to their souls. Unnoticed, often condemned by the world — in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves — they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate, tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are v^^rung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. " 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night." I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says. " the dark postern of time long elapsed ; " and you will easily guess 'twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple: what strength, what proportion m some parts ! — what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others ! I THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 387 kneeled down before the Father of Mercies, and said, " Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son ! " I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the super- stition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. " The future," said I to myself, " is still before me : there let me ' On reason build resolve — That column of true majesty in man ! ' I have difficulties many to encounter," said I; "but they are not abso- lutely insuperable: and where is firmness of mind shown, but in exertion? Mere declamation is bombast rant. Besides, wherever I am, or in what- ever situation I may be, * 'Tis nought to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy."* Saturday Night, Half after Ten. What luxury of bliss I was enjoying at this time yesternight ! My ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul : but you have refined, you have exalted it ; you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex ! if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you — if ever your lovely image is eftaced from my soul, " May I be lost, no eye to weep my end, And find no earth that's base enough to bury me ! " What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day children of the world ! 'Tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields and forests ; but, where sentiment and fancy unite their sweets, where taste and delicacy refine, where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender endearment ! No. CIV. TO CLARINDA. I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if you ever forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be miserable. Oh, what a fool I am in love ! what an extravagant prodigal of affection J Why are your sex called the tender sex, when I never have met with on^ who can repay me in passion ? They are either not so rich in love as 1 am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou see'st me here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom : do Thou direct to Thyself that ardent love, for which I have so often sought a returi? in vain from my fellow-creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in 388 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our band of love and friendship ; watch over us, in all our outgoings and incomings for good ; and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the thread of man's immortal life ! I am just going to take your blackbird, the sweetest, I am sure, that ever sung, and prune its wings a Httle. Sylvander. No. CV. TO CLARINDA. Tuesday Morning. I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a line by way of a sin offering ; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of ignorance. Could you think that I intended to hurt you by anything I said yester- night? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, your delicacy, your sensibility. Oh why should such glorious qualifications be the fruitful source of wo! You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. I went to bed impressed with an idea that you were unhappy ; and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you are not well this morning. ■ " If I unwitting have offended. Impute it not." " But while we livp But one short hour, perhaps, between us two Let there be peace." If Mary has not gone by the time this reaches you, give her my best compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love. I send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell some fairy charm, that would protect from injury, or restore to rest, that bosom chord, *' trembling alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, vainly I fear thought, that the devotion of love — love strong as even you can feel, love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of virtue, and all the pride of honour — I thought such a love might make you happy. Shall I be mistaken? I can no more, for hurry. No. CVI. TO CLARINDA. Friday Morning, 7 o'clock. Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I suppose, my love, you and I showed her a scene which, perhaps, made her wish that she had a swain, and one who could love like me ; and 'tis a thousand pities that so good THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 389 a heart as hers should want an aim, an object. I am miserably stupid this moining. Yesterday I dined with a baronet, and sat pretty late over the bottle. And " who hath wo — who hath sorrow? they that tarry loner at the wine ; they that go to seek mixed wine." Forgive me, likewise a quotation from my favourite author. Solomon's knowledge of the world is very great. He may be looked on as the Spectator or Adventurer ot his day : and it is, indeed, surprising what a sameness has ever been in human nature. The broken, but strongly characterising hints, that the royal author gives us of the manners of the court of Jerusalem and country of Israel are, in their great outlines, the same pictures that London and England, Versailles and France, exhibit some three thousand years later The loves in the - Song of Songs "are all in the spirit of Lady M. W. Montagu, or Madame Ninon de PEnclos ; though, for my part, I dislike both the ancient and modern voluptuaries ; and will dare to affirm, that such an attachment as mine to Clarinda, and such evenings as she and I have spent, are what these greatly respectable and deeply experienced judges of life and love never dreamed of. I shall be with you this evening between eight and nine, and shall keep as sober hours as you could wish. I am ever, my dear Madam, yours, Sylvander. No. CVII. TO CLARINDA. [The "Puritanic scrawl" is an allusion to some reproaches which had beon Addressed to Mrs. M'Lehose, on account of her intimacy with Burns.] My ever dearest Clarinda, ^ I make a numerous dinner-party wait me while I read yours and wnte this. Do not require that I should cease to love you, to ador^you in my soul; tis to me impossible: your peace and happiness are tome dearer than my soul. Name the terms on which you wish to see me, to correspond with me, and you have them. I must love, pine, mourn, and adore in secret : this you must not deny me. You will ever be to me "Dear as the light that visits those sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart." I have not patience to read the Puritanic scrawl. Damned sophistry! Ye heavens, thou God of nature, thou Redeemer of mankind ! ye look down with approving eyes on a passion inspired by the purest flame, and guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour; but the half-inch soul of an unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian bigot cannot forgive anythincr above his dungeon-bosom and foggy head. ^ :i t^ Farewell! Til be with you to-morrow evening; and be at rest in your mind I will be yours in the way you think most to your happiness. 1 dare not proceed. I love, and will love you ; and will, with joyous 390 THE LETTERS OF BURNS, confidence, approach the throne of the Almighty Judge of men with your dear idea ; and will despise the scum of sentiment and the mist of sophistry. Sylvander. No. CVIII. TO CLARINDA. Madam Wednesday, Midnight. After a wretched day, I am preparing for a sleepless night. I am going to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions — some time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. 1 am not going to be the advocate of Passion : be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O God, as I plead the cause of truth ! I have read over your friend's haughty, dictatorial letter: you are only answerable to your God in such a matter. Who gave any fellow-creature of yours (a fellow-creature incapable of being your judge, because not your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and insult, wantonly and inhumanly to insult, you thus? I don't wish, not even wish, to deceive you. Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my witness how dear you are to me ; but though it were possible you could be still dearer to me, I would not even kiss your hand at the expense of you.- conscience. Away with declamation ! let us appeal to the bar of common sense. It is not mouthing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions; it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly assuming, the dictatorial language of a Roman pontitf, that must dissolve a union like ours. Tell me. Madam, are you under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow your love, tenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul, on Mr. M'Lehose — the man who has repeatedly, habitually, and barbarously broken through every tie of duty, nature, or gratitude to you? The laws of your country, indeed, for the most useful reasons of policy and sound government, have made your person inviolate ; but are your heart and affections bound to one \vho gives not the least return of either to you? You cannot do it ; it is not in the nature of things that you are bound to do it; the common feelings of humanity forbid it. Have you, then, a heart and affections which are no man's right? You have. It would be highly, ridiculously absurd to suppose the contrary. Tell me, then, in the name of common sense, can it be wrong, is such a supposition compatible with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is improper to bestow the heart and these affections on another — while that bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful to your duty to God, to your children, to your- self, or to society at large ? This is the great test ; the consequences : let us see them. In a widowed, forlorn, lonely situation, with a bosom glowing with love and tenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot indulge these nobler feelings except you meet with a man who has a soul capable 1 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 39 1 No. CIX. TO CLARINDA. •' I AM distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan/' I have suffered, Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal. I dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have wronged you, God forgive me. But, Clarinda, be comforted. Let us raise the tone of our feelings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us — who spurns us without just cause, though once our bosom friend — up with a little honest pride : let him go ! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the injury? Can I wish that I had never seen you — that we had never met? No, 1 never will. But, have I thrown you friendless? — there is almost distraction in the thought. Father of mercies ! against Thee often have I sinned : through Thy grace I will endeavour to do so no more. She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself — pour Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about widi Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights. Strengthen her tender, noble mind firmly to suffer and magnanimously to bear. Make me worthy of that friendship, that love she honours me with. May my attachment to her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life ! O Ahmighty Goodness, hear me ! Be to ner at all times, particularly in the hour of distress or trial, a friend and comforter, a guide and guard. " How are thy servants blest, O Lord, How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence." Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you. To-night I shall be with you, as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you. Sylvander. No. ex. TO CLARINDA. Two o'clock. I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very serious with us; then seriously hear me, and hear me. Heaven — I met you, my dear , by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, I loved you at first sight ; the longer I am acquainted with you, the more innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friend- ship — if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship — if a love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion — if all these can make anything like a compensation for the evil I have occa- sioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to 392 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in his hour ol /leed, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! I esteem you, I love you as a friend : I admire you, I love you as a woman beyond any one in all the circle of creation ; I know I shall con- tinue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you — nay, to pray for myseli for your sake. Expect me at eight — and believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, Yours most entirely, Sylvandeh. No. CXI. TO CLARINDA. When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate face — " On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man" — or, as the same author finely says in another place, " Let thy soul spring up And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee." I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look forward : in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other, out of the possibility of seeing you ; till then, I shall write you often, but visit you seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the present moment is the worst ; the lenient hand of time is daily and hourly either lightening the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. None of these friends — I mean Mr. and the other gentleman — can hurt your worldly sup- port ; and of their friendship, in a little time you will learn to be easy, and by and by to be happy without it. A decent means of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peacefijl conscience, and one firm trusty friend — can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy ? These are yours. To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight, probably for the last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of these two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the man, I do not think they are entitled to any information. As to their jealousy and spying, I despise them. Adieu, my dearest Madam ! Sylvander. No. CXII. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. My dear Friend, [Edinburgh, 1788.] If once I were gone from this scene of huiry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing. Dissipa- THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 393 lion and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest Scotch enthusiast,^ a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs I could meet with. " Pompey's Ghost," words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number — the first is already published. I shall shew you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two — you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. — R. B. No. CXIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. Some things in your late letters hurt me ; not that you say them, but 'Ca2X you mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been "more fool than knave." A mathematician without religion is a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster. — R. B. No. CXIV. TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. Reverend and dear Sir, Edinburgh, 14^/i February, 1788. I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing in the magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication of the magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will forgive it. The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is pub- lished to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark of veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index; as I assure you, Sir, I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particularly among our west- country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly to the immortal author of "The Minstrel," who indeed never wrote anything ^ Mr. Johnson, publisher of the Scots Musical Museum. 394 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. superior to " Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried."" Your brother has prom- ised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly's reel, which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the High School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- ance, and much-respected friend in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and tlw. other, which you say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a plough- man, I shall thank you for a copy of each. I am ever, reverend Sir, With the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, R. B. No. CXV. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. My dear Friend, Edinburgh, February 15, 1788. I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if possible, you will meet me en Tuesday. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at Davies's Black Bull Inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauch- line ; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this date, where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest Friend, yours, R. B. No. CXVL TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Sunday [February 17]. To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in, I could not find ; and, indeed , after the necessary support my brother and the rest of the family required., I could not venture on farming in that style suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken : I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for T get employ instantly, I go oil il plait a Dieu — et 7/10/1 roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 3Q5 door of fortune's paiace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open to us? I was not likely to get anything to do. I wanted iin but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on, or mortifying solicitation : it is immediate bread ; and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life : besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. — R. B. No. CXVII. TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK. [This is an acknowledgment of two Highland airs which Mrs. Rose had sent him, with a very kind letter.] Madam. Edinburgh, February 17, 1788. You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your obliging favour as would have tired your patience. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness. It may be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more justly than Addison applies it — " Some souls by instinct to each other turn." There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from the cold, obsequious, dancmg-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the interme- diate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather trrns- fuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beauti- ful wild scenery of Kilravock ; the venerable grandeur of the castle ; the spreading woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with apparent delight as he passes the fairy walk at bottom of the garden ; your late distressful anxieties ; your present enjoy- ments ; your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes; my aged friend, venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and His peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. You cannot imagine, Madam, how much such feelings delight me : they are my dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should I never revisit the north, as probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I some twenty years' hence to see your little fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included: among otheis 396 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. I have given " Morag," and some few Highland airs which pleased me most, a dress which will be more generally known, though far, fai inferior in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed : the Man of Feeling, that first of m^en, has promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend and to your little Highland chieftain. i When you see the "two fair spirits of the hill" at Kildrummie,i tell them that I have done myself the honour o^ setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to come — consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same period; but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the honour to be, Madam, &c., R. B. No. CXVIII. TO CLARINDA. [On the 1 8th of February, Burns left Edinburgh for Mossgiel, visiting Glasgow and Kilmarnock on his way. In a last fond interview, Sylvander and Clarinda had parted, but the correspondence was continued. Sylvander,^had disclosed to Clarinda his unhappy liason with Jean Armour and the prospect Of a second pledge of illicit love. Clarinda in her replies speaks with kindness of Jean, but evidently looks forward on her own side to the prospect of a union with Burns, should her husband's death leave her free to marry again. "You know," she says, " I count all things (Heaven excepted) but loss, that I may win and keep you." How far Burns had any serious thoughts of marriage with Mrs. M'Lchose, should circum- htances permit it, it is difficult to say; but at any rate he reckoned himself released from all obhgations towards Jean Armour, except those of common humanity.] Glasgow, Monday E^iening, Nine o'clock. The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the attrac- tion of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects were to one another, the stronger was the attractive force. In my system, every milestone that marked my progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love? Is your heart ill at ease ? I fear it. God forbid that these persecu- tors should harass that peace, which is m.ore precious to me than my own. Be assured I shall ever think on you, muse on you^ and in my moments of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in my thoughts, "be that hour darkness ; let the shadows of death cover it ; let it not be num- bered in the hours of the day ! " " When I forget the darling theme, Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more! And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! " 1 The references in these two sentences are to Mrs. Rose's mother and her son Hugh, and ta young ladies of the neighbourhood. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 397 I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain ^ — guess my pleasure : to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are we three spending the evening. I arrived here too late to write by post ; but I'll wrap half-a-dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the Fly, under the name of a parcel. Vfou will hear from me next post-town. I would write you a longer letter, Out for the present circumstances of my friend. Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to propose your health by way of g^ace drink. Sylvander. No. CXIX. TO CLARINDA. Kilmarnock, Friday [Feb. 22]. I WROTE you, my dear Madam, the moment I alighted in Glaso^ow. Since then I have not had opportunity ; for in Paisley, where I arrived r.ext day, my worthy, wise friend Mr. Pattison did not allow me a moment's respite. I was there ten hours ; during which time I was introduced to nine men worth six thousands ; five men worth ten thousands ; his bro- ther, richly worth twenty thousands ; and a young weaver, who will have thirty thousands good when his father, who has no more children than the said weaver, and a Whig kirk, dies. Mr. P. was bred a zealous Anti- burgher; but during his widowerhood he has found their strictness incom- patible with certain compromises he is often obliged to make with those powers of darkness — the devil, the world, and the flesh. . . . His only daughter, who, "if the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," will have seven thousand pounds when her old father steps into the dark factory-office of eternity with his well-thrummed web of life, has put him again and again in a commendable fit of indignation by requesting a harpsichord. " O these boarding-schools ! " exclaims my prudent friend : *'she was a good spinner and sewer till I was advised by her foes and mine to give her a year of Edinburgh ! ■" After two bottles more, my much-respected friend opened up to me a project — a legitimate child of Wisdom and Good Sense : 'twas no less than a long-though t-on and deeply-matured design, to marry a girl fully as elegant in her form as the famous priestess whom Saul consulted in his iast hours, and who had been second maid of honour to his deceased wife. This, you may be sure, I highly applauded; so I hope for a pair of gloves by and by. I spent the two bypast days at Dunlop House, with that worthy family to whom I was deeply indebted early in my poetic career; and in about two hours I shall present your "twa wee sarkies" to the little fellow. My dearest Clarinda, you are ever present with me ; and these hours, that drawl by among the fools and rascals of this world, are only supportable in the idea, that they are the forerunners of that happy hour that ushers me to "the mistress of my soul.'' Next week I shall visit 1 Mr. Richard Brown. 39^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. Dumfries, and next again return to Edinburgh. My letters, in these hurrying dissipated hours, will be heavy trash ; but you know the writer. God bless you ! Sylvander. No. CXX. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. [This letter refers to a proposal that Robert should become guarantee for hs brother for a considerable amount. That his reluctance to assume the obligaticn did not arise from selfish modves is shewn by his advance of 1 80/. to Gilbert soon afterwards, when he had realized the proceeds of his poems.] MossGiEL, Friday Morning. The language of refusal is to me the most difficult language on earth, and you are the man in the world, excepting one of Right Honourable designation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to hold such language. My brother has already got money, and shall want nothing in my power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you ; but to be security on so large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do, except I were jji such circumstances of life as that the worst that might happen could n^t greatly injure me. I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I know the unhappy consequences : I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman for whom I have the highest respect, and to whom I am deeply obliged. I am ever, Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, Robert Burns. No. CXXI. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. My dear Sir, Mossgiel, 24M February, 1788. I arrived here, at my brothers, only yesterday, after fighting my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock against those old powerful foes of mine — the devil, the world, and the flesh; so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship. "Oh youth! enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene: almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of mind ; to cultivate mtimacy with a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 399 friends of age ; never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear ; and, for futurity — The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw ! How like you my philosophy? Give my best compliments to Mrs. B., md believe me to be, My dear Sir, yours most truly, R. B. No. CXXII. TO CLARINDA. Cumnock {^Sunday'], id March, 1788. I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda will not think my silence, for now a long week, has been in any degree owing to my forget- tilness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I wrote y)u ; and am here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post- olEice of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his corn, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation almost equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate, when he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the venerable prophet been as throng [busy] as I, he had not broken the decree, at least lot thrice a-day. I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy, intelligent firmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot : he tiinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of tie lands, much better pleased with them. I wont mention this in writing to anybody but you and [Ainslie]. Don't accuse me of being fickle: I lave the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the one most Hcely to procure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. I long to see you : your image is omnipresent to me ; nay, I am convinced I would soon idolatrize it most seriously — so much do absence and memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved otject. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you — at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home to-night, to firrd a letter from yon at the post-office in Mauchline. I have just once seen tliat dear hand since I left Edinburgh — a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell me, first of womankind! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest friendship, my correspondence — will they be any compensation for the sac-ifices you make for my sake? If they will, they are yours. If I settle on the farm I propose, I am just a day and a half's ride from Edin- burgh. We will meet — don't you say " perhaps too often! " Farewell, my fair, my charming poetess ! May all good things ever at' tend you ! I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, Sylvander. 400 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. CXXIII. TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. My dear Sir, Mauchline, 3^^1/^^4:^,1788. Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for no singing — the apology better than the song, I have fought my wa' severely through the savage hospitality of this country, (the object of al hosts being) to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. . . . I should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank f)r the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring baid, who was spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenev original : - " The gloom Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." 430 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. In his preface to the storm, "the glens how dark between," is noble Highland landscape ! The " rain ploughing the red mould,"" too. is beau- tifully fancied. " Ben Lomond's lofty, pathless top," is a good expression; and the surrounding view from it is truly great : the " silver mist, Beneath the beaming sun,"- is well described ; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with z little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern Muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the vision bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. But in my opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond's "hospitable flood," their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c., and the glorious description of the sportsman. This last is equal to anything in the " Seasons." The idea of " the floating tribes distant seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the same style. I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, however, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl ; I had no idea of it when I began. I should like to know who the author is : but whoever he be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me. A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books — " Letters on the Religion Essential to Man," a book you sent me before ; and " The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the Greatest Cheat." Send mc them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant. I only wish it had been in two volumes. — R. B. No. CLX. TO THE EDITOR OF THE "STAR.'- [The following protest was called forth as much by the " dour " Calvinism as by the violent Whiggism of a thanksgiving sermon preached by the Rev, Mr. Ivirkpatrick of Dunscore, in accordance with an order of the General Assembly, in memory " of that glorious event, the Revolution."] Sir, November Z, jjiZ. Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which som.e of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature — the J THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 43' principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given ^s — still, the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed or inso- lence to the fallen are held by all mankind shows that they are not natives oi the human heart. Even the' unhappy partner of our kind who is undone — the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We forget the inju- ries, and feel for the man. I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in grateful acknowledgment to the Author of all good for the consequent blessings of the glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious; to it we are likewise indebted for the present royal family, the ruling features of whose administration have ever been mildness to the subject and tenderness of his rights. Bred and educated in Revolution principles, the principles of reason and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we may bless God for all His goodness to us as a nation, without at the sama time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas and made attempts that most of us would have done had we been in their situation. "The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart" may be said with pi-opriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family and the sentiments of our days ; but is there no allowance to be made for the manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of "bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors. The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be this : — At that period the science of government, the knowledge of the true relation between king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoying: but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and th« rights of subjects. In this contest between prince and people — the consequence of tha- light of science which had lately dawnad over Europe — the monarch of France, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his people : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed 432 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing incon- sistent with the covenanted terms which placed them there. The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly and impracticability of their attempts in 171 5 and 1745. That they failed, I bless God, but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders and commanders are often hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency, and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes or brand us as madmen, just as they are for or against us ? Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being : who v/ould believe. Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and refinement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them, that a certain people under our national protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our whole legislative body, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did of the House of Stuart? I will not, I cannot, enter into the merits of the case; but I dare say the American Congress in 1776 will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the E'^glish Convention was in 1688, and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong- headed House of Stuart. To conclude, Sir : let every man who has a tear for the many miseries incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and let every Briton (and par- ticularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. — R. B. No. CLXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. Madam, Mauchline, 13M Navember, 1788. I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter women because they are weak : if it be so, poets must be weaker still; for Misses R. andK. and Miss G. M'K. with their flattering attentions and artful compliments absolutely turned my head. I own that they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron ; but they so intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and delicate inuendoes of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection how much additional weight and lustre your good opinion and friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a person of no smaP consequence. I dare not say one woiri how much ! 7 'HE LE7-I ERS OF B URNS. 433 was charmed with tlie Major's friendly, welcome, elegant manner, and acute remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of applause over against the finest quey^ in Ayrshire, which he made me a present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on Hallow-day, I am determined annually, as that day returns, to decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. So soon as 1 know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There will soon be three- score and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart- strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of *' the feast of reason and the flow of soul." — R. B. No. CLXII. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. Reverend and dear Sir, Mauchune, November 15, 1788. As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are or were out of town, I do not know where this may find you, or whether it will find you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matrimony, in June ; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a state of health and spirits to take notice of an idle packet. I have done many little things for Johnson since I had the pleasure of seeing you; and I have finished one piece in the way of Pope's "Moral Epistles : '' but from your silence I have everything to fear ; so I have only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your present feelings. In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale : till then, my direction is at this place ; after that period it will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me were it but half a line, to let me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much — a man whom I not only esteem, but venerate ? My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs. Blacklock and Miss Johnson, if she is with you. I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased with the step I took respecting " my Jean." Two things, from my happy experience, I set down as apophthegms in life — A wife's head is immaterial compared with her heart; and, "Virtue's (for wisdom, what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.'" Adieu! R. B. * A young heifer. 434 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. CLXIII. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, engravp:r. My dear Sir, Mauchune, November 15, 1788. I have sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, oi anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very probably have four volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in this business ; but you are a patriot for the music of your country, and I am certain posterity will look on themselves as highly indebted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your name shall be immortal. I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudy, painted butterflies of a day, and then vanish forever : but your work will oudive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of time. Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion? Let me know a few of her qualities, such as whether she be rather black or fair, plump or thin, short or tall, «&:c.,and choose your air, and 1 shall task my muse to celebrate her. — R. B. No. CLXIV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. My dear honoured Friend, Elusland, ^.^th December, 1788. Yours dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. "Almost blind and wholly deaf" are melancholy news of human nature ; but when told of a much-loved and honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part and gratitude on mine began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely when you forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale ..of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- tions for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions pf my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and thfen I should not have been plagued with any idea superior to breaking of clods and picking up grubs ; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards — creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 435 again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my threatening good. I am to be at the New Year Day fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfello\M and friend was truly intsresting. Out upon the ways of the world ! they spoil these "social offsprings of the heart/' Two veterans of the " men of the world " would have met with little more heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the ^Scotch phrase, " aula lang syne," exceedingly expressiv^e? There is an old song and tunc which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as ] suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage. — R. B. No. CLXV. TO MISS DAVIES. Madam, December, i/SS. I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was : so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended, and reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity un- gratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- tion of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. 1 have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had some genius, much eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character in more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene, to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentle- man's pencil was to him, my muse is to me; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste, but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person " after my own heart,'' I positively feel what an orthodox Protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration; and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an ^olian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be '^'^ consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose persona' charms, wit, and senUment are equally striking and unatfected — by 436 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. heavens ! though I had lived threescore years a married man, and three- score years before I was a married man, my imagination would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. — R. B. No. CLXVI. TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. December 22, 1788. I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong, or six, ordinary, toddy. The whisky of this country is a most rascally liquor ; and, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the inhabitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might do a great deal of business in the way of consumpt; and should you commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your business so far as this country side. I write yoi' this on the account of an accident, which I must take the merit of having partly designed to. A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse-mill — a man who is, in a word, a "very " good man, even for a £ 500 bargain — he and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. They keep a country public-house, and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but all along thought that whisky would have degraded their house. They were perfectly astonished at my whisky, both for its taste and strength; and, by their desire, I write yoa to know if you could supply them with liquor of an equal quality, and v/hat price. Please write me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife, and fork, very much at your service. My complimenis to Mrs. Tennant and all th^ good folks in Glenconner and Barquharry- — R. B. No. CLXVII. TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. Ellisland, \December'\ 1788. I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer al< the particulars of your last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss matters viva voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well ; and an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remember the circumstance you allude to respecting Creech's opinion of Mr. Nicol ; but as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the affair. It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-commissioned THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 457 scoundrel, A . If, notwithstanding your unprecedented industry in pubhcand your irreproachable conduct in private life, he still has you so much in Lis power, what ruin may he not bring on some others 1 could name ? Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both which you so ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu ! — R. B. No- CLXVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, Ne7v-year-day Morning, 1789. This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the Apostle James's description ! — " the prayer of a righteous man avalI^th much." In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings : everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day— the first Sunday of May— a breezy, blue-skied noon some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end, oi autumn— these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind ot holiday. I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza,]' a piece that struck my young fancy before I was caoable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : "On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer." We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, wjiich on minds of a different cast makes no extraordinary impression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? 438 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the ^"olian harp, passive ;akes the impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or \fO beyond death and the grave ! — R. B. No. CLXIX. TO DR. MOORE. SlI^ Ellisland, ^th January, 1789. As often as I think of writing to you, which has been three or four times every week these six months, it gives me something so like the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a conversation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always miscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last got some business with you, and business letters are written by the style-book. I say my business is with you, Sir ; for you never had any with me, except the business that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. The character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late ^clat was owing to the singularity of my situation and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic character. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn the Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him " who forms the secret bias of the soul ; " but I as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains — at least I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press I put off" to a very distant day — a day that may never arrive ; but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession the talents of shining in every species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, that one loses in a good measure the powers of critical discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is a friend, not only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher with ^ young learner, to praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of your being that friend to me? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk of poesy to me entirely new; I mean the Epistle addressed to R. C, Esq., or Robert Graham of Eintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I lie under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like most of my poems, is connected with my own story ; and to give you the THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 439 one I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mi. Creech's ingenuous fair-dealing to me. He kept me hanging about Edin- burgh from the 7th August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before he would condescend to give me a statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, vv^hich irritated his pride. " I could " not "a tale,'' but a detail, "unfold;" but what am I that should speak against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edinburgh. I believe I shall in whole, ^100 copyright included, clear about ^400 some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gendeman has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did me the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give you this information, but I give it to yourself only ; for I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes tempted to have of him : God forbid I should ! A litde time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the business, if possible. To give the rest of my story in brief: I have married " my Jean," and taken a faim. With the first step I have every day more and more reason to be satisfied ; with the last it is rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, who supports my aged mother; another still younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh it cost me about ^180 to save them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much : I only interposed between my brother and his impending fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part : I was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour might help to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There is still one thing would make my circumstances quite easy ; I have an Excise-officer's commission, and I live in the midst of a country division. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of my great patrons might procure me a treasury-warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet Poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my future days. — R. B. No. CLXX. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. Ellisland, January 6, 1789. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir. May you bt comparatively happy, up to your comparative worth, among the sons of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest of the human race. I do not know if passing a ♦' writer to the Signet" be a trial of scientific merit or a mere business of friends and interest. However it be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, which, though I have repeated them 440 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. ten thousand times, still they rouse my manhood and steel my resolution like inspiration. On Reason build resolvt, That column of true majesty in man. — Young. Hear, Alfred, hero of the state. Thy Genius Heaven's high will declare; The triumph of the truly great, Is never, never to despair! Is never to despair! — Masque of Alfred. I grant you enter the lists of life to struggle for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. But who are they? Men like yourself, and of that aggregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short of your advantages, natural and accidental ; while two of those that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or misspend their strength, like a bull goring a bramble bush. But to change the theme : I am still catering for Johnson's publication ; and among others I have brushed up the following old favourite song a little, with a view to your worship. I have only altered a word here and there ; but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or two to add to it. — R. B. No. CLXXI. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. [Of the " Poet's Progress " Burns composed several detached pieces, but none have been preserved except a dozen satirical lines, supposed to refer to Creech. Dr. Gregory's " iron criticism " related to the " Wounded Hare."] Sir, Ei.usland, 2oM Jafi., 1787. The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a few days after I had the happiness of meedng you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the Continent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of Fintry, accompanying a request for his assistance in a matter, to me, of very great moment. To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted for deeds of kindness of serious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner grateful to the dehcate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see by the "Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years : of course I do not wish it much known. The fragment beginning " A little upright, pert, tart, &C.,'" I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching ; but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to point out the original, please to let it be for your single, sole inspection. Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 44 1 treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness — -who has entered into my interests with so much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so fully depend? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions are to me of the last consequence. My late transient acquaintance among some of the mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with ease ; but to the distinguished champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambitious of being known. The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures, the justness (iron justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your highly obliged and very humble Servant, R. B. No. CLXXII. TO BISHOP GEDDES. [Bishop John Geddes was born at Enzie, Banffshire, in 1735. He was educated at the Scotch Roman Catholic College at Rome, ordained priest in 1759, had charge of a college in Madrid for several years, and was consecrated bishop in 1780. In 1 781 he returned to Scotland, and resided chiefly at Edinburgh, but died in Aberdeen in 1799. He had met the poet at Lord Monboddo's. Bishop Geddes is often confounded with another Roman Catholic ecclesiastic and native of Enzie, Dr. Alexander Geddes, an eccentric but learned man, who pul)lished a translation of the Scriptures and various miscellaneous M'orks, and who was author of the humorous Scotch song " There was a wee bit wifiekie." It does not appear that Burns ever met Dr. A. Geddes. The book to which he refers was a copy of the Edinburgh edition of his own poems, to which he had made manuscript additions. The volume is now in the possession of Mr. James Black, Detroit, America.] Venerable Father, Elusland, February 3^, 1789. As I am conscious that, wherever I am, you do me the honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that 1 am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those great and important questions — what I am ? where I am ? and for what I am destined. In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one side on which I was habitually blameable, and there I have secured myself in the way pointea out by Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible that to so helpless a creature as a poor poet a wife and family were incum- brances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; but when the alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on account of habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" a long and much-loved 44 2 THE L£ T TERS OF B URNS. fellow-creatiire''s happiness or misery among my hands, and ^ho could trifle with such a deposit? In the affair of a Hvehhood, I think myself tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise commission, which, on my simple petition, will at any time procure hie bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour from my profession ; and though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect. Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my reverend and much-honoured friend, that my characteristical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I am determined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly; and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can enable me to pro- duce something worth preserving. You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so long, that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meeting with you ; which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning of March. That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honour me, you must still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever unconcern I give up my transient connexion with the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing notice of the learned and good without the bitterest regret. R. B. No. CLXXIII. TO MR. JAMES BURNES. My dear Sir, Ellisland, qM February, 1789. Why I did not write to you long ago is what, even on the rack, I could not answer. If you can in your mind form an idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on untried scenes of life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — an esteem which has much increased since I did know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other indictment with which you shall please to charge me. After I parted from you, for many months my life was one continued scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have taken a farm and — a wife. The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. I have gotten a lease of my farm as long as I pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a guess, and it is yet to improve and enclose, &c. ; however, I have good hopes of my bargain on the whole. My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed I have THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 443 not any reason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a very good wife, and have shaken myseh" loose of every bad failing. 1 have found my book a very profitable business, and with the profits of it i have begun life pretty decently. Should Fortune not favour me in farming, as 1 have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in another resource, which, however some folks may atfect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the Commissioners of Excise, oiTered me the commission of an excise officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer ; and accordingly I took my instructions, and have my commission by me. Whether 1 may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what 1 do not knovv ; but I have the comfortable assurance that, come whatever ill fate will, 1 can, on my simple petition to the excise-board, get into employ. We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very weak, and with a very little alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me, I expect, in summer. They are both remarkably stout young fellows, and promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever since her father's death, and \ propose keeping her in my family till she be quite woman grown, and fit her for better service. She is one of the cleverest girls, and has ons of the most amiable dispositions, I have ever seen. All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to all friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. and family. I am ever, my dear Cousin, Yours sincerely, R. B. No. CLXXTV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The two f611owing letters relate to some poems by Mr. Mylne, who had recently died, which had been sent to Burns for his judgment by the Rev. Mr. Carfrae, at the suggestion of Mrs. Dunlop.] Ellisland, ifth March, 1789. Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To a man who has a home, however humble or remote — if that home is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust. " Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you! " When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, "What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being 444 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. with the sceptre of rule and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am kicked into the world the sport of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was), who was so out of humour with the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, had he been of the Creator's council, he could have saved Him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb sinews of many of his Majesty's liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point of respectful distance, which the important creature itself requires ; as a measuring-glance at its towering altitude would determine the affair like instinct. You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has en- couraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances, and would have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean time allow me to close this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine ... I give you them, that, as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured to make in them be any real iaiprovement. " Likr ihe fair plant that from our touch withdraws, Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause; Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. And all you are, my charming . . . seem. Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose. Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, Your form shall be the image of your mind; Your manners shall so true your soul express, That all shall long to know the worth they guess; Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, And even sick'ning envy must approve." ^ R. B. 1 These lines are supposed to have been written by Mrs. Dunlop herself. 7^HE LETTERS OF BURNS. 445 No. CLXXV. TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. Rev. Sir, 1789- I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer pang of shame, than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy, circumstance of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better return. I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to some periodical publication ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid that in the present case it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems have so dunned, and daily do dun, the public, that the very name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which fate has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself) always keep in eye his respectability as a man and as a poet, ar.d take no measure that, before the world knows anything about him, would risk his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. Mylne's poems is this : — 1 will publish in two or three English and Scottish public papers any one of his English poems which should, by private judges, be thought the most excellent, and mention it, at the same time, as one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by subscription, for the sake of his numerous family ; — not in pity to that family, but in justice to what his friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most eiftctual manner, to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. — R. B. No. CLXXVI. TO CLARINDA. Madam, ^tk March, 1789. The letter you wrote me to Heron's carried its own answer ni 'ts bosom ; you forbade me to write you, unless I was willing to plead guilty to a certain indictment that you were pleased to bring against me. As I am convinced of my own innocence, and though conscious of high im- prudence and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast and attest 446 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me, Madam, if I do not carrj my complaisance so far as humbly to acquiesce in the name of villain, merely out of f:ompliment to your opinion, much as I esteem your judgment, and warmly as I regard your worth. I have already told you, and I again aver it, that at the period of timiC alluded to I was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns ; nor did I, nor could I, then know all the powerful circumstances that omnipotent necessity was busy laying in wait for me. When you call over the scenes that have passed between us, you will survey the conduct of an honest man, struggling successfully with teniptations the most powerful that ever beset humanity, and preserving untainted honour in situations where the austerest virtue would have forgiven a fall ; situations that, I will dare to say, not a single individual of all his kind, even with half his sensibility and passion, could have encountered without ruin ; and I leave you tc guess, Madam, how such a man is likely to digest au accusation of perfidious treachery. Was I to blame. Madam, in being the distracted victim of charms which, I affirm it, no man ever approached with impunity? Had I seen the least glimmering of hope that these charms could ever have been mine, or even had not iron necessity — but these are unavailing words. I would have called on you when I was in town — indeed, I could not have resisted it — but that Mr. Ainslie told me that you were determined to avoid your windows while I was in town, lest even a glance of me should occur in the street. When I have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may venture to solicit your friendship; but', be that as it may, the first of her sex I ever knew shall always be the object of my warmest good wishes. — R. B. No. CLXXVII. TO DR. MOORE. gjl^ Ellislano, 2T,d March, 1789. The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr, Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve him. Mr. Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace o'f Queensberry, on*some little business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your instructions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling, &c., for him, when he has crossed the Channel. I should not have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to serve such a character gives you much pleasure. The enclosed ode fs a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. You, probably, knew her personally, an honour THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 447 of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbour- hood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the day ; and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cum- nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode. I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own that at last he has been amicable and fair with me. — R. B. No. CLXXVIII. TO MR. HILL. [The " library scheme " here referred to is now-a-days a common institution in almost every village : but it is worth note that Burns appreciated the movement, and interested himself actively in it, at its first beginnings.] Ellisland, ind April, 1789. I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus, (God forgive me for murdering language!) that I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I beg you will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are going to borrow, apply to ... to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cellar. O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings ! — thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible and impervious to my anxious, weary feet: not those Par- nassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame arc. breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and hell, but those 448 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny expo- sure of plenty and the hot walls of profusion produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this world and natives of paradise ! Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence ! 1 he power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his infant years no longer to repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but to favour me with his peculiar countenance and protection ! He daily bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserving and the worthless : assure him, tliat I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of Lucre I will do anything, be anything — but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! But to descend from heroics. I want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English dictionary — John- son's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions the cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings' worth of anything you have to sell, and place it to my account. The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already oegun, under the direction ot Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave his infant society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that subject ; but one of these days I shall trouble you with a commission for " The Monkland Friendly Society : " a copy of " The Spectator," " Mirror," and "Lounger," "Man of Feeling," "Man of the World," "Guthrie's Geographical Grammar," with some religious pieces, will likely be our first order. When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At present every guinea has a five guinea errand with. My dear Sir, Your faithful, poor, but honest Friend, R. B. No. CLXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, i,th April, 1789. I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to you that communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather insciibe, to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how long that fancy THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 449 may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just rough- sketched as follows : — SKETCH. How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustJe, I care not, not I ; let the critics go whistle. But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour my story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong. No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right; A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses For using thy name offers fifty excuses, &c. (For the rest see page 107.) On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of assuring you, in per* son, how sincerely I am. — R. B No. CLXXX. TO MRS. McMURDO. DRUMLANRIG. Madam, Elusland, 7.d May, 1789. I have finished the piece 1 which had the happy fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; and never did little miss with more sparkling pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma, than I now send my poem to you and Mr. McMurdo, if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals, what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How do we shrink into the embittered corner of self-abasement, when neglected or condemned by those to whom we look up ! and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our stature on being noticed and applauded by those whom we honour and respect ! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of com- placency. Surely, with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures. I recollect your goodness to your humble guest, I see Mr. McMurdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude ; it may be a mixed sensa- tion. That strange, shifting, double animal man is so generally, at best, 1 " Bonnie Jean;" the heroine of which was the eldest daughter of Mrs. McMurdo, and sister to Phillis: their charms give lustre to some of the Poet's happiest lyrics. 45 o THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. but a negative, often a worthless, creature, that we cannot see real good- ness and native worth without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation. With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the honour to be, Madam, Your obliged and grateful humble Servant, R. B. No. CLXXXI. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. My dear Sir, Ellisland, 4M May, 1789. Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I received two days ago. I will not say I received it with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of ceremony: I perused it. Sir, with delicious satisfaction; — in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they should order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, as an encouragement and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be something to your taste. 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 neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our sport individuals in the animal creation that do not injvre us materially which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 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 ! — &c. <^Page 96,) Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. Cruikshank is a glorious production of the Author of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me " Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart." 1 have a good mind to make verses on you all to the tune of ' ' Three guid fellows ayont the glenn." — R. B. No. CLXXXII. TO RICHARD BROWN. My dear Friend, Mauchune, 2ij^7i/«j>', 1789- I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival. T could not resist the temptation of wishing you joy on your return, THE LE T VERS OF B URNS. 4 5 1 wishing you wjuld write to me before you sail again, wishing you would always set me down as your bosom friend, wishing you long life and prosperity, and that every good thing may attend you, wishing Mrs. Brown and your little ones as free of the evils of this world as is consistent with humanity, wishing you and she were to make two at the ensuing lying-in with which Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favour me, wishing I had longer time to write to you at present, and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, and you and I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial part}' to all eternity ! My direction is at Ellisiand, near Dumfries. Yours, R. B. No. CLXXXIII. TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. Dear Sir, Elusland, -z^th May, 1789. I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of sympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a tender string, and I know not hov; to touch it. It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments on the subjects that would give great satisfaction to — a breast quite at ease; but as one observes who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of life, "The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- with." Among some distressful emergencies that I have experienced in life. I ever laid this down as my foundation of comfort — That he who has lived the life of an honest man has by no means lived ift vain I With every wish for your welfare and future success, I am, my dear Sir, Sincerely yours, R. B. No. CLXXXIV. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. Sir, Ellisland, 30M May, 1789. I had intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but ai present the delightful sensations of an omnipotent toothache so engross all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense. However, as in duty bound, I approach my bookseller with an offering in my hand — a few poetical clinches and a song: — to expect any other kind of offering from the rhyming tribe would be to know them much less than you do. I do not pretend that there is much merit in these rnor- ceaux; but I have two reasons for sending them : primo, they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my present feelings, while fifty troops of infernal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along my jaw-bones ; and 452 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. secondly, they are so short, that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so hurt my pride in the idea that you found any work of mine too heavy to get through. I have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes and by all your hopes that the Muse will spare the satiric wink in tke moment of your foibles ; that she will warble the song of rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed on your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! Grant my- request as speedily as possible : send me by the very first fly or coach for this place three copies of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, £om.e among thy hands, until they be filled with the good things of this life, prayeth R. B. No. CLXXXV. TO MR. JOHN McAULAY. TOWN CLERK OF DUMBARTON. 1 Dear Sir Elusland, 4/A yune, 1789. Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that grand, universal inquest of right and wrong commonly called The Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin which that arch-vagabond Satan, who I understand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth — I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for which I remain, and from inability I fear must still remain, your debtor; but though unable to repay the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly remember the obligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's lan- guage, " Hale, and weel, and living; " and that your charming family are well, and promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to the company of performers whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing into, action for the succeeding age. With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by the delightful windings of the Nith, on the margin of which I have built my humble domicile ; praying for seasonable weather, or holding an intrigue with the Muses — the only gypsies with whom I have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, J trust my face is turned completely Zionward : and as it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences of former days ,vill of course fall under the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute of celestial prescription. In my family devotion, which, like a good presbytcrian, I occasionally give to my household folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the errors of my youth," &c., 7 HE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 453 and that other, " Lo, children are God's heritage/' &c., in which last Mrs- Burns, who, by the by, has a glorious " wood-note wild '' at either old song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel's " Messiah." — R. B. No. CLXXXVI. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. My dear Friend, Ellisland, Wi jun^, 1789. I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and tne companion of my peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a collection of poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, roaming on business through Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very first dreadful article was of itself too much for me. 13th. — I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience that a man's individual self is a good deal, but, believe me, a wife and family of children, whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a father, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude are spent on trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose only support, hope, and stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let nc young, un- married, rakehelly dog among you make a song of his pretended liberty and freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity, and justice, be aught but empty sounds ; then the man who may be said to live only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender, faithful embrace endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who are to be the men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of his king, and the support, nay, the very vital existence, of his country, in the ensuing age ; — compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks, statesmen; or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing, in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb- tie of what is called good fellowship — who has no view nor aim but what terminates in himself: if there be any grovelling earthborn wretch of our soecies, a renegado to common sense, who would fain believe that the noble creature man is no better than a sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no one else would have the patience. 454 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. To make you amends I shall send you soon, and, more encouraging still, without any postage one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. — R. B. No. CLXXXVII. TO MR. [PETER STUART]. [Mr. Robert Chambers has discovered that this letter was addressed to Mr. Pet^r Stuart, editor of the Star, and afterwards connected with the Morning Post ind Chronicle.'] My DEAR Sir, _ ^789- The hurry of a farmer in this particular season and the indolence of a poet at all times and seasons will, 1 hope, plead my excuse for neg- lecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. . . . When I received your letter I was transcribing for . . .my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tombstone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in con- sequence of my petition ; but now I shall send them to ... . Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust there is; and if there be a good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, where worth of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native sordid matter; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and where that heavy virtue, which is the negative consequence of steady dullness, and those thoughtless, though often de- structive, follies which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion, as if they had never been ! Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present views and schemes ar« concentred in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you, as your welfare and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to Yours, R B. No. CLXXXVIII. TO MISS WILLIAMS. [Miss Helen Maria Williams, author of " Some Verses on the Slave Trade, and other Poems," was introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore.] Madam, Elusland, 1789. Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature man, this is one of the most extraordinary, that he shall go on from da) to day, from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour fror,i the impotent consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, than the very doing of it would cost him. I am deeply indebted to you, first for the most elegant THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 455 poetic compliment, then for a polite, obliging letter, and lastly, for your excellent poem on the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! though the debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even the acknowledgment of the obligation, until you must indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way whenever I read a book — I mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a poetic one — and when it is my own property, that I take a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to .show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I take to be truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. I know very little of scientific criticism ; so all I can pretend to do in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th and loth in particular, " Where ocean's unseen bound Leav^ a drear world of waters round," are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine ; and indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, " That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest: " to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses S7th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems ungrammatical : — " Powers With no gradations mark'd their flight, But rose at once to glory's height." ♦' Ris'n " should be the word instead of " rose." Try it in prose. Powers, their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, " For this" is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 6ist, and 62d ; but let us try how the thread of connexion runs : — " For this The deeds of mercy, that embrace A distant sphere, an alien race. Shall virtue's lips record, and claim The fairest honours of thy name." 456 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, but this appears to me the only imperfect passage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam is fine. The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. The thought "Virtue . . , . Sends from her unsullied source The gems of thought their purest force," is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from verse 8ist to the 85th, that the " blest decree " is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse io8th is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor, on the one hand, and the misery of the captive, on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus: "Nor ever quit her narrow maze." We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse looth is exquisitely beautiful: — *' They, whom wasted blessings tire." Verse iioth is, I doubt, a clashing of metaphors; '' to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the universe in shade" is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the I42d is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, " The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with the true life of genius. The picture of Oppression, — " While she links her impious chain, And calculates the price of pain; Weighs agony in sordid scales. And marks if death or life prevails," — is nobly executed. What a tender idea is in verse i8oth! Indeed, that whole description of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the beginning of his " Autumn." I do not remember to have seen a stronger expression of misery than is contained in these verses : — " Condemned, severe extreme, to live When all is fled that life can give." The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original and striking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a well done, though a horrid, picture. I am not sure how far introducing the sailor was right; for though the sailor's common characteristic is generosity, yet in this case he is certainly not only an unconcerned witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business. Verse 224th is a nervous . . . expressive — "The heart convulsive anguish breaks." The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the West Indies is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 457 oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine is like the butcher's regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death is exceedingly fine. I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that 1 begin to be afraid lest I have nothing except the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful lines, how- ever, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest description oi selfishness I ever saw. The comparison in verses 285th and 286tli is new and fine ; and the line, " Your arms to penury you lend, '" is excellent- In verse 317th, " like " should certainly be " as" or " so ; " for instance — " His sway the hardened bosom leads To cruelty's remorseless deeds; As {or so) the blue lightning, when it springs With fury on its livid wings, Darts on the goal with rapid force, Nor heeds that ruin marks its course." If you insert the word *' like" where I have placed ** as," you must alter " darts" to " darting," and " heeds" to " heeding," in order to make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not remember anything even in Thomson's " Winter" superior to your verses from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed the last simile, beginning with " Fancy may dress, " &c., and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. I will not beg your pardon. Madam, for these strictures, as my con- science tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by. — R. B. No. CLXXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Dear Madam, Ellisland, 21J/ yune, 1789. Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions, of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring? I know not of any particular cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me ; but for some time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations and gloomy pre"sages. Monday Evetiing. I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, deliver me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible Great Being, to whom I owe my existence ; and that He must be intimately acquainted\vith the operations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward deportment, of this creature which He has made ; these are, I 458 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. I think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinc- tion between virtue and vice, and, consequently, that I am an accountable creature ; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of His doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though, to appearance. He Himself was the obscurest and most illiterate of our species — therefore Jesus Christ was from God. Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness, of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. What think you, Madam, of my creed.? I trust that I have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one whose good opinion I value almost next to the approbation of my own mind. — R. B. No. CXC. TO LADY GLENCAIRN. My Lady, The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could use those old verses, which please me more in their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I ever saw : — " If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand. My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave. If I do thee foruet, Jerusalem, and thee above My chief joy do not set." When I am tempted to do anything improper. I dare not, because I look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. Now and then, when I have the honour to be called to the tables Qf the great, if I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self- sufficient squires or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by calling to remembranje that I am patronised by the noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a christening, or the Kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with, " The Countess of Glencairn ! " My good woman, with the enthusiasm of a grateful heart next cries, " My Lord ! " and so the toast goes on until I end with " Lady Harriet's little angel ! " whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write. THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 459 When I received your ladyship's letter, I was just in the act of tran- scribing for you some verses I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those fears were indeed too true : it is a bargain that would have ruined me but lor the lucky circumstance of my having an excise commission. People may talk as they please of the ignominy of the excise ; 50/. a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the world ; and I would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my profession. Another advantage I have in this business is the knowledge it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vasdy in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the Muses when nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled now that my Lord Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no idea of publish- ing, else J certainly had consulted my noble, generous patron ; but after acting the part of an honest man, and supporting my family, my whole wishes and views are directed to poetic pursuits. I am aware, that though I were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, still, if they were the same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on che drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic Muse. . . . Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with affectation, foLly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only know at second-hand? I have the honour to be. Your ladyship's ever devoted and grateful humble Servant, R. B. No. CXCI. TO MR JOHN LOGAN [of KNOCKSHINNOCH, glen AFTON, AYRSHIRE]. Dear Sir, Elusland, mar Dumfries, -jtli A7(g., 1789. I intended to have written you long ere now, and, as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poetic epistle to you ; but that old enemy of all good works, the devil, threw me into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a long ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm " ; but now that it is done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits in some of the stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into the public : so I send you this copy, the first that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off" in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the 460 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. express provision and request that you will only read it to a few of us, anri do not on any account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though it should be at a much greater expense than irritating a few bigoted priests ; but I am afraid serving him in his present embarras is a task too hard for me. I have enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as a small but sincere testimony how much, and with what respectful esteem, I am, dear Sir, Your obliged humble Servant, R. B. No. CXCII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Dear Madam, Elusland, 6M 5./^., T789. I have mentioned in my last my appointment to the Excise and the birth of little Frank ; who, by the by, I trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older, and like- wise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious but modest composition. I should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country ; and I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; and, except v^'hen prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, 1 sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I would sit down to it with as nmch pleasure as 1 would to write an epic poem of my own composi- tion that should equal the " Iliad." Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand years, have in some mode or other firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the most ardent wishes THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 461 and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favorite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, " Against the day of battle and of war " — spoken of religion : " 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright: 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night : When v/ealth forsakes us, and when friends are few. When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue, 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels his dart; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." I have been busy with " Zeluco." The Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of it : and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel-writing ; but it is a depth beyond my research. I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. " Zeluco " is a most sterling performance. Farewell ! A DCeu, le bon Dieu,Je voiis com?nende! — R. B. No. CXCIII. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, [The " important day " was that on which the contest with the famous Danish whistle was to take place at Captain Riddel's — the contest, who of the company could drink deepest and longest without losing the power of blowing the whistle.] Sjr Ellisland, itth Oct., 1789. Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, I have watched the elements and skies in the full persuasion that they would announce it to the astonished world by some phenomena of terrific por- tent. Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of nature that bury nations. The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly : they did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me, as Thomson in his "Winter" says of the storm, I shall •' Hear astonished, and astonished sing " The whistle and the man : I sing The man that won the whistle, &c. 462 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. Here are we met, three merry boys; Three merry boys I trow are we ; And mony a night we've merry been. And mony mae we hope to be. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold coward loun is he: Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three. To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale o\ prose — I have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, when I request you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two enclosed covers for me ; the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- land, Bart., at Kilmarnock; the other to Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing- Master, Edinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to- morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant again for them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned with laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, Sir, Your deeply indebted humble Servant, R. B. No. CXCIV. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. A My dear Friend, Ellisland, \st Ncrvember, 1789. I had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to find you ; for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliver you from evil ! I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents and purposes an officer of excise, there to flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of repentance. I know not how the word exciseman, or, still more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day, when my auditory nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; but a wife and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement which I once heard a recruit- ing Serjeant give to a numerous, if not a respectable, audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock : " Gentlemen, for your further and better encourage- THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 463 ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance for preferment."''' You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagree- able circumstances in my business ; but I am tired with and disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills: capricious, foolish man mistakes these inconven- iences and ills, as if they were the peculiar property of his particular situation ; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is, almost without exception, a constant source oi disappointment and misery. I long to hear from you how you go on — not so much in business, as in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably at ease in your internal reflections? 'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great character as a man. That you may be both the one and the other is the earnest wish, and that vou will be both is the firm persuasion, of, My dear Sir, &c., R. B. No. CXCV. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. Ellisland, i,th Noz'ember, 1789. I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as 1 wished ; and even now you are to look on this as merely confess- ing debt, and craving days. Few things could have given me so much pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra firma, and happy in that place where happiness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in all those endearing connexions consequent on the tender and venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an addidonal income of ^{^50 a year, while, at the same time, the appointment will not cost me above ^10 or £\i per annum of expenses more than I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance is, that the excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less than ten parishes to ride over; and it abouiids besides with so much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare moment, However, labour endears rest, and both together are absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of human existence I cannot meet you anywhere. No less than an order from the Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come and see me. We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, before you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on 464 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. earth, my brothers excepted ; and is not th.at an endearing circumstance? When you and I first met, we were at the green period of human life. The twig would easily take a bent, but would as easily return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but by the melancholy, though strong, influence of being both of the family of the unfortunate, we were entwined with one another in our growth towards advanced age ; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the union ! You and I must have one bumper to my favourite toast, " May the com- panions of our youth be the friends of our old age ! " Come and see me one year ; I shall see you at Port Glasgow'the next : and if we can contrive to have a gossiping between our two bedfellows, it will be so much addi- tional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, R. B. No. CXCVI. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY. Sir, '^^ December, 1789, I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something that throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, " You have found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by everything in your power to keep alive and cherish." Now, though since God has thought proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though my being under your patron- age is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself in my welfare, and principally as such still you permit me to approach you. I have found the excise business go on a great deal smoother with me than I expected; owing a. good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. Mitchel, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me" indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between ; but I meet them now and then as I jog throuo^h the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the production of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. Though I dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire which 1 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 465 shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon and the Kihnarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergy- men of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest, of the whole priest- hood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local ; but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though 1 am conv'nced in my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run match in the whole general election. I am too little a man to have any political attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both parties ; but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who , is a character that one cannot speak of with patience. 1 Sir J. J. does what " what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. No. CXCVII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, \-},th Decejnber, 1789. Many thanks, dear Madam, for 3-our sheet-full of rhymes. Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system — a system, the state of which is most conducive to our happiness, or the most pro- ductive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous headache, that I have been obliged for a time to give up my excise-books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a week over ten muir parishes. What is man? — To-day, in the luxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyments of existence; in a few days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of ariguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows night, and night comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life is something at which he recoils. " Tell us, ye dead; will none of you in pity Disclose the secret What ^tisyoii are, and ive must shortly be ? 'tis no matter : A little time will make us learned as you are." Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish eing, I shall still find myself in conscious existence ? When the last gasjr A agony has 1 This is evidently ••' Old Q.," the Duke of Queensbeiry. 466 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. announced that I am no more to those that knew me, and the few who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable sages and holy flamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond death; or are they all alike, baseless visions and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane : what a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I shall meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and bravely struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend, of my early life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with every- thing generous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from the All- good Being animated a human form, it was thine! There should I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. My Mary, dear departed shade, Where is thy place of heavenly rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ' A Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust thou art no impostor, and that Thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and the grave is not one of the many impositions which time after time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I tmst that in Thee " shall all the families of the earth be blessed," by being yet connected together in a better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart in this state of existence shall be, far beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and, but to you, I would not venture to write any-' thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than half of any Acuities he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he l^ould throw into the fire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed anything at all. Rumour told me something of a son of yours, who was returned from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as I promise you, on the sincerity of a man who is weary of one world, and anxious about another, that scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. If you have" a minute^s leisure, take up your pen in pity to le jtauvrt miserable. — R. B. THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 4^7 No. CXCVIII. TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. Sir, 1790- The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the sta- tistical account transmitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publication, you are the besl judge. To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge is cer- tainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to society at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reflection is giving them a source of innocent and laudable anmsement, and, besides, raises them to a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a plan so simple as to be practi- cable in any corner of the country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice of every country gentleman who thinks the improvement of that part of his own species whom chance has thrown into the humble walks of the peasant and the artizan a matter worthy of his attention. Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants and farming neighbours to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for three years ; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a distance, or death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With their entry-money, and the credit which they took on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase was always de- cided by the majority. At every meeting all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be produced ; and the members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. He whose name stood, for that night, first on the list, had his choice of what vohmie he pleased in the whole collection; the second had his choice after the first; the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting, was last at this ; he who had been second was first; and so on, through the wide three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves ; each man had his share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under Mr. RiddePs patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected together upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the books, however, of this little library wer% Blair's Sermons, Robertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History of 468 ThE LETTERS OF BURNS. the Stewarts, "The Spectator," "Idler," "Adventurer," "Mirror,"' "Lounger," "Observer," "Man of Feeling," "Man of the World," " Chrysal," "Don Quixote," *• joi^eph Andrews," &c. A peasant who can read and enjoy such hooks is certainly a much superior being to his neighbour who, perhaps, stalks beside his team very little removed, except in shape, from the brutes he drives. Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, I am. Sir, Your humble Servant, A Peasant. No, CXCIX. TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL CONSTABLE. [Lady Winifred was grand-daughter of the Earl of Nithsdale, the romantic story of whooe escape from the Tower (where he was imprisoned for his share in the insurrection of 171 5), through the heroism of his wife, is well known. She mar- ried William Haggerston Constable, of Everingham.] Ellisland, ittk Dec, 1789. ... To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I have never done, and I trust never shall do. But with your ladyship I have the honour to be connected by one or the strongest and most endearing ties in the whole moral world; common sufferings in a cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious — the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers had not illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what they could they did, and what they had they lost : with unshaken firmness and unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for what they esteemed the cause of their king and their country. This language and the enclosed verses [addressed to Mr. William Tytler] are for your ladyship^s eyes alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence ; but as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no more, I do not wish to hurt myself. — R. B. No. CC. TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., OF HODDAM. [Mr. Sharpe was a man of some accomplishments — a good violinist and a com- poser of original music. He also wrote verses for his own airs. The following letter was written by Burns under a fictitious signature, enclosing a ballad, in 1790 or 1 791.] It is true. Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a poor devil; you are a feather in the cap of fiociety, and I am a very THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 469 hcbnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my mother, who for niany years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and Port- patrick. By our common family I mean. Sir, the family of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have a standard taste in the belles letires. Tlie other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased with the tune, I was In raptures with the title you have given it; and taking up the idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. Will you allow me, Sir, to present you them, as the dearest oiTering that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give? I have a longing to take you by the hand and unburthen my heart by saying, '' Sir, I honour you as a man who supports the dignity of human nature amid an age when frivolity and avarice have, between them, debased us below the brutes that perich ! " But, alas. Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. It is true, the Muses baptized me in Castalian streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! they have beggared me. Would they but spare me a little of their cast- linen ! Were it only in my power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! But, the idle wenches ! like Solomon's lilies, '* they toil not, neither do they spin'': so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep together their many-coloured fragments. As to the aifa-'r of shoes, I have given that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhandsome and un- grateful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite ; and though I got it literally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum servant to a country clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps of harning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. Whenever I fjel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without her ; and amid all my rags and poxerty, I am as independent, and much more happy, than a monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great drama of life simply as they act their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a duke with 4 70 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. unqualified contempt, and can regard ^r hones: scavenger witn smcer . respect. As you, Sir, go through ' jIl "-die with such distinguished ir^r.^, permit me to make on*? '•■ .1:: zr.or^iz di universal aoDJ^use and assure you that, with the ^■.^•.les esoec , ;.ave me honour to be, &c. No. CCI. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. Dear Brother, Ellisland, hM y^w/^^r^, 1799. I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not in my present frame of mind much appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves arc in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to hell ! Til fight it out and be off with it. We have gotten a set of very decent jSlayers here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with applause : — No song or dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home. I can no more. — If once I am clear of this curst farm, I should respire more at my ease. — R. B. No. ecu. TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. Ellisland, 14M January, 1790. Since we are here creatures of a day, since a "few summer days, and a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end," why, my dear, much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent indolence — for I know it is nothing worse — step in between us, and bar the enjoyment of a mutual correspondence? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, method- ical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding, selfish race, the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing there may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart ; in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon change on our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad health most part of this winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments of life. THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 4 7 1 _^.^ ♦ Our friend Cunningham will perhaps have told you of mj' going into the Flxcise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient business to have 50/. pe. ^nnum, nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it that i was led to fear. Feb. 2. I HAVE not, for sheer hurry of buciness, been able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm business, I ride on my Excise matters at least 200 miles every week. I have not by any means given up the Muses. You will see in the third vol. of Johnson's " Scots Songs " ihat I have contributed my mite there. But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for parental protection are an important charge. I have already two fine, healthy, stout little fellows, and I wish 10 throw some light upon them. I have a thousand reveries and schemes about them and their future destiny — not that I am a Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved never to breed up a son of mine to any of the learned professions. I know the value of inde- pendence, and since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall give them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect on it ! To a father, who himself knows the world, the thought that he shall have sons to usher into it must fill him with dread ; but if he have daughters, the prospect to a thoughtful man is apt to shock him. I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my feelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser [which Mr. Dunbar had presented to him] to realise you to my imagination, and think over those social scenes we have had together. God grant that there may be another world more congenial to honest fellows beyond this ; a world where these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, misfortunes, ill health, &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide friendship. — R. B. No. CCIII. TO MRS. DUNLOR Ellisi-AND, 25//; January, 1790. It has been owing to unremittinoj hurry of business that I have not written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-creatures. Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters : but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered with the honour you have done me. in making me your compeer in friendship and 472 THE LE T VERS OF B URNS. friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded oi the real inequality between our situations. Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow in the little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the " Shipwreck,"' which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and alter weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the " Aurora^' frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had vhe honour of giving him birth ; but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He w;is one of those daring adventurous spirits which Scotland, be}ond any other country, is remark- able for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet Jitth leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, no ♦^withstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart : — " Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, What land f was to travel in. Or what death I should die ! " Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine ; and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which 1 am sure wiM please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish : — " O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd! O that my mother had ne'er to me sung! O that my cradle had never been rock'd; But that I had died when I was young! O that the grave it were my bed ; My blankets were my winding sheet; The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; And O sae sound as I should sleep ! " I do not remember, in all my reading, to have met with anything more tmlv the language of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson ^ the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. * His second son, Francis. THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 473 I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. — R. B. No. CCIV. TO MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. Ellisland, ind Feb., 1790. No ! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not writing ; I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to write to, or importance to interest, anybody? The upbraid- ings of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these two or three months past. I wish to God I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw light upon you, to let the world see what you really are ; and then I would make your fortune, without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen any of my few friends? What has become of the Borough Reform, or how is the fate of my poor namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? . . . O man! but for thee, and thy selfish appetites and dishonest artifices, that beauteous form, and that once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife and the affectionate mother ; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity? I saw lately in a Review some extracts from a new poem called " The Village Curate": send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of "The World." Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy of his book : I shall write him my first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing. — R. B. No. CCV. SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. [The Poet's marriage did not entirely break off his correspondence with Mrs M'Lehose. She had written to him reproachfully, and the following is his reply.] Feb., 1790 (?). I HAVE indeed been ill, Madam, the whole winter. An incessant head- ache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences of a deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health and peace. Add to all this, a line of life into which I have lately entered 474 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. obliges me to ride, on the average, at least 200 miles every week. However thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. . . . I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances ; else I could show you how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct leagued with a conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a possibility of keeping the path of rectitude to curse me, by an irreconcileable war between my duty and my nearest w'shes, and to damn me with a choice only of different s]:»ecies of error and misconduct. 1 dare not trust myself further with this subject. The following son^ is one of my latest productions, and I send it you as I would do anything else, because it pleases myself. [Here follows " My Lovely Nancy," giveu .•» Of ge 90.] No. CCVI. TO MR. W. Nia '».,. My dear Sir, .lmland, Feb. 9, 1790. That d-mned mare of yours is deac 1 would freely have given her price to have saved her; she has vc;xed me beyond description. Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can c/er repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to have the mare with me. That I might at least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, ; took every care of her in my power. She was never crossed ffjr riding above half a score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her ap and had her in fine order for Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before the tair, she was seized with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, .ir somewhere in the bones of the neck ; with a weakness or total want of power in her fillets ; and, in short, the whole vertebrae of her spine seemed .',0 be diseased and unhinged ; and in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the country, she died — and be d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you had bought her ; and that the poor devil, though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression While she was with me, she was under my own eye : and I a.^sure you, my much valued friend, everything was done for her that couid be done; and the accident has vexed me to the heart. In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write to you on account of the unfortunate bus.'ness. There is little new in this countr> Our tneatrical company, of which you must have heard, leave us this wsek Their merit and character are mdeed very great, both on the stag^ '^r* r private life ; not a worthless creature among them; and their encouragement has been accordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds, night : seldom less than the one, and the house will hold no more :nar vrn other. There have been repeated instances of sending away six, anc 'ight, and ten \ THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 475 pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by sub- scription: the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was intro- duced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I nave rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipped in by stealth now \nd then; but they have got up a farce of their own. You must have heard how the Rev, Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of- Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have accused in formal process the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean he, the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the con- fession of faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the Word of God! Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way : I have given Mr Sutherland two prologues ; one of which was delivered last week. I h^ve likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) : "Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trod on aim : But now she's floating down the N-th, And past the mouth o' Cairn." — &c. {,Page 155.) My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. — R. B. No. CCVII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, ly/r February, 1790. I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you 01 this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet — " My poverty, but not my will, consents." but to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one poor Widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my plebeian foolscap pages, like the wddow of a man of'^ fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing helpmate of a village priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding excise- man • i make a vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in that m-v only scrap of gilt paper. I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought to have wiitten to you long ere now ; but it is a literal fact, I have scarcel> 476 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. a spare moment. It is not that I will not write to you ; Miss Burnet it not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his Grace the Duke of Queens- berry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to you : should you doubt it, take the following fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology : — My dear Cunningham, December, 1789. Where are you? And what are you doing? Can you be that son of levity who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion? or are you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight? What strange beings we are ! Since we have a portion of conscious existence equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether method, economy, and fertility of expedients be not applicable to enjoy- ment ; and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which renders our little scantling of happiness still less, and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent com- petency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them have fallen? I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, &c., &c. Sunday, \\th February, 17^. God help me ! I am now obliged to join *' Night to day, and Sunday to the week." If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am d-mned past redemption, and, what is worse, d-mned to all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's " Fourfold State," Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie]s " Trial of a Saving Interest,'' &c. ; but " there is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician there,'' for me : so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to "sincere though imperfect obedience." Tuesday, \eth. Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and care are of this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist ; but I fear every fair, unprejudiced THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 4 7 7 inquirer must in some degree be a Sceptic. It is not that there are any very staggering arguments against the immortality of man ; but, like elec- tricity, phlogiston, &c., the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing frightens me much : that we are to live for ever seems too good news to be true. That we are to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without satiety or separation — how much should I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was certain ! My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns ! And may all the powers that preside over conviviality and friendship be present with all their kindest influence when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! — I wish I could also make one. Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things are kind, think on these things, and think on R. B. No. CCVIII. TO MR. HILL. [The order for the works of the dramatists is supposed to indicate a design on Burns's part to try his own hand at dramatic composition.] Ellisland, -zd March, 1790. .... In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very much " An Index to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Statutes now in force relative to the Excise," by Jellinger Symons : I want three copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. An honest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family Bible, the larger the better, but second-handed, for ne does not choose to give above ten shillings for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you can pick them up, second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works of the more modern, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Col- man, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any other good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Vol- taire too. I am in no hurry for all or any of these, but if you accidentally meet with them very cheap, get them for me. And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear friend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then' not so elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My good wife too has a charming " wood-note wild ; " now could we four . I am out of all patience with this vile world for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly instances. 478 THE LET TER S OE B URNS. L do not think that avarice of the good things we chance to have is born with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order that we may exist ! Still there are, in every age, a few souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or e^-en to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this side of my dispo- sition and character. God knows 1 am no saint ; 1 have a whole host of follies and sins to answer for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! R. B. No. CCIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, \3fA April, 1790, I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper of the " Lounger." You know my national prejudices. I have often read and admired the " Spectator," " Adventurer," " Rambler," and " World " ; but still w'th a certain regret, that they were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I often said to myself, what are all' the boasted advantages which my country reaps from the union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and even her very name ! I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith — •States cf native liberty possest, ^ Tho' very poor, may yet be very "pies*." Nothing can reconcile me to the common ternis, " English ambassador, Enghsh court," &c. And I am out of all patience to see that equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by " the Commons of England." Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I beliqve in my conscience such ideas as "my country: her independence; her honour; the illustrious names that mark the history of my native land " ; &c. — I believe these, among your men of the world, men who in fact guide for the most part and govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of wrongheadedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, with almost all the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the tioith of this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of man that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with his interests, and who could completely put on the appear- ance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perject man ; a man to lead natio.is. But are great abilities THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 479 complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of human excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of i7ien of the world', but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract from m.an the idea of an existence beyond the grave, the7i the true measure of human conduct is proper and improi)er r virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of sc.uceiy ine same import and value to the world at large as harmony and discord m the modifi cations of sound ; and a dehcate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings and inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the indi- vidual world be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by the true judges of society, as it would then stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. You must know I have just met with the " Mirror " and -' Lounger'' for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with them : I shcmld be glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read, ' Lounger,'' No. 6i, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have read a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and the pathetic. His " Man of Peeling" (but I am not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in its kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, gener- osity and benevolence — in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others — than from the simple affecting tale of poor Harley? Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, 1 do not know if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think, Madam, that among the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely disqualifying, for the truly important business of making a man's way into life? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend A is very much under these disqualifications : and for the young fema es c a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solictucJe f «. - I, -. common acquaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, an humble frienc have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminent happy — or peculiarly miserable ! I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; but as I have got the most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more leisure to transcribe anything that may show how much I have the honour to be, Madam, Yours, &c., R. B. 480 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. No. CCX. TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. [This letter refers to an Excise case, a farmer having reclaimed against a fine imposed by Collector Mitchell.] <3IR Elusland, 1790. I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night — I wish and pray that the Goddess of Justice herself would appear to-morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part, I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just alighted, or, rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me down, for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way, " Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years ! ^' In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a hardhearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so many great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am not committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. I have the honour to be. Sir, Your obliged and obedient humble R. B. No. CCXL TO DR. MOORE. *5jj^ Dumfries, Excise-Office, 14M July, 1790. Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way to London; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of leisure through the day, amid our horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as ... , as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-befo re- meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause, as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- Mucker's answer to it, I hope, considering the circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most valuable present, " Zeluco." In fact, you are in some degree blameable for cution of one or two powerful individuals of his emplc^crs. He is ac- cused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my f'lend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is imper- vious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel, a fellow whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. The patrons of Moffat School are the ministers, magistrates, and town- council of Edinburgh ; and as the business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman, to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name the historian of Charles V. I tell him, through the medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. God help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. Oh, to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his independence amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, rather than, in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, pre- carious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Everyman has his virtues, and no man is without his failings ; and curse on that privileged plain-dealing of friendship which in the hour of my calamity cannot reach forth the helping hand, without at the same time pointing out those failings, and auportioning them their share in procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be. pass by my virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 497 from the paths of propriety and rectitude must be incident to human nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of inyself, to bear the co.isequences of those errors! I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I wa,nt to be independent in my sinning. To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good offices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. i long much to hear from you. Adieu ! — R. B. No. CCXXXIII. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. [Lord Brchaa had projected a fete in honour of the poet Thomson, including the opening of a temple to his memory on Ednam Hill.] My Lord, Ellisland, 1791. Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthu- siasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I over- looked every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it will not be in my power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a pil- grimage 7ip 'the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take the same delightful journey dcnuji the windings of that delightful stream. Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but who would write after Colhns? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and despaired. I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to be, &c. — R. B. [Here follows the poem, for which see page 97.] No. CCXXXIV. TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. My dear Sloan, Ellisland, Sept. i, 1791. Suspense is worse than disappointment ; for that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to recollect that you omitted one Httle necessary piece' of information - - your address. However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, and s :rength of aUachment. It must be a longer period than the longest 49^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. life " in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make me forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but I will not part with such a treasure as that. I can easily enter into the embarras of your present situation. You know my favourite quotation from Young — " On Reason build Resolve, That column of true majesty in man." And that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred — " What proves the hero truly great Is, never, never, to despair." Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance? •' Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. You may do miracles by — persevering.' I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day, se'ennight, and sold it very well: a guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was over, about thirty people engaged in battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so dnmk by attending them, that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; as I was no farther over than you used to see me. Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear friend ! — R. B. No. CCXXXV. TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. My Lady, I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your good< ness has allowed me, of sending you anything I compose in my poetical way: but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to make that the first piece I should do myself the honour of sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remem- brance of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship's memory were not the "mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! If, among my children, I shall havs a son that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a family THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 499 honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glencairn ! I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world. — R. B. No. CCXXXVI. TO MR. AINSLIE. My DEAR AiNSLIE, Elusland, 1791. Can you minister to a mind diseased? Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all tli« rest of the d d hounds of hell that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled soul 1 Miserable pe7'dii that 1 am, I have tried everything that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of the clock as it slowly, slowly, numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n them ! are ranked up before me, every one at his neigiibo ir\s backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head — and there in none to. pity me. My wife scolds me, my business torments me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. When I tell you even . . . has lost its power to please, you will guess something of my hell within, and all around me. I began " Elibanks and E]ibra