91 mm EH HHI Km Hm — M B ~ i in nwnnHMff m Wsmm a Bg H I H I pwMHHMa«m 9 HI BH Hon 8O90H m UpBlfDi nniHnHHnBnsnffi HpgmHMH SttXflOQMMm amam SBa aW B MI flWOBflSR oSHoBBBH BML HHHBQBH6nBHB9BH mmm ■BwIQmBIBMH BSBSSSSRBSSsP I ■ ■ WiXMMPMm lOBIlf BU with ; Mymmms i MILNER AMD SOWERBY. xfe^Z M.feC THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS; w WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, AND A CRITICISM OS HIS WRITINGS. TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. BY JAMES CURRIE, M.D. \ WITH AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. HALIFAX : FEINTED AND PUBLISHED BY MTLKEll AND SOWERET, CHEAPSIDE. 1859. gh it 16AgfQ : ON TO CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE OF THE ROYAL NAVY. When you were stationed on our coast about twelve years ago, you first re- commended to my particular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, published for the benefit of his widow and children, I now present to you. In a distant region of the world, whither the service of your country has car- ried you, you will, I know, receive with kindness this proof of my regard ; not perhaps without some surprise on finding that I have been engaged in edit- ing these volumes, nor without some curiosity to know how I was qualified for such an undertaking. These points I will briefly explain. Having occasion to make an excursion to the county of Dumfries, in the summer of 1792, I had there an opportunity of seeing and conversing with Burns. It has been my fortune to know some men of high reputation in liter- ature, as well as in public life, but never to meet any one who, in the course of a single interview, communicated to me so strong an impression of the force and versatility of his talents. After this I read the poems then published with greater interest and attention, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary as they are, they afford but an inadequate proof of the powers of their unfortu- nate author. Four years afterwards, Burns terminated his career. Among those whom the charms of genius had attached to him, was one with whom I have been bound in the ties of friendship, from early life — Mr John Syme of Ryedale. This Gentleman, after the death of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a sub- scription for the support of the widow and children, to which their relief from immediate distress is to be ascribed ; and, in conjunction with other friends of this virtuous and destitute family, he projected the publication of these volumes for their benefit, by which the return of want might be prevented^ or prolonged. To this last undertaking, an editor and biographer was wanting ; and Mr Syme's modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming an office for which he was in other respects peculiarly qualified. On this subject he consulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting his objections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. Endeavours were used to procure an editor in other quarters, but witL- a2 IV DEDICATION. out effect. The task was beset with considerable difficulties ; and men of esta- blished reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approbation could be obtained, by any exertion of judgment or temper. To such an office, my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality of Mr Syme thought me in other respects not unqualified ; and his solicitations, joined to those of our excellent friend and relation Mrs Dunlop, and of other friends of the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which would otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr Syme and Mr Gilbert Burns made a journey to Liverpool, where they explained and arranged the manuscripts, and arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de- gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my labour. I had the satis faction of renewing my personal intercourse with a much valued friend, and of forming an acquaintance with a man closely allied to Burns in talents as well as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, I trust, be uninterested. The publication of these volumes has been delayed by obstacles which these gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which it would be tedious to enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part which I have taken, shall serve the interest of the family, and receive the approbation of good men, I shall have my recompense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I hope, very important ; and they will be easily accounted for by those who know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been performed. Generous minds will receive the posthumous works of Burns with candour, and even partiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man of genius, published for the benefit of his family, as the stay of the widow, and the hope of the fatherless. To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in the writings, and avoided in the life of Burns, that have a tendency to awaken the animosity of party. In perusing the following volumes, no offence will be received, ex- cept by those to whom the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters that will scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession of arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in the paths of glory. They will not be found in your service, which in our own days, emu lates on another element, the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or formed an intention of making a collection of his letters for the amusement of a friend. Ac- cordingly he copied an inconsiderable number of them into a book, which he presented to Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these was the account of his life, addressed to Dr Moore, and printed in the first volume. * In copying from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear that he had the letters actually sent to his correspondents before him) he seems to have occasionally enlarged his observations, and altered his expressions. In such instances bis emendations have been adopted ; but in truth there are but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, the rest being thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the public eye. In printing this volume, the Editor has found some corrections of grammar necessary; but these have been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even of literary characters, who have not been in the habit of carrying their compositions to the press. These corrections have never been extended to any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, even where his phraseology may seem to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our language, which he wrote in gene- ral with great accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found in this respect in his earlier and in his later compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the history of his mind. In the Fourth Edition, several new letters were introduced, and some of inferior importance were omitted. * Occupying from page xxvi to page xxxii of this Edition. CONTENTS. PREFATORY REMARKS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OP THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. P4.GE Effects of the legal establishment of parochial schools — of the church establishment — of the absence of poor laws — of the Scottish music and national songs — of the laws respecting marriage and incontinence— Observations on the domestic and national attachment of the Scots ... ... xvii LIFE OF BURNS. Narrative of his infancy and youth, by himself— Narrative on the same subject by his brother, and by Mr Murdoch of Loudon, his teacher — Other particulars of Burns while resident in Ayrshire— History of Burns while resident in Edinburgh, including letters to the Editor from Mr Stewart, and Dr Adair— History of Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in Dum- fries-shire — History of Burns while resident in Dumfries— his last illness — death — and cha- racter — with general reflections . . xxvii Memoir respecting Burns, by a 1 idy . . lxxvi Criticism on the Works of Burns, including obser- vations on poetry in the Scottish dialect, and some remarks ou Scottish literature . lxxix Tributary Verses on the Death of Burns, by Mr Roscoe xcvii GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 1. To a Female Friend. Written about the year 1-780 1 2. To the same . . . ib. 3. To the same . 2 4. To the same ib. 5. To Mr John Murdoch, 15th Jan. 1783, Burns's former teacher ; giving an account of his pre- sent studies and temper of mind . . 3 6. Extracts from MSS. Observations on various subjects 4 7. To Mr Aiken, 1786. Written under distress of mind 6 8. To Mrs Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Praise of her ancestor, Sir William Wallace . . 7 PAGE 9. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, enclosing a poem on Miss A ib. 10. Dr Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie, encourag- ing the Bard to visit Edinburgh, and print a new edition of his poems there ... 8 11. From Sir John Whitefoord . . . . ib. 12 From the Rev. Mr Lowrie, 22d December 1786. Advice to the Bard how to conduct himself in Edinburgh ....... 9 13. To Mr Chalmers, 27th December 1786. Praise of Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . . ib. 14 To the Earl of Eglinton, Jan. 1787. Thanks for his patronage ib. 15. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th Jan. 1787 Account of his situation in Edinburgh . . . , 10 16. To Dr Moore, 1787. Grateful acknowledgments of Dr M.'s notice of him in his letters to Mrs Dunlop ib. 17. From Dr Moore, 23d Jan. 1787. In answer to the foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet on the Bard, by Miss Williams . . . .11 18. To Dr Moore, 15th February 1787 . . ib. 19. From Dr Moore, 28th February 1787. Sends the Bard a present of his " View of Society and Maimers," &c. ib. 20. To the Earl of Glencairn, 1787. Grateful ac knowledgments of kindness . . . 12 21. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply to a letter of advice ib. 22. Extract concerning the monument erected for Ferguson by our Poet 13 23. To , accompanying the foregoing . . ib. 24. Extract from , 8th March 1787. Good advice ib. 25. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d March 1787. Respecting his prospects on leaving Edinburgh . . 14 26. To the same, 15th April 1787. On the same subject 15 27. To Dr Moore, 23d April 1787. On the same subject ... . ib. 28. Extract to Mrs Dunlop, 30th ApriL Reply to Criticisms ib. 29. To the Rev. Dr Blair, 3d May. Written on leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness 16 30. From Dr Elair, 4th May, in reply to the pre- ceding ib 31. From Dr Moore, 23d May 1787. Criticism and good advice ... ... 1* VIII CONTENTS. 32 From Mr John Hutchison .... 33. To Mr Walker, at Blair of Athole, enclosing the •« Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the Duke of Athole" 34. To Mr G. Burns, 17th Sept. Account of his tour through the Highlands 35. From Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 22d October, enclosing Latin inscriptions, with transla- tions, and the tale of Omeron Cameron 36. From Mr Walker 37. From Mr A M .... 38. Mr Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young, 22d Oct. in- troducing our Poet 39. Mr Ramsay to Dr Blacklock, 27th Oct. Anec- dotes of Scottish Songs for our Poet 40. From Mr John Murdoch, in London, 28th Oct. in answer to No. 5 41. From Mr , Gordon Castle, 31st Oct. 1787, acknowledging a song sent to Lady Char- lotte Gordon 42. From the Rev. J. Skinner, 14th November, 1787. Some account of Scottish Poems 43. From Mrs , 30th Nov. enclosing Erse Songs, with the Music 44. To Dalrymple, Esq. Congratulation on his becoming a poet. Praise of Lord Glen- cairn 45. To Mrs Dunlop, 21st Jan. 1788. Written on re- covery from sickness 46. Extract to the same, 12th Feb. 1788. Defence of himself 47. To the same, 7th March 1788. Who had heard that he had ridiculed her .... 48. To Mr Cleghorn, 31st March 1788, mentioning his having composed the first stanza of the Chevalier's Lament 49. From Mr Cleghorn, 27th April, in reply to the above. The Chevalier's Lament in full, in a note 50. To Mrs Dunlop, 28th April, giving an account of his prospects 51. From the Rev. J. Skinner, 28th April 1788, en- closing two songs, one by himself, the other by a Buchan ploughman ; the songs printed at large 52 To Professor D. Stewart, 3d May. Thanks for his friendship 53. Extract to Mrs Dunlop, 4th May. Remarks on Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's Odyssey 54. To the same, 27th May. General Reflections 55. To the same, at Mr Dunlop's, Haddington, 13th June 1788. Account of his marriage 56. To Mr P. Hill, with a present of a cheese 57. To Mrs Dunlop, 2d August 1788. With lines on a hermitage . . • . . 58. To the same, 10th August. Farther account of his marriage 59. To the same, 16th August. Reflections on Hu- man Life 60. To R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. A petition in verse for a situation in the Excise 61. To Mr P. Hill, 1st Oct. 1788. Criticism on a poem, entitled, " An Address to Loch-Lo- mond" 62. To Mrs Dunlop, at Moreham Maines, 13th No- vember 63. To *••', 8th Nov. Defence of the family of the Stuarts. Baseness of insulting fallen greatness . . Page . 11 ib. ib. 33 35 36 37 ib. 64. To Mrs Dunlop, 17th Dec. with the soldier's eong — " Go fetch to me a pint of wine" 65. To Miss Davies, a young Lady who had heard he had been making a ballad on her, enclosing that ballad 66. To Sir John Whitefoord 67. From Mr G. Burns, 1st Jan. 1789. Reflections suggested by the day 68. To Mrs Dunlop, 1st Jan. Reflections suggested by the day ib. 69. To Dr Moore, 4th Jan, Account of his situa- tion and prospects 39 70. To Bishop Geddes, 3d February. Account of his situation and prospects . . . .40 71. From the Rev. P. Carfrae, 2d Jancary 1789. Requesting advice aa to the publishing Mr Mylne's poems ib. 72. lo Mrs Dunlop, 4th March. Reflections after a visit to Edinburgh 41 73. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, in answer to No 71 . 42 74. To Dr Moore. Inclosing a poem . . . ib. 75. To Mr Hill. Apostrophe to Frugality . . 43 76. To Mrs Dunlop. With a sketch of an epistle in verse to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox . . ib. 77. To Mr Cunningham. With the first draught of the poem on a Wounded Hare . . .44 78. From Dr Gregory. Criticism of the poem on a Wounded Hare 45 79. To Mr M'Auley of Dumbarton. Account of his situation ....... ib. 80. To Mrs Dunlop. Reflections on Religion . 46 81. From Dr Moore. Good advice . . . ib. 82. From Miss J. Little. A poetess in humble life, with a poem in praise of our Bard . . 47 83. From Mr . Some account of Ferguson . 48 84. To Mr . In answer . . . . ib. 85. To Mrs Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco . . 49 86. From Dr Blacklock. An epi.-tle in verse . ib. 87. To Dr Blacklock. Poetical reply to the above 50 88. To R. Graham, Esq. Inclosing some election- eering ballads ib. 89. To Mrs Dunlop. Serious and interesting re- flections 90. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book society among the farmers in Nithsdale 91. To Mr Gilbert Burns. With a Prologue spoken in the Dumfries Theatre . 92. To Mrs Dunlop. Some account of Falconer, author of the Shipwreck .... 93. From Mr Cunningham. Inquiries of our Bard 94. To Mr Cunningham. In reply to the above 95. To Mr Hill. Order for books .... 96. To Mrs Dunlop. Remarks on the Lounger, and on the writings of Mr Mackenzie 97. From Mr Cunningham. Account of the death of Mrs Monboddo 98. To Dr Moore. Thanks for a present of Zeluco 99. To Mrs Dunlop. Written under wounded pride 100. To Mr Cunningham, 8th August Aspirations after independence 101. From Dr Blacklock, 1st September 1790. Po- etical letter of Friendship . . . . itfc 102. Extract from Mr Cunningham, 14th October. Suggesting subjects for our Poet's muse . 59 103. To Mr Dunlop, November 1790. Congratula- tions on the birth of her grandson . , j^ 104. To Mr Cunningham, 23d Jan. 1791, with an elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . ib ib. CONTENTS. IX PAGE 105. To Mr Hill, 17th Jan Indignant Apostrophe to Poverty . . . CO 106. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 12th March. Criti- cism on Tarn o' Shanter • . . .61 107. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. in reply to the above . ib. 108. To Mrs Dunlop, 7th February 1791. Enclos- ing his elegy on Miss Burnet . . .62 i09. To Lady W. M. Constable, acknowledging a present of a snuft-b >x ib. 110. To Mrs Graham of Fintry, enclosing " Queen Mary's Lament" ib. 111. From the Rev. G. Baird, 8th February 1781, requesting assistance in publishing the poems of Michael Bruce 63 112. To the Rev. G. Baird, in reply to the above . ib. 113. To Dr Moore, 28th February 1791, enclosing Tam o' Shanter, &c. - ib. 114. From Dr Moore, 29th March, with remarks on Tam o' Shanter, &c, 64 115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 14th Feb. acknow- ledging his present of the "Essays on the Principles of Taste," with remarks on the book 65 116. To Mr Cunningham, 12th March, with a Ja- cobite song, &e, 66 117. To Mrs Dunlop, 11th April. Comparison be- tween female attractions in high and humble life ib. 118. To Mr Cunningham, 11th June, requesting his interest for an oppressed friend . .67 119. From the Earl of Buchan, 17th June 1791, in. viting over our Bard to the coronation of the bust of Thomson on Ednam hill . . . ib. 120. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply ... 68 121. From the Earl of Buchan, 16th Sept. 1791, pro. posing a subject for our Poet's muse . . ib. 122. To Lady E. Cunningham, enclosing " The La- ment for James, Earl of Gleucairn" . . ib. 123. To Mr Ainslie. State of his mind after inebri- ation 69 121 From Sir John Whitefoord, 16th Oct. Thanks for " The Lament on James, Earl of Glen- cairn" ib. 125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 27th November 1791. Criticism on the Whistle and the Lament . ib. 126. To Miss Davies. Apology for neglecting her commands — moral reflections . . . 70 127. To Mrs Dunlop, 17th December, enclosing " The song of Death" 71 123. To Mrs Dunlop, 5th January 1792, acknow- ledging the present of a cup . . ib. 129. To Mr William Smellie, 22d January, intro- ducing Mrs Riddel 72 ISO. To Mr W. Nicol, ,20th February. Ironical thanks for advice ■ . ib. 131. To Mr Cunningham, 3d March 1792. Com- missions his arms to be cut on a seal — moral reflections . 73 132. TV Mrs Dunlop, 22d August. Account of his meeting with Miss L B , and enclos- ing a song on her ib. 133. lo Mr Cunningham, 10th Sept. Wild Apos- trophe to a Spirit! 74 134. 1 o Mrs Dunlop, 24th September. Account of his family .75 135 Vo Mrs Dunlop. Letter of condolence under affliction 76 136. To Mrs Dunlop, 6th December 1792, with a poem entitled, " The Rights of Woman" . ib. PAGH 137. To Miss B of York, 21st March 1793. Let- ter of friendship , 77 138. To Miss C , August 1793. Character and temperament of a poet 78 139. To John M'Murdo, Esq. December 1793. Re- paying money ib. 140. To Miss B , advising her what play to be- speak at the Dumfries Theatre . . . 79 141. To a Lady in favour of a Player's Benefit . ib. 142. Extract to Mr , 1794. On his prospects in the Excise ib. 143. To Mrs R ib. 144. To the same. Describes his melancholy feelings 80 145. To the same, lending Werter . . . . ib. 146. To the same, on a return of interrupted friend- ship ib. 147. To the same, on a temporary estrangement . ib. 148. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on the hap- piness of Mr O— — * 81 149. To Miss , requesting the return of MSS. lent to a deceased friend . . . . ib. 150. To Mr Cunningham, 25th February, 1794. Melancholy reflection — cheering prospects of a happier world ib. 151- To Mrs R . Supposed to be written from " The dead to the living" . . . .82 152. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th December 1795. Reflec- tions on the situation of his family, if he should die — praise of the poem entitled " The Tax" 83 153. To the same, in London, 20th December 1795 . 84 154. To Mrs R , 20th January 1796. Thanks for the travels of Anacharsis . . . .85 155. To Mrs Dunlop, 31st January 1796. Account of the death of his daughter, and of his own ill health ib. 156. To Mrs R , 4th June 1796. Apology for not going to the birth-night assembly . . ib. 157. To Mr Cunningham, 7th July 1796. Account of his illness and of his poverty — anticipation of his death ib. 15a To Mrs Burns. Sea-bathing affords little re- lief 86 159. To Mrs Dunlop, 12th July 1796. Last fare- well ....... . ib. POEMS. The twa dogs : a tale 89 Scotch Drink 91 The author's earnest cry and prayer to the Scotch representatives in the House of Commons . 92 The Holy Fair 94 Death and Dr Hornbook 97 The Brigs of Ayr 93 The ordination 101 The Calf . . 102 Address to the Dei! ib. The death and dying words of Poor Mailie . . 104 Poor Mailie's Elegy ib. To J. S** # * 105 A Dream .106 The Vision 103 Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous 111 Tam Samson's Elegy ib. Halloween 112 The Auld Farmer's New-year Morniug Salutation to his A u Id Mare Maggie . . . .116 To a Mouse ,„,,.,... Ill CONTExNTS. PAGE A Wiuter Night 117 Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . . . .118 The Lament 119 Despondency : An Ode .»..«• 120 Winter : A Dirge 121 The Cotter's Saturday Night .... ib. Man was made to Mourn : A Dirge . . .123 A Prayer in the Prospect of Death . . 12-1 Stanzas on the same occasion 125 Verses left at a Friend's House . . . . ib. The First Psalm . ib. A Prayer 12<5 The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm . . ib. To a Mountain Daisie ib. To Ruin 127 To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems, for a New- Year's Gift ib. Epistle to a Young Friend . . ■ . . . ib. On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies . . 128 To a Haggis ........ ib. A Dedication to G H , Esq. . . 129 To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church 130 Address to Edinburgh 131 Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard . . ib. To the Same 133 Epistle to W. S , Ochiltree 134 Epistle to J. R , enclosing some Poems . . 135 John Barleycorn : A Ballad 136 A Fragment, * When Guildford good our Pilot stood,' 137 Song, ' It was upon a Lammas Night,* . . . ib. Song, ' Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns,' 138 Song, * Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, Green grow the Hashes: A Fragment . Song, • Again rejoicing Nature sees,' Song, 'The gloomy Night is gathering fast,' Song, 'From thee, Eliza, I must go,' The Farewell, to the Brethren of St James's Lodge Tarbolton , . Song, * No churchman am I for to rail and to write, Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage . Ode to the Memory of Mrs , of - . ib. . 139 . ib . 140 . ib. ib. Ill ib. 112 ib. 113 Ill- US Elegy on Capta>n Matthew Henderson . Lament of Mary Queen of Scots . . To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra . . Lament for James, Earl of Glencaim . Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, with the forego- ing Poem ........ ib. Tarn o' Shanter : A Tale ..... ib. On seeing a wounded Hare a fellow had Shot at . 147 Address to the Shade of Thomson .... 148 Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder on a noisy Polemic . . — on Wee Johnny .... for the Author's Father . . , for R. A. Esq , for G. H. Esq A Bard's Epitaph On Ciip'ain Grose's Peregrinations . , On Miss Cruikshanks . Song, ' Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,' On the death of John M'Leod, Esq. Humble Petition of Bruar Water . , On Scaring some Water Fowl . . Written at the Inn in Taymoutlt . . at the Fall of Fyer3 On the Birth of a Posthumous Child The Whistle ...... . ib. . ib. . ib. . ib. . ib. . ib. . ib. . 149 . ib. . 150 . ib. . ib. . 151 . ib. . 159 . ib. . ib. pAfiE Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . .153 On my Early Days 1M Song, « In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,' ir. On the death of Sir James Hunter Blair . . ib. Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the Poems presented to an old Sweetheart, then married 15£ The Jolly Beggars : A Cantata . . . . ib. The Kirk's Alarm : A Satire ..... 159 The Twa Herds 160 The Henpecked Husband 161 Elegy on the year 1778 ib. Verses written on the Window of the Inn at Carron ib. Lines wrote by Burns on his Death-bed . . ib. Lines delivered by Burns at a Meeting of the Dum- fries-shire Volunteers 162 A Vision ......... 173 Address to W. Tytler, Esq. ib. To a Gentleman who had sent a Newspaper and offered to continue it ..... 175 On Pastoral Poetry ....... ib. Sketch.— New Year's day ...... 176 On Mr William Smellie 177 On the Death of Mr Riddel ..... ib. Inscription for an Altar to Independence Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice Answer to a Surveyor's mandate Impromptu on Mrs 's Birth Day To Miss Jessy L— ... Extempore to Mr S e .... Dumfries Volunteers .... To Mr Mitchell ib. To a Gentleman whom he had offended . . . ib. On Life, addressed to Col. De Peyster . . . ib. Address to the Tonth-aehe 181 To R. Graham, Esq. on receiving a favour . . 182 Epitaph on a Friend ... . . . ib. Grace before Dinner ....... ib. On Sensibility, to Mrs Dunlop 183 On taking leave at a place in the Highlands . . ib. Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, ou Nithside . 31 Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 33 On seeing a Wounded Hare 44 To Dr Blacklock 50 Prologue 53 Elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo . 60 The Rights of Woman 77 Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle . . 83 INDEX TO THE POETRY, IN THE ALPHABETICAL 0IIDER OP THE FIRST LINES. Adieu ! a heart- warm, fond adieu I Admiring Nature in her wildest grace . A down winding Nith I did wander . Again rejoicing Nature sees . . , Again the silent wheels of time . . A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door . . All hail ! inexorable lord Among the heathy hills and ragged woods A nee mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December An' O for ane and twenty, Tam . . An honest man here lies at rest . Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . . A rose-bud by my early walk , , As down the burn they took their way . As I stood by yon roofless tower . 140 . 151 . 207 . 139 . 127 J 16 . 195 . 127 . 152 . 170 . 169 . 182 . 150 . J63 . 210 . 179 CONTENTS. skies As Mailie an' her lambs thegither Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms A' ye vvha live by soups o' drink . beauteous rose-bud, young and gay Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows Behold the hour, the boat arrive Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes . Blythe, biythe, and merry was she . Blythe hae I been on yon hill Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing But lately seen in gladsome green By Allan stream I chanced to rove . By yon castle wa', at the close of the day Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy Ca' the yowes to the knowes . . Clarinda, mistress of my soul . . Come let me take thee to my breast Contented wi* little, and cantie wi' mair Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief Deluded swain, the pleasure Does haughty Gaul invasion threat Duncan Gray came here to woo . Dweller in yon dungeon dark . . Edina I Scotia's darling seat . . Expect na, Sir, in this narration . Fairest maid on Devon banks . . Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face . Farewell thou stream that winding flows Farewell thou fair day, ye green earth, and ye Fate gave the word, the arrow sped Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green braes For lords or kings I dinna mourn Forlorn, my love, no comfort near . Friend of the Poet tried and leal . From thee, Eliza, I must go . . Gane is the day and mirk's the night Go fetch to me a pint o' wine . . Green grow the rashes, O . . Guid mornin' to your Majesty . Had I a cave on some wild distant shore Hail, Poesy I thou Nymph reserved Hal whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie Has auld K seen the Deil Hear, Land o* Cake3, and brither Scots Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie The same altered .... Here Souter in death does sleep He who of R — k-n sang, lies stiff and dead Here is the glen, and here the bovver Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear Here where the Scottish Muse immortal How can my poor heart be glad How cold is that bosom which folly once How cruel are the parents . . How lang and dreary is the night : How pleasant the banks of the clear. winding von Husband, husband, cease your strife I call no goddess to inspire my strains I gaed a waefu* gate yestreen . . I gat your letter, winsome Willie . I hae a wife o' my ain . . . I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend I mind it weel, in early date . . I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor In Mauchline there dwells six proper young In simmer when the hay was mawn Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous art Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast lives fired PAGE | . 104 . 128 .149 . 138 . 210 ! . 148 . 163 J . 202 \ . 168 . 224 ! . 206 . 66 . 228 . 219 . 164 228 105 214 180 192 142 131 129 240 123 200 71 172 171 160 236 180 140 167 37 139 106 208 175 lr.o m 149 1S6 197 14S 1«1 218 239 218 ib. 177 233 223 De. .216 182 . 165 . 134 lxiii . 127 . 154 . 153 Belles 154 . 168 . 147 . 162 ' I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth Is there a whim-inspired fool Is there, for honest poverty It was the charming month of May It was upon a Lammas night . Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . John Anderson my jo, John Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnocht-head Ken you ought o' Captain Grose Kilmarnock wabsters, ridge an' claw Kind Sir, I've read your paper through Know thou, O stranger to the fame Lament in rhyme, lament in prose . Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks . Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg Let me wander where I will . . Let not woman e'er complain . . Let other poets raise a fracas . Long, long the night .... Loud blaw the frosty breezes . . Louis, what reck I by thee . . Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion Maxwell, if merit here you crave . Musing on the roaring ocean My Chloris, mark how green the groves My curse upon y< ur venom'd stang My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie . My heart is sair, I darena tell . My honoured Colonel, deep I feel . My lord, I know your noble ear . My loved, my honour'd, much respected friend Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair No churchman am I for to rail and to write No more of your guests, be they titled or not No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays Now Nature hangs her mantle green Now simmer blinks on flowery braes Now spring has clad the grove in green . Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers Now westlin' winds and slaught'ring gun3 O a' ye pious godly flocks .... O bonnie was you rosy brier . . . O cam ye here the ti^ht to shun . . O condescend, dear charming maid , . O Death! thou tyrant fell aud bloody O gin my love were yon red rose Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . . O had the malt thy strength of mind Oh open the door, some pity to show O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten O Lassie art thou sleeping yet . . O leeze me on my spinning wheel . O leeze me on my wee thing . ; Old Winter with his frosty beard . . O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide . . O love will venture in where it darena weel be i O Mary, at thy window be . . . O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour . . O rneikle thinks my love o' my beauty O my luve's like a red red rose Once fondly loved, and still remember'd dear O poortith cauld, and restless love . . O Phiily, happy be that day . . . Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care O rough, rude, ready-witted It . Orthodox, orthodox, vvha believe in John Knox CONTENTS. PAGE O saw ye bonny Lesley 190 O saw ye my dear, my Pliely 222 O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay . . .232 O tell na me o' wind and raia 231 O this is no my ain lassie 235 O Thou dread Power who reign'st above . . 125 O Thou Great Being-, what thou art ... 126 O Thou pale orb, that silent shines, . . .119 O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . . .126 O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause . . .124 O thou! whatever title suit thee . . . .102 O Thou who kindly dost provide . . . .182 O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 164 O wat ye wha's in yon town 172 O wha is she that lo'es me 181 O were I on Parnassus' hill 165 O were my love yon lilach fair . . . 203 O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad . . 206 A variation in the chorus 234 O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut :. . 165 O wert thou in the cauld blast 179 O ye wha are sae guid yourael Ill O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains . . 148 Raving winds around her blowing .... 163 Revered defender of beauteous Stuart . . . 173 Right Sir! your text I'll prove it true . . .102 Sad thy tale, thou idle page 150 Sae flaxen were her ringlets 220 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . . .212 Sensibility how charming ...... 182 She is a winsome wee tiling . . . . . 190 She's fair and fause that causes my smart . . 171 Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . . 212 Sing on, sweet thrush, upon thy leafless bough . 179 Sii, as your mandate did request .... 178 Sleep'st thou, or wakest thou, fairest creature . 223 Slow spreads the gloom my sou! desires . . . 170 Some books are lies frae end to end . . . .97 Stop, passenger ! my story's brief .... 143 Stay, my charmer, can you leave me . . . 162 Stay, my Willie — yet believe me .... 229 Streams that glide in orient plains . . . . lxi Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn .... 232 Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' raeikle love . . . 152 The Catrine woods were yellow eeen . . . 145 The day returns, my bosom burns .... 161 The friend wlio*n wild from wisdom's way . . ISO The gloomy night is gath'ring fast . . 140 The hunter lo'es the morning sun ... 192 The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare . . 154 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon 233 The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill . 164 The lovely lass o' Inverness 172 The man, in life, wherever placed .... 125 The poor man weeps — here 6 n sleeps . . 148 The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough . 98 The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning 2G The smiling spring comes in rejoicing . . .171 The sun had closed the winter day .... 108 The Thames flows proudly to the sea . . . 166 The wind blew hollow frae the hills . . . 145 The wintry west extends his blast . . . .121 There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen . 192 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes . .193 There was a lass and she was fair .... 203 There was once a day, but old Time was then young 174 There was three king3 into the east . . . 136 . 177 xlviii . 89 . 196 . 169 . 233 . 94 . 112 . 161 . 126 . 117 Page They snool me sair, and haud me down , , . 16s Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling . Thine am I, my faithful fair Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair . . This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . Thou of an independent mind . Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove Thou whom chance may hither lead Thou, who thy honour as thy God reverest 'Tis friendship's pledge, my young fair friend « to Crochallan came . . . 'Twas e'en, the dewy fields were green 'Twas in that place o* Scotland's isle True hearted was he the sad swain o' the Yarrow Turn again, thou fair Eliza 'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin Upon a simmer Sunday morn . . . Upon that night, when fairies light . . We cam na here to view your warks . Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower . Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 167 When biting Boreas, fell and doure When chapman billies leave the street . When chill November's surly blast . . When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er . When Guilford good our pilot stood . When lyart leaves bestrew the yird When o'er the hill the eastern star . . When wild war's deadly blast was blawn Where are the joys I hae met in the morning The same with an additional stanza . Where braving angry winter's storms Where Cart rins rowin to the sea . While briers an' woodbines budding green While larks with little wing . While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake While virgin spring, by Eden's flood . While winds frae aft' Ben Lomond blaw . Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know . . Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene Why, why tell thy !over .... Why, ye tenants of the lake Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed . . Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary . , Wilt thou be my dearie .... The same With musing deep, astonish'd stare Ye banks, and braes, and streams around Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon Ye Irish tords, ye knights and squires Yestreen I got a pint of wine CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR THOMSON AND MR BURNa 1. Mr Thomson to Mr Burns. 1792. Desiring the Bard to furnish verses for some of the Scottish airs, and to revise former songs . 187 2. Mr B. to Mr T. Promising assistance . . ib. 3. Mr T. to Mr B. Sending some tunes . . 188 4. Mr B. to Mr T. With « The Lr.e Rig,' and • Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ' . . ib. 5. Mr B. to Mr T. With • My wife's a winsome Wee thing,' and * O saw ye bonny Lesley ' . 190 CONTENTS. Xlll PAGE 6. Mr B. to Mr T. With ■ Highland Mary . 190 7. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks aud critical observa- tions .191 8 Mr B. to Mr T. With an additional stanza to « The Lee Rig ' 192 9 Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Auld Rob Morris ' and •Duncan Gray' . . ib. 0. Mr B. to Mr T. With c O Poortith Cauld,' &c. and « Galla Water ' 193 11. Mr T. to Mr B. Jan. 1793. Desiring anecdotes on the origin of particular songs. Tj tier of Woodhouselee — Pleyel — sends P. Pindar's • Lord Gregory.' Postscript from the Hon. A. Erskine 194 2 Mr B. to Mr T. Has Mr Tytler's anecdotes, and means to give his own — sends his own * Lord Gregory ' 195 13 Mr B. to Mr T. With * Mary Morrison' . ib. 14 Mr B. to Mr T. With ■ Wandering Willie ' . 196 15. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Open the door to me, Oh!' ib. 16. Mr B. to Mr T. With 'Jessie' . . . ib. 17. Mr T. to Mr B. With a list of songs, and ' Wandering Willie ' altered • . 197 18. Mr B. to Mr T. ' When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,' and * Meg o' the Mill ' . ib. 19. Mr B. to Mr T. Voice of Coila— criticism — Origin of ' The Lass o' Patie's Mill.' . . 198 20. Mr T. to Mr B 199 21. Mr B. to Mr T. Simplicity requisite in a song —one poet should not mangle the works of another 200 IS. Mr B. to Mr T. « Farewell, thou stream that winding flows '— Wishes that the national music may preserve its native features . ib. 23. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and observations . 201 24- Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Blythe hae I been on yon hill ' ib. 25. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide" — * O gin my love were yon red rose,' &c. 202 20. Mr T. to Mr B. Enclosing a note— Thanks . 203 27. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' There was a lass and she was fair * ib. 28. Mr B. to Mr T. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense — Remarks on songs . . . 204 29. Mr T. to Mr B. Musical expression . . ib. 30. Mr B. to Mr T. For Mr Clarke . . .205 31. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Phillis the fair * . . ib. 32. Mr T. to Mr B. Mr Allan — Drawing from •John Anderson my jo * . . . . ib. 33. Mr B. to Mr T. With • Had I a cave,' &c. Some airs common to Scotland and Ireland . 206 34 Mr B. to Mr T. With • By Allan stream I chanced to rove ' ib. 35 Mr B. to Mr T. With • Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,' and * Awa wi' your belles and your beauties ' 207 36. Mr B. to Mr T. With • Come let me take thee to my breast' ....... ib. 37. Mr B. to Mr T. 'Daintie Davie * . . .208 38. Mr T. to Mr B. Delighted with the produc- tions of Burns's muse ib. 39. Mr B, to Mr T. With 'Bruce to his troops at Bannockburn 209 40. Mr B. to Mr T. With • Behold the hour, the bnat arrive * ..... j . ib. pa u a 41. Mr T. to Mr B. Observations on ' Bruce to his troops' 210 42. Mr B. to Mr T. Remarks on songs in Mr T's list — His own method of forming a song — « Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ' — * Where are the joys I hae met in the morning' — •Auld lang syne ' ib 43. Mr B. to Mr T. With a variation of ' Ban- nockburn' ....... 212 44. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and observations .213 45. Mr B. to Mr T. ' On Bannockburn '—sends * Fair Jenny ' ib. 46. Mr B. to Mr T. With 'Deluded swain, the pleasure ' — Remarks ..... 214 47. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Thine am I, my faith. ful fair » — ' O condescend, dear charming maid ', — • The Nightingale ' — ' Laura ' — (the three last by G. Turnbull) . . . .215 48. Mr T. to Mr B. Apprehensions— Thanks . 216 49. Mr B. to Mr T. With • Husband, husband, cease your strife,' and • Wilt thou be my dearie ' ........ ib. 50. Mr T. to Mr B. 1794 Melancholy comparison between Burns and Carlini — Mr Allan has begun a sketch from the Cottar's Saturday Night 217 51. Mr B. to Mr T. Praise of Mr Allan—' Banks of Cree' ib. 52. Mr B. to Mr T. Pleyel in France — 'Here where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,' presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, with a copy of Mr Thomson's collection . . . 218 53. Mr T. to Mr B. Does not expect to hear from Pleyel soon, but desires to be prepared with the poetry ib. 54 Mr B. to Mr T. With' On the seas and far away' ib. 55. Mr T. to Mr B. Criticism . . . .219 56. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Ca' the yowes to the knowes' ib. 57. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' She says she loes me best of a' ' — • O let me in,' &c. — Stanza to Dr Maxwell 220 58. Mr T- to Mr B. Advising him to write a. Mu- sical Drama 221 59. Mr T. to Mr B. Has been examining Scottish collections — Ritson — Difficult to obtain an- dent melodies in their original state . . ib. 60. Mr B. to Mr T. Recipe for producing a love- song—' Saw ye my Phely ' — Remarks and anecdotes — ' How long and dreary is the night ' — ' Let not woman e'er complain '— * The lover's morning salute to his mistress — ' The Auld Man ' — ' Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnochthead,' in a note .... 222 61. Mr T. to Mr B. Wishes he knew the inspiring Fair One — Ritson's historical essay not inte- resting — Allan — Maggie Lauder . . . 224 62. Mr B. to Mr T. Has begun his Anecdotes, &c. — * My Chloris mark how green the groves' — Love — ' It was the charming month of May * — ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks ' — History of the Air * Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon ' — James Miller — Clarke — The black keys — Instances of the difficulty of tracing the origin of ancient airs ib, 63. Mr T. to Mr B. With three copies of the Scot- tish airs ........ 221 XIV CONTENTS. «4. Mr B. to Mr T. With « O Philly, happy be that day 1 — starting note — * Contented \vi' little, and cantie \vi* mair ' — • Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy '—(The reply, « Stay my Wil- lie — yet believe me,' in a note) — Stock aud horn 227 ti5. Mr T. to Mr B. Praise— Desires more songs of the humorous cast— Means to have a picture «rom « The Soldier's Return ' ... 229 66. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' My Nannie's awa' . 230 C7. Mr B. to Mr T. 1795. With ' For a' that an' a' that,' and ' Sweet la's the eve on Craigie- burn ' ib. 68. Mr T to Mr B. Thanks 231 69. Mr B. to Mr T. ' O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet,' and the Answer ib. 70. Mr B. to Mr T. « Dispraise of Ecclefechan ' . 232 71. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks ib. 72. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Address to the Woodiark '— ♦On Chloris being ill' — 'Their groves o' sweet myrtle,' &c. — ' 'Twaa na her bonny blue e'e,' &c 73. Mr T. to Mr B. With Allan's design from « The Cotter's Saturday Night . . .233 74. Mr B. to Mr T. With « Kow cruel are the pa- rents,' and ' Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion* ib. 75. Mr B. to Mr T. Thanks for Allan's designs . 234 76. Mr T. to Mr B. Compliment . . . . ib. 77 Mr B. to Mr T. With an improvement in ' Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad — '.O ib. 81. DO. Vaoo this is no my ain lassie • — ' Now Spring has clad the grove in green ' — « O bonnie was yon rosie brier ' — « 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend ' 234 Mr T. to Mr B. Introducing Dr Brianton . 236 Mr B. to Mr T. * Forlorn my love, no comfort near * ib. Mr B. to Mr T. * Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen ' — * Why, why tell thy lover,' a fragment ...... 237 Mr T. to Mr B ib. Mr T. to Mr B. 1796. After an awful pause . ib. Mr B. to Mr T. Thanks for P. Pindar, &c— • Hey for a lass wi' a tocher ' . 23S Mr T. to Mr B. Allan has designed some plates for an octavo edition ib. Mr B. to Mr T. Afflicted by sickness, but pleased with Mr Allan's etchings . . . ib. Mr T. to Mr B. Sympathy — encouragement . 239 Mr B. to Mr T. With « Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear » ib Mr B. to Mr T. Introducing Mr Lewars — Has taken a fancy to review his songs — hopes to recover ib Mr B. to Mr T. Dreading the horrors of a jail, solicits the advance of five pounds, and en- closes • Fairest maid on Devon banks * . . ?4fl Mr T. to Mr B. Sympathy — Advises a volume of poetry to be published by subscription, Pope published the Iliad so . . . . ib THE LIFE ROBERT BURNS'. WTTH A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. PREFATORY REMARKS. Though the dialect, in which many of the happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- posed, be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputa- tion has extended itself beyond the limits of that country, and his poetry has been admired as the offspring of original genius, by persons of taste, in every part of the sister islands. The interest excited by his early death, and the distress of his infant family, has been felt in a remarkable manner, wherever his writings have been known ; and these posthumous volumes, which give to the world his Works complete, and which, it is hoped, may raise his Widow and Children from penury, are printed and published in England. It seems Droper, therefore, to write the memoirs of his life, not with the view of their being read by Scotchmen only, but also by natives of Engiand, and of other countries where the English language is spoken or understood. Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the incidents of his humble story generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, ad- visable to prefix some observations on the character and situation of the order to which he belonged — a class of men distinguished by many peculiarities : by this means we shall form a more correct notion of the advantages with which he started, and of the obstacles which he surmounted. A few observations on the Scottish peasantry will not, perhaps, be found unworthy of attention in other re- spects ; and the subject is, in a great measure, new. Scotland has produced persons of high distinction in every branch of philosophy and literature ; and her history, while a separate and independent nation, has been successfully explored. But the present character of the people was not then formed ; the nation then presented features similar to those which the feudal system and the Catholic religion had diffused over Europe, modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of her territory and climate. The Reformation, by which such important changes were produced on the national charac- ter, was speedily followed by the Accession of the Scottish monarchs to the English throne ; and the period which elapsed from that Accession to the Union has been rendered memorable, chiefly by those bloody convu.- sions in which both divisions of the island were involved, and which in a considerable degree, concealed from the eye of the histo- rian the domestic history of the people, and the gradual variations in their condition and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though the seat of two unsuccessful attempts to re- store the House of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed a comparative tranquillity ; and it is since this period that the present character of her peasantry has been in a great measure formed, though the political causes affecting it are to be traced to the previous acts of her separate legislature. A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of Scotland will serve to convince an unpre- judiced observer, that they possess a degree of intelligence not generally found among the same class of men in the other countries ot Europe. In the very humblest condition of the Scottish peasants, every one can read, and most persons are more or less skilled in writ- ing and arithmetic ; and, under the disguise of their uncouth appearance, and of their peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger will discover that they possess a curiosity, and have obtained a degree of information, corresponding to these acquirements. These advantages they owe to the legal pro- vision made by the parliament of Scotland in 1616, for the establishment of a school in every parish throughout the kingdom, for the express purpose of educating the poor ; a law which may challenge comparison with any ace of legislation to be found in the records of history, whether we consider the wisdom ot the ends in view, the simplicity of the means XVI II PREFATORY REMARKS. employed, or the provisions made to render these means effectual to their purpose. This excellent statute was repealed on the accession of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the other laws passed during the commonwealth, as not being sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles and James, but was re-enacted precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish parliament, after the Revolu- tion in 1696 ; and this is the last provision on the subject. Its effects on the national charac- ter may be considered to have commenced about the period of the Union ; and doubtless it co-operated with the peace and security arising from that happy event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour of industry and good morals, which the character of the common people of Scotland has since under- gone.* * The importance of the national establishment of parish-schools in Scotland will justify a short account of the legislative provisions respecting it, especially as the subject has escaped the notice of all the historians. By au act of the king (James VI.) and privy council of the 10th of December, 1616, it was recommended to his bishops to deale and travel with the heritors (land proprietors,) and the inhabitants of the respective par- ishes in their respective dioceses, towards the fixing upon "some certain, solid, and sure course" for settling and entertaining a school in each parish. This was ratified by a statute of Charles I. (the act 1633, chap. 5.) which empowered the bishop, with the consent of the heritors of a parish, or of a majority of the inhabitants, if the heritors refused to attend the meeting, to assess every plough of land (that is, every farm, in proportion to the number of ploughs upon it) with a certain sum for establishing a school. This was an ineffectual pro- vision, as depending on the consent and pleasure of the heritors and inhabitants. Therefore a new order of things was introduced by Stat. 1G46, chap. 17, which obliges the heritors and minister of each parish to meet and assess the several heritors with the requisite sum for building a school-house, and to elect a schoolmaster, and modify a salary for him in all time to come. The salary is ordered not to be under one hundred, nor above two hundred merks, that is, in our preseut ster- ling money, not under £5 lis. l|d. nor above £11 2s. 3d. and the assessment is to be laid on the land in the same proportion as it is rated for the support of the clergy, and as it regulates the payment of the land-tax. But in case the heritors of any parish, or the majority of them, should fail to discharge tins duty, then the persons forming what is ca'led the Committee of Supply of the county (consisting of the principal landholders,) or any jive of them, are authorized by the statute to impose the assessment instead of them, on the repre- sentation of the presbytery in which the parish is situ- ated. To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the right of election by the heritors, by a statute passed in 1693, chap. 22, is made subject to the review and control of the presbytery of the district, who have the examina- tion of the person proposed committed to them, both as to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to his proper deportment in the office when settled in it. The elec- tion of the heritors is therefore only a presentment of a person for the approbation of the presbytery; who, if they find him unfit., may declare his incapacity, and thus oblige thern to elect anew. So far is stated on unques- tionable authority.* The legal salary of the schoolmaster was not incon- siderable at the time it was fixed ; but by the decrease in the value of money, it is now certainly inadequate to its object; and it. is painful to observe, that the land- holders of Scotland resisted the humble application of the schoolmasters to the legislature for its increase, a few year.-, ago. The number of parishes in Scotland is 877; and it we allow the salary of a schoolmaster in each to be on an average, seven pounds sterling, the ftmount of the legal provision will be £6,139 sterling. * The auUuvtty of A. Praxex Tytler, and David ilume, Ivsqis. The church-establishment of Scotland hap. pily coincides with the institution just men. tioned, which may be called its school -esta- blishment. The clergyman, being every where If we suppose the wages paid by the scholars to amount to twice this sum, which is probably beyond the truth, the total of the expenses among 1,526,492 persons (the whole population of Scotland,) of this most important establishment, will be £18,417. But on this, as well as on other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate informa- tion may soon be expected from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, which will complete the im- mortal monument he has reared to his patriotism. The benefit arising in Scotland from the instruction of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is enacted, " that of the moneys arising from the sale of the Scottish estates for- feited in the rebellion of 1715, £2,000 sterling shall he converted into a capital stock, the interest of which shall be laid out in erecting and maintaining schools in the Highlands. The Society for propagating Christian Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have applied a large part of their fund for the same purpose. By their re. port, 1st May, 1795, the annual sum employed by their,, in supporting their schools in the Highlands and Islands, was £3,913 19s. 10d., in which are taught the English language, reading and writing, and the principles of religion. The schools of the society are additional to the legal schools, which, from the great extent of many of the Highland parishes, were found insufficient. Be. sides these established schools, the lower classes of peo- ple in Scotland, where the parishes are large, often combine together, and establish private schools of their own, at one of which it was that Burns received the principal part of his education. So convinced indeed are the poor people of Scotland, by experience, of the benefit of instruction to their children, that, though they may often find it difficult to feed and clothe them, some kind of school-instruction they almost always pro. cure thern. The influence of the school-establishment of Scotland on the peasantry of that country, seems to have decided by experience a question of legislation of the utmost importance — whether a system of national instructior for the poor be favourable to morals and good govern- ment. In the year 1698, Fletcher of Sakon declared as follows : " There are at this day in Scotland, two hun- dred thousand people begging from door to door. And though the number of them be perhaps double to what it was formerly, by reason of this present great distress (a famine then prevailed,) yet in all times there have been about one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, who have lived without any regard or subjection either to the laws of the land, or even those of God and Na- ture; fathers incestuously accompanying with their own daughters, the son with the mother, and the bro- ther with the sister." He goes on to say, that no magistrate ever could discover that they had ever been baptized, or in what way one in a hundred went out of the world. He accuses them as frequently guilty of robbery, and sometimes of murder: "In years of plenty," says he, " many thousands of them meet toge- ther in the mountains, where they feast and riot for many days; and at country weddings, markets, burials, and other public occasions, they are to be seen, both men and women, perpetually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and fighting together. 1 '* This high-minded statesman, of whom it is said by a contemporary " that he would lose his life readily to save his country, and would not do a base thing to serve it," thought the evil so great that he proposed as a remedy, the revival of domestic slavery, according to the practice of his adored republics in the classic ages ! A better remedy has been found, which in the silent lapse of a century lias proved effec- tual. The statute of 1096, the noble legacy of the Scot- tish Parliament to their country, began soon after V\'\% to operate ; and happily, as the minds of the poor re- ceived instruction, the Union opened new channels of industry, and new fields of action to their view. At the present day there is perhaps no country in Europe, in which, in proportion to its population, so Small a number of crimes fall under the chastisement of the criminal law, as Scotland. We have the best autho. rity for asserting, that on an average of thirty years, * Political Work? rf Anirew Fletcher, octavo, London. 1737 p. Hi. PREFATORY REMARKS. XIX resident in bis particular parish, becomes tbe natural patron and superintendant of the parish- school, and is enabled in various ways to promote the comfort of the teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candidate for holy orders, ivho, during the long course of study and probation required in the Scottish church, renders the time which can be spared from his professional studies, useful to others as well as to himself, by assuming the respectable char- acter of a schoolmaster. It is common for the established schools, even in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, and some even of the cottagers, submit to much privation, that they may obtain, for one of their sons at least, the precarious advantage of a learned education. The difficulty to be surmounted arises indeed not from the expense of instructing their children, but from the charge of supporting them. In the country parish-schools, the English language, writing, and accounts are generally taught at the rate preceding: the year 1797, the executions in that division of the island did not amount to six annually; and one quarter-sessions for the town of Manchester only, lias sent, according to Mr Hume, more lel"ns to the planta- tions, than all the judges of Scotland usually do in the spare of a year.* It might appear invidious to attempt a calculation of the many thousand individuals in Man- chester and its vicinity who can neither read nor write. A majority of those who suffer the punishment of death for their crimes in every part of England are, it is believed, in this miserable state of ignorance. There is now a legal provision for parochial schools, or rather for a school in each of the different townships into which the country is divided, in several of the northern states of North America. They are, however, of recent origin there, excepting in New England, where they were established in the last century, pro- bably about the same time as in Scotland, and by the same religious sect. In the Protestant Cantons of Switzerland, the peasantry have the advantage of similar schools, though established and endowed in a different manner. This is also the case in certain districts in England, particularly in the northern parts of York- shire and of Lancashire, and in the counties of West- moreland and Cumberland. A law, providing for the instruction of the poor, was passed by the parliament of Ireland ; but the fund was diverted from its purpose, and tiie measure was entirely frustrated. Proh Pudor! The similarity of character between the Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch and the people of New England, can scarcely be overlooked. That it arises in a great measure from the similarity of their institutions for instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no doubt increased by physical causes. With a superior degree of instruction, each of these nations possesses a country that may be said to be sterile, in tbe neighbourhood of countries comparatively rich. Hence emigrations and the other effects on conduct and character which such circumstances naturally produce. This subject is in a high degree curious. The points of dissimilarity be- tween these nations might be traced to their causes also, and the whole investigation would perhaps admit of an approach to certainty in our conclusions, to which such inquiries seldom lead. How much superior in morals, in intellect, and in happiness, the peasantry of those parts of England are who have opportunities of instruc- tion, to the same class in other situations, those who inquire into the subject will speedily discover. The peasantry of Westmoreland, and of the other districts mentioned above, if their physical and moral qualities be taken together, are, in the opinion of the Editor, superior to the peasantry of any part of the island. * Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland. Introduction, p. SO. of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, per annum. In the town, the prices are somewhat higher. It wfjuld be improper in this place to inquire minutely into the degree of instruction received at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise estimate of its effects, either on the individuals who are the subjects of this instruction, or on the community to which they belong. That it is on the whole favourable to industry and morals, though doubtless with some individual exceptions, seems to be proved by the most striking and decisive experience; and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit of emigration and of adventure so pre- valent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Verulam, been denominated power ; by others it has, with less propriety, been denominated virtue or happiness : we may with confidence consider it as motion. A human being, in proportion as he is informed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as the means of gratifying those wishes. He may be con- sidered as taking within the sphere of his vision a larger portion of the globe on which we tread, and spying advantage at a greater distance on its surface. His desires or ambi- tion, once excited, are stimulated by his imagi- nation ; and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the operation of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the youthful adventurer, an attraction from their very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater degree of instruction be given to the peasantry of a country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other countries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; and if the barriers be removed that kept them separate, emigration from the former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself among surrounding bodies, or water finds its level when left to its natural course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was broken down which divided the two British nations, and knowledge and poverty poured the adventurous natives of the north over the fer- tile plains of England, and more especially, over the colonies which she had settled in tht East and in the West. The stream of popu- lation continues to flow from the north to the south ; for the causes that originally impelled it, continue to operate; and the richer country is constantly invigorated by tbe accession of an informed and hardy race of men, educaed in poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger, patient of labour, and prodigal of life. * * It has been supposed that Scotland is less populous and less improved on account of this emigration ; but such conclusions are doubtful, if not wholly fallacious. The principle of population acts in no country to the full extent of its power: marriage is every where re- tarded beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the difficulty of supporting a family; and this obstacle is greatest in long-settled communities. The emigration of a part of a people facilitates the marriage of the rest, by producing a relative increase in the means of sub. b2 XX PREFATORY REMARKS. The preachers of the Reformation in Scot- land were disciples of Calvin, and brought with them the temper as well as the tenets of that celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian form of worship and of church government was endeared to the people, from its being established by themselves. It was endeared to them, also, by the struggle it had to maintain with the Catholic and the Protestant episcopal churches, over both of which, after a hundred years of fierce, and sometimes bloody conten- tion, it finally triumphed, receiving the coun- tenance of government, and the sanction of .aw. During this long period of contention and of suffering, the temper of the people be- came more and more obstinate and bigotted ; and the nation received that deep tinge of fanaticism, which coloured their public tran- sactions as well as their private virtues, and of which evident traces may be found in our own times. When the public schools were esta- blished, the instruction communicated hi them partook of the religious character of the people. The Catechism of the Westminster Divines was the universal school-book, and was put into the hands of the young peasant as soon as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first exercises in the art of reading in- troduced him to the most mysterious doctrines of the Christian faith. This practice is con- tinued in our own times. After the Assem- bly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and the New and Old Testament, follow in regular succession ; and the scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred writ- ings, and receiving their doctrines according to the interpretation of the Westminster Confes- sion of Faith. Thus with the instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the national church ; and hence the first and most constant exercise of ingenuity among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed 6istence. The arguments of Adam Smith, for a free export of corn, are perhaps applicable with less excep- tion to the free export of people. The more certain the vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil. This sub- ject has been well investigated by Sir James Stewart, Whose principles have been expanded and farther illus- trated in a late truly philosophical Essay on Population. In fact, Scotland has increased in the number of its in- habitants in the last forty years, as the Statistics of Sir John Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the ratio that some had supposed. The extent of the emigration of the Scots may be calculated with some degree of confi- dence from the proportionate number of the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that may be established pretty ex. actly by an examination of the invaluable Statistics already mentioned. If we suppose that there is an equal number of male and female natives of Scotland, alive somewhere or other, the excess by which the fe- males exceed the males in their own country, may be considered to be equal to the number of Scotchmen liv- ing out of Scotland. But though the males born in Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, and though some of the females emigrate as well as the males, this mode of calculating would probably make the number of ex patriated Scotchmen, at any one time alive, greater, than the truth. The unhealthy climates into which" they emigrate, the liazai dons services in which so many Of them engage, render the mean life of those who leave Scotland (to speak in the language of calculators) not perhaps of hall the value of the mean Life o* thosu who in religious disputation. With a strong at tachment to the national creed, is conjoined a bigotted preference of certain forms of worship ; the source of which would be often altogether obscure, if we did not recollect that the cere- monies of the Scottish Church were framed in direct opposition, in every point, to those of the Church of Rome. The eccentricities of conduct, and singula- rities of opinion and manners, which charac- terized the English sectaries in the last century, afforded a subject for the muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their interest, since their archetypes are lost. Some of the peculiarities common among the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler's, and whose drawings from living manners are singularly expressive and exact. Unfortunately the cor- rectness of his taste did not always correspond with the strength of his genius ; and hence some of the most exquisite of his comic pro- ductions are rendered unfit for the light.* The information and the religious education of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedate- ness of conduct, and habits of thought and reflection. — These good qualities are not counteracted by the establishment of poor laws, which, while they reflect credit on the benevolence, detract from the wisdom of the English legislature. To make a legal provi- sion for the inevitable distress of the poor, who by age or disease are rendered incapable of labour, may indeed seem an indispensable duty of society ; and if, in the execution of a plan for this purpose, a distinction could be intro- duced, so as to exclude from its benefits those whose sufferings are produced by idleness or profligacy, such an institution would perhaps be as rational as humane. But to lay a general tax on property for the support of poverty, from whatever cause proceeding, is a measure full of danger. It must operate in a consider- able degree as a bounty on idleness, and a duty on industry. It takes away from vice and indolence the prospect of their most dreaded consequences, and from virtue and industry their peculiar sanctions. In many cases it must render the rise in the price of labour, not a blessing, but a curse to the labourer ; who, if there be an excess in what he earns beyond bis immediate necessities, may be expected tfl devote this excess to his present gratification ; trusting to the provision made by law for hia own and his family's support, should disease suspend, or death terminate his labours. Hap- pily in Scotland, the same legislature which established a system of instruction for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provi- sion for the support of poverty ; what they granted on the one hand, and what they re- * Holy Willie's Prayer, Rob the Rymer's Welcome to his Bustard Child, Epistle to J Gowdie, the Holy Tulzie, &c. PREFATORY REMARKS. XXI fused on the other, was equally favourable to industry and good morals ; and hence it will not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and reflection, if they approach nearer than persons of their order usually do, to the definition of a man, that of " a being that looks before and after." These observations must indeed be taken with many exceptions : the favourable operation of the causes just mentioned is coun- teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and the subject, if fully examined, would lead to discussions of great extent. When the reformation was established in Scotland, instrumental music was banished from the churches, as savouring too much of " profane minstrelsy." Instead of being regu- lated by an instrument, the voices of the con- gregation are led and directed by a person under the name of a precentor ; and the people are all expected to join in the tune which he chooses for the psalm which is to be sung. Church-music is therefore a part of the educa- tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they are usually instructed in the long winter nights by the parish schoolmaster, who is generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers more celebrated for their powers of voice. This branch of education had, in the last reign, fallen into some neglect, but was revived about thirty or forty years ago, when the music itself was reformed and improved. The Scottish system of psalmody is however radically bad. Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a striking contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was taught church-music, in which, however, he made little proficiency. That dancing should also be very generally a part of the education of the Scottish pea- santry, will surprise those who have only seen this description of men ; and still more those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism with which the nation is so deeply affected, and to which this recreation is so strongly ab- horrent. The winter is also the season when they acquire dancing, and indeed almost all their other instruction. They are taught to dance by persons generally of their own number, many of whom work at daily labour during the summer months. The school is usually a barn, and the arena for the performers is gen- erally a clay floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, country-dances, and horn- pipes, are here practised. The jig, so much in favour among the English peasantry, has no place among them. The attachment of the people of Scotland, of every rank, and parti- cularly of the peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. After the labours of the day are over, young men and women walk many miles, in the cold and dreary night of winter, to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air. fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his features brighten with sym- pathy ; every nerve seems to thrill with sen- sation, and every artery to vibrate with life. These rustic performers are indeed less to be admired for grace, than for agility and anima- tion, and their accurate observance of time. Their modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In our own day they have penetrated into England, and have established themselves even in the circle of Royalty. In another generation they will be naturalized in every part of the island. The prevalence of this taste, or rather pas- sion for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured with the spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one of those contradictions which the philosophic observer so often finds in national character and manners. It is proba- bly to be ascribed to the Scottish music, which, throughout all its varieties, is so full of sensi- bility, and which, in its livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions that find in dancing their natural solace and relief. This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the established religion, has not, however, been obtained without long continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sec- taries who dissent from the establishment on account of the relaxation which they perceive or think they perceive, in the Church, from original doctrines and discipline, universally condemn the practice of dancing, and the schools where it is taught : and the more elderly and serious part of the people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather than approve these meetings of the young of both sexes, where dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgot- ten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, proba- bly impeded, but could not obstruct, the pro- gress of its music; a circumstance that will convince the impartial inquirer, that this music not only existed previous to that era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus afford- ing a proof oi its antiquity, stronger t*han any produced by the researches of our antiquaries. The impression which the Scottish music has made on the people, is deepened by its union with the national songs, of which various collections of unequal merit are before the public. These songs, like those of other nations, are many of them humorous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love is the subject of the greater proportion. With- out displaying the higher powers of the ima- gination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affec- tion, and sometimes of delicate and romantic tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern poetry, and which the more polished strains of antiquity have seldom possessed. XK11 PREFATORY REMARKS. The ongTn of this amatory character in the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the greater number of those love- songs themselves, it would be difficult to trace ; they have accumu- lated in the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of them in the order of their date, valuable as such a record of taste and manners would be. Their present influence on the character of the nation is, however, great and striking. To them we must attribute, in a great measure, the romantic passion which so often character- izes the attachments of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a degree, that if we mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank of society in other countries. The pictures of love and happiness exhibited in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of the peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the music with which they are united. They associate themselves with his own youth- ful emotions ; they elevate the object as well as the nature of his attachment; and give to the impressions of sense the beauti- ful colours of imagination. Hence in the course of his passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not be ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he sets out for the habitation of his mistress, perhaps at many miles distance, regardless of the length or the dreariness of the way. He approaches her in secrecy, under the disguise of night. A signal at the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none but her, gives in- formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it is repeated again and again, before the capricious fair one will obey the summons. But if she favours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, and receives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish songs, some of the most beauti- ful of which Burns has imitated or improved. In the art which they celebrate he was per- fectly skilled ; he knew and had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is in- deed universal, even in the humblest condition of man, in every region of the earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose, that it may exist in a greater degree, and in a more romantic form, among the peasantry of a country who are supposed to be more than commonly in- structed ; who find in their rural songs expres- sions for their youthful emotions ; and in whom the embers of passion are continually fanned by the breathings of a music full of tenderness and sensibility. The direct influence of physical causes on the attachment between the sexes is comparatively small, but it is modified by moral causes beyond any other affection of the mind Of these, music and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and every where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with poetry and song.* In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a community, there is perhaps no single cri- terion on which so much dependence may be placed, as the state of the intercourse between the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, the character and the influence of women rise j in society, our imperfect nature mounts on the i scale of moral excellence, and from the source ( of this single affection, a stream of felicity de- i scends, which branches into a thousand rivulets | that enrich and adorn the field of life. Where j the attachment between the sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is com- paratively poor, and man approaches the con- dition of the brutes that perish. " If we could with safety indulge the pleasing supposition that Fingal lived and that Ossian sung,!' Scotland, judging from this criterion, might be considered as ranking high in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her situation by the same criterion in our own times, would be a delicate and difficult under- taking. After considering the probable influ- ence of her popular songs and her national music, and examining how far the effects to be expected from these are supported by facts, the inquirer would also have to examine the influence of other causes, and particularly or her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by which the character, and even the manners of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully controlled. In the point of view in which we are considering the subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly favourable to purity of conduct. The dissoluteness of manners among the Catholic clergy, which preceded, and in some measure produced the Reformation, led to an extraordinary strictness on the part of the reformers, and especially in that particular in which the licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to its greatest height— the inter- course between the sexes. On this point, as on all others connected with austerity of man- ners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater severity than those of the Protestant episco- pal church. The punishment of illicit, con- nexion between the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy assumed to themselves; and the church of Scotland, which at the Reformation renounced so mat y powers and privileges, at that period took this crime under her more especial jurisdiction. \ — • The North. American Indians, among whom the attachment between the sexes is said to be weak, a:id love, in the purer sense of ilie word, unknown, se^m nearly unacquainted with the charms of poetry and music. See Weld's Tour. ■f- Gibbon. % In the punishment of this offence the Church era- ployed formerly the arm of the civil pow.r. During- tne reign of James the Vlth (James the First of hngUnd), criminal connexion between unmarried persons wa» PREFATORY REMARKS. XX1U "Where pregnancy takes place without marriage, the condition of the female causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, in the first instance, that the clergy and elders of the church exer- cise their zeal. After examination before the kirk-session touching the circumstances of her guilt, she must endure a public penance, and sustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, in the face of the congregation to which she belongs, and thus have her weakness exposed, and her shame ■jlazoned. The sentence is the same with re- spect to the male ; but how much lighter the punishment ! It is well known that this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- quences, at the very mention of which human nature recoils. While the punishment of incontinence pre- scribed by the institutions of Scotland, is severe, the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding it, afforded them by the law respecting marriage, the validity of which requires neither the cere- monies of the church, nor any other ceremonies, but simplythe deliberate acknowledgment of each other as husband and wife, made by the parties before witnesses, or in any other way that gives legal evidence of such an acknowledgment having taken place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of their marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid the punishment, and repair the consequences of illicit gratification. Such a degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- tract might produce much confusion in the descent of property, without a still farther in- dulgence ; but the law of Scotland legitimating all children born before wedlock, on the sub- sequent marriage of their parents, renders the actual date of the marriage itself of little con- sequence.* Marriages contracted in Scotland made the subject of a particular statute (See Hume's Com?nentaries on the Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. p. 332.) which, from its rigour, was never much enforced, and which has lon^ fallen into disuse. When in the middle of the la>t century, the Puntans succeeded in the over- throw of the monarchy in both divisions of the island, fornication was a crime against which they directed their utmost zeal. It was made punishable with death ill the second instance, (See Blackstone, b. iv. chap. 4. No. II.) Happily this sanguinary statute was swept away along with the other acts of the Commonwealth, on the restoration of Charles II. to whose temper and manners it must have been peculiarly abhorreut. And after the Revolution, when several salutary acts passed during the suspension of the monarchy, were re-enact- ed by the Scottish Parliament, particularly that for the establishment of parish schools, the statute punishing fornication with death, was suffered to sleep in the grave of the stern fanatics who had given it birth. * The legitimation of children, by subsequent mar- riage became the Roman law under the Christian em. perors. It was the canon law of modern Europe, and lias been established in Scotland from a very remote period. Thus a child born a bastard, if his pa'rents af- terwards marry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority 5>ver his brothers otWwards born in wedlock. In the Parliament of Merton, iu the reh/n of Henry III the English clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce this article into the law of England, and it was on this occasion that the Barons made the noted answer, since so often appealed to ; Quod nolunt Irares Anglice mutare • Qua hue usque usitatce sunt approbuhe. With regard without the ceremonies of the church are con- sidered as irregular, and the parties uually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face ol their respective congregations, which is not, however, necessary to render the mar- riage valid. Burns, whose marriage it will appear, was irregular, does not seem to have undergone this part of the discipline of the church. Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in many particulars favourable to a conduct among the peasantry founded on foresight and reflection, on the subject of marriage the re- verse of this is true. Irregular marriages, it may be naturally supposed, are often improvi- dent ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. The children of such marriages, poor- ly endowed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruction of easy acquisition ; but the comforts of life, and the gratifications of ambition, they find of more difficult attain- ment in their native soil ; and thus the mar- riage laws of Scotland conspire with other cir, cumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so remarkable. The manners and appearance of the Scot- tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the degree of their cultivation. In their own country, their industry is inferior to that of the same description of men in the southern division of the island. Industry and the use. ful arts reached Scotland later than England ; and though their advance has been rapid there, the effects produced are as yet far inferior, both in reality and in appearance. The Scot- tish farmers have in general neither the opu- lence nor the comforts of those of England — neither vest the same capital in the soil, nor receive from it the same return. Their cloth- ing, their food, and their habitations, are al- most every where inferiorf. Their appear- ance in these respects corresponds with the appearance of their country ; and under the operation of patient industry, both are impro- ving. Industry and the useful arts came later into Scotland than into England, because the- security of property came later. With causes of internal agitation and warfare similar to those which occurred to the more southern nation, the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminent hazards, and more extensive and destructive spoliation, from external war. Occupied in the maintenance of their indepen- dence against their more powerful neighbours, to this were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and at certain periods, the flower of their population. And when the union of the to what constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, as explained above, differs from the Roman law, which required the ceremony to be performed in facie ecclexiat. f These remarks are confined to the class of farmers : the same corresponding inferiority will not be found in the condition of the cottagers and labourers, at least in the article of food, as those who examine this subject impartially will Boon discover. XXIV PREFATORY REMARKS. crowns produced a security from national wars with England for the century succeeding, the civil wars common to both divisions of the island, and the dependence, perhaps the neces- sary dependence of the Scottish councils on those of the more powerful kingdom, coun- teracted this advantage. Even the union of the British nations was not, from obvious causes, immediately followed by all the bene- fits which it was ultimately destined to pro- duce. At length, however, these benefits are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. Property is secure ; manufactures and com- merce increasing, and agriculture is rapidly improving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the farmers are not, :n general, enabled to make improvements ou* of their own capitals, as in England ; but the landholders, who have seen and felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute towards them with a liberal band. Hence property, as well as population, is ac- cumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and the nation, enjoying a great part of the bles- sings of Englishmen, and retaining several of their own happy institutions, might be consi- dered, if confidence could be placed in human foresight, to be as yet only in an early stage of their progress. Yet there are obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of the soil are opposed the extent and the strictness of the entails : to the improvement of the people, the rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a detestable practice, which includes in its con- sequences almost every evil, physical and moral.* The peculiarly social disposition of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this practice. This disposition, which is fostered by their national songs and music, is perhaps characteristic of the nation at large. Though the source of many pleasures, it counteracts by its consequences the effects of their pa- tience, industry, and frugality both at home and abroad, of which those especially who have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other countries, must have known many strik- ing instances. Since the Union, the manners and language of the people of Scotland have no longer a standard among themselves, but are tried by the standard of the nation to which they are united. — Though their habits are far from being flexible, yet it is evident that their mariners and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. Even the farmers of the present day appear to have less of the peculiarities of their coun- try in their speech, than the men of letters of the last generation. Burns, who never left the island, nor penetrated farther into Eng- land than Carlisle on the one hand, or Nevv- * The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in Scot- land in now upwards of L.V50,Ol)0 annually. In 1777, it did not reach L.K000. The rate of the duty has indeed been raised, but, making- every allowance, the increase ol consumption must he enormous. This is Independent of the duty on malt, &c. malt liquor, im- ported spirits, and wine. castle on the other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived for many years in the best society of England and France ; or perhaps than Robertson, who wrote the En- lish language in a style of such purity ; and if he had been in other respects fitted to take a lead in the British House of Commons, his pronunciation would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. A striking particular in the character of tne Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped will not be lost — the strength of their domestic attachments. The privations to which many parents submit for the good of their children, and particularly to obtain for them instruction, which they consider as the chief good, has already been noticed. If their children live and prosper, they have their certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earnings of the children may generally be considered as at the disposal of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the support and comfort of those whose days of labour are past. A similar strength of attachment extends through all the domestic relations. Our poet partook largely of this amiable characteristic of his humble compeers ; he was also strongly tinctured with another strik- ing feature which belongs to them, — a partia- lity for his native country, of which many proofs may be found in his writings. This, it must be confessed, is a very strong and general sentiment among the natives of Scotland, dif- fering however in its character, according to the character of the different minds in which it is found ; in some appearing a selfish preju- dice, in others a generous affection. An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, common to all men. It is found among the inhabitants of every region of the earth, from the arctic to the antarctic circle, in all the yast variety of climate, of surface, of civilization. To analyze this genera', senti- ment, to trace it through the mazes of associa- tion up to the primary affection in which it has its source, would neither be a difficult nor unpleasing labour. On the first consideration of the subject, we should perhaps expect to find this attachment strong in proportion to the physical advantage of the soil : but inquiry, far from confirming this supposition, seems rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. — In those fertile regions where beneficent nature yields almost spontaneously whatever is neces- sary to human wants, patriotism, as well as every other generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In countries less richly endowed, where the comforts, and even necessaries of life, must be purchased by patient toil, the affections of the mind, as the faculties of the understanding, improve under exertion, and parriotism flourishes amidst its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to combine for mutual PREFATORY REMARKS. XXV defence, as well as for the supply of common wants, mutual good- will springs from mutual difficulties and labours, the social affections unfold themselves, and extend from the men with whom we live, to the soil in which we tread. It will perhaps be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be originally called forth, but by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and of returning them ; but when once excited they are strength- ened by exercise — they are expanded by the powers of imagination, and seize more espe- cially on those inanimate parts of creation, which form the theatre on which we have first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. If this reasoning be just, the love of our country, although modified, and even extin- guished in individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be presumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong among a peo- ple, in proportion to their social, and more especially to their domestic affections. In free governments it is found more active than in despotic ones, because, as the individual be- comes of more consequence in the community, the community becomes of more consequence to him ; in small states it is generally more active than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because the independence of a small community being maintained with difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriotism are more frequently excited. In mountainous countries it is generally found more active than in plains, because there the necessities of life often require a closer union of the inhabitants ; and more especially because in such countries, though less populous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scat- tered equally over the whole, are usually divided into small communities on the sides of their separate valleys, and on the banks of their respective streams : situations well cal- culated to call forth and to concentrate the social affections amidst scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting impression on the memory. It may also be remarked, that mountainous countries are often peculiarly calculated to nourish sentiments of national pride and independence, from the in- fluence of history on the affections of the mind. In such countries, from their natural strength, inferior nations have maintained their indepen- dence against their more powerful neighbours, and valour, in all ages, has made its most suc- cessful effort against oppression. Such coun tries present the fields of battle, where the tide of invasion was rolled back, and where the ashes of those rest, who have died in de- fence of their nation ! The operation of the various causes we have mentioned is doubtless more general and more permanent, where the scenery of a country, the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and the martial achievements of their ancestor are embodied in national songs, and united to national music. By this combination, the ties that attach men to the land of their birth are multiplied and strengthened; and the images of infancy strongly associating with the generous affections, resist the influence of time, and of new impressions ; they often survive in coun- tries far distant, and amidst far differeit scenes, to the latest periods of life, to sooth the heart with the pleasures of memory, when those of hope die away. If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us why, among the natives of Scotland, even of cultivated minds, we so generally find a partial attachment to the land of their birth, and why this is so strongly discoverable in the writings of Burns, who joined to the higher powers of the understanding the most ardent affections. Let not men of reflection think it a superfluous labour to trace the rise and pro- gress of a character like his. Born in the con- dition of a peasant, he rose by the force of his mind into distinction and influence, and in his works has exhibited what are so rarely found. the charms of original genius. With a deep insight into the human heart, his poetry ex- hibits high powers of imagination — it displays, and as it were embalms, the peculiar manners of his country ; and it may be considered as a monument, not to his own name only, but to the expiring genius of an ancient and once in- dependent nation. In relating the incidents of his life, candour will prevent us from dwelling invidiously on those faults and failings which justice forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, and re- spect the laurels that shelter his untimely grave. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards him- self a farmer there ; but, having been unsuc- cessful, he was about to em ; grate to Jamaica. He had previously, however, attracted some notice by his poetical talents in the vicinity where he lived ; and having published a small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more general attention. In conse- quence of the encouragement he received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and there published, by subscription, an improved and enlarged edition of his poems, which met with extra- ordinary success. By the profits arising from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a person to whom he had been long attached, he retired to devote the remainder of his life to agriculture. He was again, how- ever, unsuccessful ; and, abandoning his farm, he removed into the town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office in the excise, and where he terminated his life in July, 1796, in his thirty-eighth year. The strength and originality of his genius procured him the notice of many persons dis- tinguished in the republic of letters, and, among others, that of Dr Moore, well known for his Views of Society and Manners on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, and vari- ous other works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of his life, up to the period of his writing. In a composition never intended to see the light, elegance or perfect correctness of composition will not be expected. These, however, will be compen- sated by the opportunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities of his character with all the care- less vigour and open sincerity of his mind. " sir, Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. " For some months past I have been rambling over the country ; but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I 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 in- terest 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 charac- ter, 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, except in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to behold madness and jolly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. . . . After you have perused theL ^'jges, should you think them trifling and impertn.^. 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 ac- quainted in the Herald's Office ; and, looking through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom j but for me, " My ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood." Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. " My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmar, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many years wanderings and sojoumings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- xx via LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vation and experience, to which I am indebt- ed 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 dis- qualifying circumstances ; consequently I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six or seven years of my life, my father was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he con- tinued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm-house ; 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 dis- cern between good and evil ; so, with the as- sistance 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 any body. I was a good deal noted lor a re- tentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piery. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and participles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trum- pery. This cultivated the latent seeds of noetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though no body can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, Bow are thy servants blest, O Lord/ I particularly remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish ears — " For though on 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 two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier •- while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- judice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest. " Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour. « My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- tage to me. My social disposition, when not checked by some modifications of spirited pride, was, like our catechism-definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed several connections with other younkers who possessed superior advantages, the youngling actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes, It is not commonly at this green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense distance between them and their ragged play fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man that proper, decent, un noticing dis- regard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps born in the same village. My young superiors never insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of the seasons. They would 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 occa- sionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruin- ous 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 unfit 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, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly ; I was a dexterous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel- writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent threatening letters which used to set us all in tears. " This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXIX 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 »s partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. My scar- city of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the Scot- tish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly snid I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I lik- ed so much to loiter behind with her, when re- turning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an iEolian 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 his father's maids, with whom he was in love ! and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself.* * It may interest some persons to peruse the first poetical production of our Bard, and it is therefore ex- tracted from a kind of common place book, which he seems to have begun in his twentieth year ; and which hf entitled, " Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, fyc. by Robert Burn ess, a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping- it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of ho- nesty, and unbounded goodwill to every creature, ra- tional or irrational. As he was but little indebted to a scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- formances must be stronglytinctured with his unpolished rustic way of iife ; but as, I believe, they are really his own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observ- er of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, in all the species." "Pleasing, when youth is long expire 1 to trace, The forms our pencil or our pen deaigu'd, Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of our youthful mind." Shenstone. This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed this ac- count of himself, and of his intention in preparing it, contains several of his earlier poems, -aae as they were " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commence- ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- mencing between him and his landlord, as to terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest. " It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful. 1 was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and 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 Shakspeare, printed, and others in their embryo state. The song alluded to is as follows, Tune.—" I am a man unmarried." O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still, And whilst that virtue warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell. Tal lal de ral, $c. As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw, But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. A bonnie lass, I will confess. Is pleasant to the e'e, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a' Her reputation was 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 ony dress look weef. 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 ret Pitferran. Colonel (ieorge Crawford, the author of Down the Burn Davy. Pinkey house, by J. Mitchell. My ujn an Deary ! and Amynta, by Sir G. Elliot. Willie was a wanton Wag, was made on Walkinshaw of Walkuishiiw, near Paisley. / h/e na a laddie hut ane, Mr Clunzee. The bonnie wee thing— beautiful — Lundie's Dream — very beautiful. He till't and she t>Wt—asxez bien. Armstrong's Farewell — fine. The Author of the Highland Queen was a Mr M'lver, purser ol the Sol bay. Fife and a' the land about it, R. Ferguson. The author of The Bush aboon Traquair was a Dr Stewart. Polwart on the Green, composed by Captain John Druniniond M'Gregor, of Boehaldie. Mem.— To inquire if Mr Cockburn was the author of I ha'v teen the milling &c two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramafu ■persona, in my Holy Fair. I had a notion myself, that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament. This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very neatly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of Ration- ality.* 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, 1 resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my productions as im- partially as was in my power : I thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- driver, — or perhaps a victim to that inhospita- ble clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu 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 thou- sands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. — To know myself, had been all along my constant study. I weighed my- self 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 confident 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 vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all The above may serve as a specimen. All the note? on farming are obliterated. * An explanation of this will be found hereafter. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, XXXlll 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 waft- ing 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." " I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, when a letter from Dr Blacklock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. 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, that 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 patron- age of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Ouhlie moi, Grand Dieu, si ja- mais je Coublie! " 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 lining us they rise. Whether I have profited, time will show. " My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- ruw.*" At the period of our poet's death, his bro- ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had himself written the foregoing narrative of his life while in Ayrshire ; and having been ap- plied to by Mrs Dunlop for some memoirs of bis brother, he complied with her request in a letter, from which the following narrative is * There are various copies of this letter, in the au- thor's hand- writing; and oue of these, evidently cor- rected, is iu the bunk in which he had copied' several of Ins letters. This has been used for the press, with tome omissions, and one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert Bums, chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after, wards saw the letter of our poet to Dr Moore, he made some annotations upon it, which shall be noticed as we proceed. Robert Bums was born on the 29th day of January, 1759, in a small house about twe miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few hundred yards of Alloway Church, which his poem of Turn o' Shunter has rendered immor- tal.* The name which the poet and his bro- ther modernized into Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. Their father, William Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincardine- shire, and had received the education common in Scotland to persons in his condition of life : he could read and write, and had some know- ledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen into reduced circumstances, he was compelled to leave his home in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps towards the south in quest of a livelihood. The same necessity attended his elder brother Robert. " I have often heard my father, says Gilbert Burns, in his letter to Mrs Dunlop, "describe the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on the top of a hill on the confines of their native place, each going off his several way in search of new adven- tures, and scarcely knowing whither he went. My father undertook to act as a gardener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of difficulties. Still, however, he endeavoured to spare something for the sup- port of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him mention his having sent a bank-note for this purpose, when money of that kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew how to employ it when it arrived." From Edinburgh William Burnes past westward into the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairley, with whom he lived two years ; then changing his service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, being desirous of settling in life, lie took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land from Dr Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of commencing nurseryman and public gardener; and having built a house upon it with his own hands, married in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who still survives. The first fruit of this mar- riage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on the 29th of January, 1759, as has already been mentioned. Before William Burnes had made much progress in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from that under- taking by Mr Ferguson, who purchased the estate of Doonhclin, in the immediate neigh- bourhood, and engaged him as his gardener * This house is on the right hand side of the road from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road from Glasgow to Port- Patrick. When the poet's father af- terwards removed to Tarbolton parish, he sold his lease- hold right in this house, and a few acres of land adjoin. ing, to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. It is now & countiy alehouse. xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and overseer; and this was his situation when our poet was bom. Though in the service of Mr Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his wife managing her family and little dairy, which consisted, sometimes of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; and this state of unambi- tious content continued till the year 1766. His son Robert was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway" Miln, about a mile dis- tant, taught by a person of the name of Camp- bell ; but this teacher being in a few months appointed master of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with some other heads of families, engaged John Mur- doch in his stead. The education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in common ; and of their proficiency under Mr Murdoch we have the following account : " With him we learnt to read English tolerably well,* and to write a little. He taught us, too, the Eng- lish grammar. I was too young to profit much from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert made some proficiency in it — a circumstance of considerable weight in the unfolding of his genius and character; as he soon became re- markable for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and read the few books that came in his way with much pleasure and im- provement ; for even then he was a reader, when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose library at that time had no great variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the first book he read (the school-books excepted) and almost the only one he had an opportunity of reading while he was at school; for The Life of Wallace, which he classes with it in one of his letters to you, he did not see for some years afterwards, when he borrowed it from the blacksmith who shod our horses.'' It appears that William Burnes approved himself greatly in the service of Mr Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In consequence of this, with a view of promoting his interest, Mr Ferguson leased him a farm, of which we have the following account ; " The farm was upwards of seventy acres f (between eighty and ninety, English statute measure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds annually for the first six years, and afterwards forty-live pounds. My father en- deavoured to sell his leasehold property, for the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time was unable, and Mr Ferguson lent, him a hundred pounds for that purpose. He re- moved to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, I think, not above two years after this, that, Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of the country ; and there being no school near us, and our little services being useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by candle-light ; and in this way my two elder * Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. ■» r Btter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. The «:\n.,! of this farm i:, Mount Oiiphant, in Ayr parish. sisters got all the education they received. ] remember a circumstance that happened at this time, which, though trilling in itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve to illus- trate the early character of my brother. Mur- doch came to spend a night with us, and to take his leave, when he was about to go into Carrick. He brought us, as a present and memorial of him, a small compendium of English Grammar, and the tragedy of Titui Andronieus ; and by way of passing the even- ing, he began to read the play aloud. We were all attention for some time, till presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A female in the play (I have but a confused re- membrance of it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, and then was infultingly desired to call for water to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he would read no more. My father observe, that if we would not hear it out, it would be needless to leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if it was left he would burn it. My father was going to chide him for this ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; and he left The Schorl for Love, a comedy (trans- lated, I think, from the French), in its place."* " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, "cou'd be more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oiiphant ; we rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us in vir- tuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geogra- * It is to be remembered that the poet, was only nine years of age, and the relater of this incident under eight, at the time it happened. The effect was very natural in children of sensibility at their age. At a more mature period of the judgment, such absurd re- presentations are calculated rather to produce disgust or laughter, than tears The sceue to which Gilbert Burns alludes, opens thus : Titus Andronicus, Act II. Scene 5. Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia ravislied % Iter hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. Why is this silly play still printed as Shakspcare's, against the opinion of all the best critics ? The hard of Avon was guilty of many extravagancies, but he always performed what, be intended to perform. That he ever excited in a British mind (for the French critics must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he meant to have awakened pity or horror, is what will not be imputed to that master of the passions. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxv pfiical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries in the world; while, from a bock-society in Ayr, he pro- cured for us the reading of Dei-ham's Physico and Astro- Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to Stachhouse's History of the Bible, then lately published by James Meuros in Kilmarnock : from this Robert collected a competent knowledge of ancient history; for no book was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his re- searches. A brother of my mother, who had lived with us some time, and had learnt some arithmetic by our winter evening's candie, went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to pur- chase The Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The Complete Letter-Writer, he got, by mistake, a small collection of letters by the most eminent writ- ers, with a few sensible directions for attain- ing an easy epistolary style. This book was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished him with models by some of the first writers in our language. " My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, regretting that we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during a summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, though between two and three miles distant, was thf nearest to us, that we might nave an opportunity of. remedying this defect. About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured us a reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pamela, which was the first novel we read, and the only part of Richard* son's works my brother was acquainted with till towards the period of Ins commencing author. Till that time too he remained un acquainted with Fielding, with Sinollet, (two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the later times. I recollect indeed my father borrowed a volume of English history from Mr Hamilton of Bourtree-hiU's gardener. It treated of the reign of James the First, and his unfortunate son, Charles, but I do not know who was the author ; all that I remember of it is something of Charles's conversation with his children. About this time Murdoch, our former teacher, after having been in different places in the com. try, and having taught, a school some time in Dumfries, came to be the established teacher of the English language in Ayr, a circum- stance of considerable consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's former friendship, and his attachment to my brother, made him do every thing in his power for our improve- ment. He sent us Pope's works, and some other poetry, the first that we had an oppor- tunity of reading, excepting what is contained in The English Collection, and in the volume of The Edinburgh Magazine for 1772 ; except- ing also those excellent new songs that are hawked about the country in baskets, or ex- posed on stalls in the streets. " The summer after we had been at Dal- rymple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, with his former teacher. He had been there only one week, when he was obliged to return, to assist at the harvest. When the harvest was over, he weut back to school, where he remained two weeks ; and this completes the account of his school education, excepting one summer quarter some time afterwards, that he attended the parish school of Kirk- Oswald (where he lived with a brother of my mother's) to learn survey- ing. " During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning French, and he communicated the in- structions he received to my brother, who, when he returned, brought with him a French dictionary and grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus in the original. In a little while, by the assistance of these books, he acquired such a knowledge of the language, as to read and understand any French author in prose. This was considered as a sort of prodigy, and, through the medium of Mur- doch, procured him the acquaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at that time gabbling French, and the notice of some families, par- ticularly that of Dr Malcolm, where a know- ledge of French was a recommendation. " Observing the facility with which he had acquired the French language, Mr Robinson, the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr Murdoch's particular friend, having himself acquired a considerable knowledge of the Latin language by his own industry, without ever having learned it at school, advised Robert to make the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased The Rudiments cftiie Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or disappointment, particularly in his love affairs; but the Latin seldom pre- dominated more than a day or two at a time, or a. week at most. Observing himself the ridicule that would attach to this sort of con- duct if it were known, he made two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, which lean- not now recollect, but they all ended, ' So I'll to my Latin again.' " Thus you see Mr Murdoch was a princi- pal means of my brother's improvement, Woi thy man ! though foreign to my present c 2 XXXVI LIFE OF ROi>^iiT BURN! purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his future history. He continued for some years a respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had heen over- taken in liquor, he happened to speak some- what disrespectfully of Dr Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had not paid him that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken blas- phemy. He found it proper to give up his appointment. He went to London, where he still lives, a private teacher of French. He has heen a considerable time married, and keeps a shop of stationary wares. " The father of Dr Paterson, now physi- cian at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aber- deenshire, and was one of the established teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood. He eagerly recognised my father as a fedow native of the north of Scot- land, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted between them during Mr Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in doing what she thought her husband would have wished to have done, and assiduously kept up her attentions to all his acquaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with our family, by frequently inviting my father and mother to her house on Sundays, when she met them at church. " When she came to know my brother's passion for books, she kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from her we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and several other books that were ot use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my fa- ther possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof of this I can- not give, than that, notwithstanding the ex- traordinary rise in the value of lands in Scot- land, it was, after a considerable sum laid out in improving it by the proprietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, in consequence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents and disease. — To the buffetings of misfortune, we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop 01 corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, maie or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very great. To think of our father grow- ing old (tor he was now above fifty,) broken down with the long continued fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these rc- dections produced in my brothel's mind and mine sensations of the deep, st distress. 1 doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this period of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull headache, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in the night-time. " By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he thought pro- per, at the end of every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first six years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was for six years more. He then took the farm of Loch- lea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No writing had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took place re- specting them ; the subjects in dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved my father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, but not to see any execution in consequence of it. He died on the 13th of February, 1784. " The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age), were not marked by much literary improvement; but during this time the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and died away ,• but the agita- tions of his mind and body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or who had more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected any one, out of the sove- reignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dis- similitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave her. One LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxv 11 generally reigned paramount in his affeetions : but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions, which formed so many under plots in the drama of his love. As these connexions were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which he never deviated till he reached his 23d year), he became anxi- ous to be in a situation to marry. This was not likely to be soon the case while he re- mained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm required a sum of money he had no probabi- lity of being master of for a great while. He began, therefore, to think of trying some other line of life. He and I had for several years ttiken land of my father for the purpose of raiding flax on our own account. Jn the course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- servient to the flax raising. He accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that period, as neither agreeing with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him for over'eaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him. Towards the end of the period under review (in his 24-th year), and soon after his father's death, he was furnished with the subject of his epistle to John Rankin. During this period also he became a freemason, which was his first introduction to the life of a boon com- panion. Yet, notwithstanding these circum- stances, and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his Historians), I do not recollect, during these seven years, nor till towards the end of his commencing author (when his growing cele- brity occasioned his being often in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated; nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the general sobriety of his conduct need not be required than what I am about to give. During the whole of the time we lived in the farm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a part of which, every article of our clothing manufac- tured in the family was regularly accounted for. When my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, con- sisting of 118 acres, at the rent of .£90 per an- num (the farm on which I live at present) from Mr Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in case of the wor£t. It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the w hole family, nnd was a joint concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each. And dur- ing the whole time this family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender in- come. As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possible that there can be any fallacy in this statement in my brother's favour. His temperance and fru- gality were every thing that could be wished. " The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to j?ive up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert formed his con- nexion with Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs Burns This connexion could no longer be concealed, about the time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage with a family in his poor unsettled state, but was anxious to shield his partner by every means in his power from the conse- quences of their imprudence. It was agreed therefore between them, that they should make a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, to push his fortune; and that she should re- main with her father till it might please Pro- vidence to put the means of supporting a family in his power. " Mrs Burns was a great favourite of her father's. The intimation of a private mar- riage was the first suggestion he received of her real situation. He was in the greatest distress, and fainted away. The marriage did not appear to him to make the matter any bet- ter. A husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife little better than none, and an ef- fectual bar to any other prospects of a settle- ment in life that their daughter might have. They therefore expressed a wish to her, that the written papers which respected the mar- riage should be cancelled, and thus the mar- riage rendered void. In her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at having brought such heavy affliction on parents that loved her so tenderly, and submitted to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home and provide for his wife and family in the best manner that his daily labours could provide for them ; that being the only means in his power. Even this offer they did not approve of; for humble as Miss Armour's station was, and great though her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might look to abetter connexion than that with my friendless and unhappy brother, at that time without house or biding -place. Robert at length consented to their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion were of the most distracting nature : and tLe impressior of xxxviu LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular mar- riage they were indissolubly united. In the state of mind which this separation produced, he wished to leave the country as soon as pos- sible, and agreed with Dr Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not sufficient money to pay his passage, and the vessel in which Dr Dou- glas was to procure a passage for him was not expected to sail tor some time, Mr Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in the mean- time by subscription, as a likely way of get- ting a little money to provide him more liber- ally in necessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, subscription bills were printed im- mediately, and the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the same time for his voyage. The reception, however, which his poems met with in the world, and the friends they procured him, made him change his resolution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- burgh to publish a second edition. On his return, in happier circumstans es, he renewed his connexion with Mrs Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union for life. " Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple narrative of the leading circum- stances in my brother's early life. The re- maining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dum- fries-shire, and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius having procured him your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to the correspondence between you, in which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last days of his life." Tnis narrative of Gilbert Bums may serve as a commentary on the preceding sketch of our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that the distraction of mind which he mentions (p xxxii,) arose from the distress and sorrow in which he had involved his future wife. The whole circumstances attending this connexion are certainly of a very singular nature.* The reader will perceive, from the foregoing narrative how much the children of William Burnes were indebted to their father, who was certainly a man of uncommon talents ; though it does not appear that he possessed any por* ; on of that vivid imagination for which the subject of these memoirs was distinguished. In page xxx. it is observed by our poet, that his father had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, and that his attending one of * In pa<{0 xxxiii. the poet mentions his 'skulking from covert t<> covert, under all the terrors of a jail.'" — The " puck of the law were uncoupled at his heels," to oblige him to find scnuity for the maintenance of his twin-children, whom he was not permitted to legiti- mate by a marriage with their mother. these brought on him his displeasure, and even - dislike. On this observation Gilbert has made the following remark, which seems en- titled to implicit credit: — " I wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that last- ing resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that he, about this time, began to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father; and which he would naturally think a dancing-school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of Robert's genius, which he be- stowed more expense in cultivating than on the rest of the family, in the instances of sending him to Ayr and Kirk- Oswald schoolr, ; and he was greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, and his conversational powers. He had in- deed that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but ,so far overcame it during Robert's first month of attendance, that he allowed all the rest of the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it." In the original letter to Dr Moore, our poet described his ancestors as " renting lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having had the honour of sharing their fate." " I do not," continues he, " use the word honour with any reference to political principles ; loyal and disloyal I take to be merely relative terms, in that ancient and formidable court, known in this country by the name of Club- law, where the right is always with the strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin and shake hands with infamy, for what they sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, or ueir king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shakspeare, of Brutus and Cassius, honourable men. I mention this circumstance, because it threw my father on the world at large." This paragraph has been omitted in printing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns ; and it would have been unnecessary to have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several manuscript copies of that letter been in circulation. " I do not know," observes j Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be i misled in the account he has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. — I believe the 1 Earl of Marischal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before my father was born; and ; among a collection of parish-certificates in his 1 possession, I have read one, stating that the bearer had no concern in the late wicked rebel- ! lion." On the information of one who knew : William Burnes soon after he arrived in the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a | report did prevail, that he had taken the field i with the young chevalier ; a report which the certificate mentioned by his son was, perhaps, ; intended to counteract. Strangers from the j North, settling in the low country of Scotland, I were in those days liable to suspicions of hav LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXXIX irg been, in the familiar phrase of the country, " Out in the forty-five," (1715,) especially when they had any stateliness or reserve about them, as was the case with William Burnes. It may easily be conceived, that our poet would cherish the belief of his father's having been engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince Charles Edward. The generous attachment, the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched with sympathy his youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his original political opinions.* The father of our poet is described by one who knew him towards the latter end of his life, as nbove the common stature, thin, and bent with labour. His countenance was serious and ex- pressive, and the scanty locks on his head were grey. He was of a religious turn of mind, and as is usual among the Scottish peasantry,agood deal conversant in speculative theology. There is in Gilbert's hands a little manual of religious belief, in the form of a dialogue between a fa- ther and his son, composed by him for the use of his children, in which the benevolence of his heart seems to have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish church, into something approaching to Arminianism. He was a devout man, and in the practice of call- ing his family together to join in prayer. It is known that the following exquisite picture, in the Cotter's Saturday Night, represents Wil- liam Burnes and his family at their evening devotions. The cheerful supper done, with serious face, They, round the ingle, f form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big kail-Bible, once his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets f. wearing thin and bare ; * There is another observation of Gilbert Burns on his brother's narrative, in which some persons will be interested. It refers to page 12, where the poet speaks of his youthful friends. " My brother," says Gilbert Burns, " seems to set off his early companions in too consequential a manner. The principal acquaintance we had in Ayr, while boys, were four sons of Mr Andrew M'Culloch, a distant relation of my mother's, who kept a tea-shop, and had made a little money in the contraband trade, very common at that time, tie died while the boys were young-, and my father was nominated one oi the tutors. The two eldest were bred shop-keepers, the third a surgeon, ami the young- est, the only surviving one, was bred in a counting- house in Glasgow, where he is now a respectable mer- chant. I believe all these boys went to the West Indies. Then there were two sons of Dr Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs Dunlop. The eldest, a very worthy young man, went to the East Indies, where he had a commission in the army ; he is the person, whose heart my brother says the Muwny Begum scenes could not corrupt- The, other, by the interest of Lady Wallace, got an ensign cy in a regiment raised by the duke of Hamilton, during the American war. I believe neither of them are now (1797) alive. We also knew the present Dr Paters.. n of Ayr, and a younger brother of his now in Jamaica, who were much younger than us. I had almost forgot to mention Br Charles of Ayr, who was a little older than my .brother, and with whom he had a longer and closer intimacy than with any of the others, which did not, however, continue in after life." t Fire. $ Grey temples. Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales* a portion with judicious care ; And " Let us worship God!" he say with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise , They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee's f wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs f worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin\ beets i the heavenly flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; No unison have they with our Creator's praise. The priest- like father reads the sacred page, § How Abram was thefriend 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 fullowers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they Avrote to many a land : How he who lone in Patmos banished, Saw. in the sun a mighty angel stand : And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced, by Heaven's command ! 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. Then homeward all take off their several way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent pair their secret homage pay, And offer up to Heaven the warm request, That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside ! * Chooses. f Names of tunes in Scottish psalmody. The tunes mentioned in this poem are the three which were used by William Burnes, who had no greater variety. % Adds fuel to. \ The course of family devotion among the Scots is, first to :-ing a psalm, then to read a portion of scripture, and lastly to kneel down in prayer. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited the cottage of William Bumes, and particularly of the father of the family, the reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther account. What follows is given by one already mentioned with so much honour, in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr Mur- doch, the preceptor of our poet, who, in a let- ter to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoir of the Italian Tragedy, lately published, thus expresses himself: Sir, " I was lately favoured with a letter from our worthy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to communicate to you what- ever particulars I could recollect concerning Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My busi- ness being at present multifarious and harass- ing, my attention is consequently so much di- vided, and I am so little in the habit of express- ing my thoughts on paper, that at this distance or time I can give but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the life of that extraordinary genius with which alone I am acquainted. " William Burnes, the father of the poet, was born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and bad been in the service of Mr Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards employed as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece of land consisting of about seven acres, part of which he laid out in garden ground, and part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con- tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. Upon this little farm was erected an humble dwelling, of which William Burnes was the architect. It was, with the exception of a little straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this mean cottage, of which I myself was at times an inhabitant, I really believe, there dwelt a larger portion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cotter's Saturday Night, will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there. " In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writing under my good friend Mr Robison, desiring that I would come and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book with me. This was immediately complied. with. Having ex- amined my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will readily allow he was not difficult), and told me that he had received very satisfac- tory information of Mr Tennant, the master of the English school, concerning my improve- ment in English, and in his method of teach- ing. In the month of May following, I was engaged by Mr Burnes, and four of his neigh- bours to teach, and accordingly began to teach the little school at Alloway, which was situ- ated a few yards from the argillaceous fabric above mentioned. My five employers under- took to board me by turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the year, provided my quarterly payments from the different pu- pils did not amount to that sum. " My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- tween six and seven years of age ; his precep- tor about eighteen. Robert and his younger brother Gilbert, had been grounded a little in English before they were put under my care. They both made a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable progress in writing. In read- ing, dividing words into syllables by rule, spell- ing without book, parsing sentences, &c. Ro- bert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors. The books most com- monly used in the schools were the Spelling Book, the New Testament, the Bible, Mason's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's English Gran. mar. They committed to me- mory the hymns, and other poems of that col- lection, with uncommon facility. This facility was partly owing to the method pursued by their father and me in instructing them, which was, to make them thoroughly acquainted with the meaning of every word in each sentence that was to be committed to memory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is generally thought. As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poeti- cal words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are the means of knowing that the pupil understands his author. These are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sentences, as well as to a variety of expres- sion. " Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were left far behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was generally grave, and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee I mean to live; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the most likely to court the muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind. " In the year 1767, Mr Burnes quitted his mud edifice, and took possession of a farm (Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being at a considerable distance from the school, the boys could not attend regularly ; and some changes had taken place among the other sup- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Xll porters of the school, I left it, having continued to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. " In the year 1772, I was appointed (being 3ne of five candidates who were examined) to teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the purpose of revising English gram- mar, &c. that he might be better qualified to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. He was now with me day and night, in school, at all meals, and in all my walks. At the end of one week, I toli him, that, as he was now pretty much master of the parts of speech, &c. I should like to teach him something of French pronunciation, that when he should meet with the name of a French town, ship, officer, or the like, in the newspapers, he might be able to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we attacked the French with great courage. " Now there was little else to be heard but the declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, &c. When walking together, and even at meals, I was constantly telling him the names of different objects, as they presented them- selves, in French; so that he was hourly laying in a stock of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second week of our study of the French, we began to read a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, in Feneioirs own words. " But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be. gan to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded the grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about fifteen, I was told that he performed the work of a man. Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which was spent entirely in the study of English, and the other two chiefly in that of French. I did not, how- ever, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant at his father's house, when I had my half-holiday, and very often went accompanied with one or two persons more intelligent than myself, that good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast.— Then the labouring oar was shifted to some other hand. The father and the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blended as to render it palata- ble to all parties. Robert had a hundred ques- tions to ask me about the French, &c. ; and the father, who had always rational informa- tion in view, had still some question to pro- pose to my more learned friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. Mrs Burnes too was of the party as much as possible ; ' But still the house affairs would draw her thenc^ Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, Devour up their discourse' and particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention than to any body else. When under the necessity of be- ing absent while he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had missed what the good- man had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem for her husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I myself have always considered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race that ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted with — and many a worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 1 And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' " He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. " He was a tender and affectionate father ; be took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and there- fore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. " He had the art of gaining the esteem and good- will of those that were labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice : ,"he one time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and double entendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive a seasonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the rising gener- ation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep booing and booing in the pre- sence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a becoming respect; but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pre- tend to give you a description of all the mardy qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. Time would fail me. I shall only add, that he carefully xlii LIFE OF ROBEET BURKS. practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal; or, in the apostle's words, Herein did he exercise himself, in living a life void of offence towards God and towards mien. O for a world of men of such disposi- tions! We should then have no wars. I have often wished, for the good of mankind, that it were as customary to honour and per- petuate the memory of those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what ai>e called heroic actions : then would the mausoleum of the friend of my youth overtop and snrpass most of the monuments I see in Westminster Abbey. " Although I cannot do justice to the char- acter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what kind of person had the principal hand in the education of our poet. He spoke the English language with more propriety (both with respect to diction and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew with no greater advantages. This had a very good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, much sooner than their neighbours. I do not recollect any of their en temporaries, at my little seminary, who afterwards made any great figure as literary characters, except Dr Tennant, who was chap- lain to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. " Mr Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous family upon it. — After being there some years, he removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I Delieve, Robert wrote most of his poems. " But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. I can tell you but little more relative to our poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you a copy of one of his letters to me, about the year 1783.* I received one since, but it is mislaid. Please remember me, in the best manner, to my worthy friend Mr Adair, when you see him or write to him. " Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square, London, Feb. 22, 17y9." As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was written at a time when he was ignorant of the existence of the preceding narrative of his brother, so this letter of Mr Murdoch was written without his having any knowledge that either of his pupils had been employed on the same subject. The three relations serve, therefore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate each other. Though the infor- mation they convey might have been presented within a shorter compass, by reducing the whole into one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far more gratified by a sight of these origi- nal documents themselves. Under the humble roof of his parents it ap- pears indeeed that our poet had great advan- tages ; but his opportunities of information at school were more limited as to time than they usually are among his countrymen, in his con- dition of life ; and the acquisitions which he made, and the poetical talent which he exerted under the pressure of early and incessent toil, and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force and ac- tivity of his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to five feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate agility as well as strength. In the various labours of the farm be exctlled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that, in mowing, the exercise that tries all the muscles most severely. Robert was the only man that, at the end of a sum- mer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though our poet gave the powers of his body to the labours of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man and beast rest from rheir labours. On this day, therefore, Burns could indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms of nature. It was his delight to wan- der alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the sum- mer's day. But still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave among the trees; and more elevated still his delight, to ascend some eminence during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit, while the lightning flashed around him, and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable to devotion — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on the wings of the wind /" If other proofs were wanting of the character of his genius, this might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every impression of beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, and the lively, and even cheerful colouring with which he has pourtrayed his own character, may lead some persons to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him towards the end of his days, was not an original part of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, j that this melancholy acquired a darker hue ir. I the progress of his life; but, independent of i his own and of his brother's testimony, evidence 1 is to be found among his papers, that he was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xliii Mityect very early to those depressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, but which in him rose to an uncommon degree. The following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of this observation. Jt was written at the time when he was learning the business of a flax dresser, and is dated " honoured sir, Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. " I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be ab- sent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. My healh is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, on the whole, I am rather better than other- wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated nry mind, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- duces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and in- deed my only pleasurable employment, is look- ing backwards and forwards in a moral and re- ligious way. I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long 5 perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' ** It is for this reason I am more pleased with the loth, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer.* As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed ? am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure * The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : 15. " Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his templn ; and he that Bittelli on the throne shall dwell among tli^m. 16. " They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. 17. " For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne Ehall feed them, and shall lead them unto living foun- tains of waters ; and Gud shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." prepared, and daily preparing to meet them, I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and pietv you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr and Mrs Muir; and, with wishing you a merry New-year's-da)', I shall conclude. " I am, honoured sir, " Your dutiful son, "ROBERT BURNS." " P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get more. This letter written several years before the publication of his poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was humble, dis- plays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a single room for his lodgings, rented perhaps at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from his father's family. The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had form- ed to itself pictures of eminence and distinc- tion. His despair of making a figure in the world, shows how ardently he wished for ho- nourable fame ; and his contempt of life, found- ed on this despair, is the genuine expression of a youthful generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be in pro- portion to the capacity of happiness. Such a disposition is far from being at vari- ance with social enjoyments. Those who have studied the affinities of mind, know that a melancholy of this description, after a while, seeks relief in the endearments of society, and that it has no distant connection with the flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of mirth. It w r as a few days after the writing of this letter that our poet, " in giving a welcoming carousal to the new year, with his gay compa- nions," suffered his flax to catch fire, and his shop to be consumed to ashes. The energy of Burns' mind was not exhaust- ed by his daily labours, the effusions of his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary medi- tations. Some time previous to his engage, merit as a flax-dresser, having heard that a de bating club had been established in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting would sue- x]\v LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. reed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 1780, our poet, his brother, and five other young peasants of the neigh- bourhood, formed themselves into a society of this sort, the declared objects of which were to relax themselves after toil, to promote so- ciality and friendship, and to improve the mind. The laws and regulations were furnish- ed by Burns. The members were to meet after the labours of the day were over, once a-week, in a small public-house in the village ; where each should offer his opinion on a given question or subject, supporting it by such argu- ments as he thought proper. The debate was to be conducted with order and decjrum ; and after it was finished, the members were to choose a subject for discussion at the ensuing meeting. The sum expended by each, was not to exceed three pence ; and, with the humble potation that this could procure, they were to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with each other. This society continued its meetings regularly for some time ; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some ac- counts of their proceedings, they purchased a book, into which their laws and regulations were copied, with a preamble, containing a short history of their transactions down to thatperiod. This curious document, which is evidently the work of our poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his memoirs. *' History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regu- lations of the Bachelor's Club. ' Of birth or blood we do not boast, .Nor gentry does our club afford ; Bui ploughmen and mechanics we in 2\ature's simple dress record.' " As the great end of human society is to become wiser and better, this ought therefore to be the principal view of every man in every station of life. But as experience has taught us, that such studies as inform the head and mend the heart, when long continued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some employment or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at the same time not so seri- ous as to exhaust them. But superadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind are under the necessity of earning the sustenance of human life by the labour of their bodies, where- by, not only the faculties of the mind, but the nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to some amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied man worn down with the necessary labours of life. " As the best of things, however, have been perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of amusement and diversion, men have plunged into all the madness of riot and dissipation j and instead of attending to the grand design of human life, they have be;un with extravagance and folly, and ended with guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these considerations, we, the following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchel, Thomas Wright, and Wil- liam M' Gavin, resolved, for our mutual enter, tainment, to unite ourselves into a club, or society, under such rules and regulations, that while we should forget A our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we might not transgress the bounds of innocence and decorum : and after agreeing on these, and some other regu- lations, we held our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon the even- ing of the 11th of November, 1780, commonly called Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns president for the night, we proceeded to debate on this question, — ' Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of two wo- men, the one a girl of large fortune, but nei- ther handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the house- hold affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune: which of them shall he choose? 1 Finding ourselves very happy in our society, we resolved to continue to meet once a month in the same house, in the way and manner proposed, and shortly thereat ter we chose Robert Ritchie for another member. la May, 1781, we brought in David Sillar,* and in June, Adam Jamaison as members. About the beginning of the year 1782, we admitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and in June following we chose James Patterson as a proper brother for such a society. The club being thus increased, we resolved to meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the July follow- ing, and have a dance in honour of our society. Accordingly we dia meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening in such inno- cence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that every brother will long remember it with pleasure and delight." To this preamble are subjoined the rules and re- gulations.! * The person to whom Burns addressed his Epistle to Davie, a brother poet. f Rules and Regulations to he observed in the Bache- lor's Hub. 1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every fourti Monday night, when a question on any subject shall be proposed, disputed points of religion only excepted, in the manner hereafter directed ; which question is to be debated in the club, each member taking whatever side he thinks proper. 2d. When the club is met, the president, or, he failing, some one of the members, till lie come, shall take his seat; then the other members shall seat themselves; those who are for one side of the question, on the pre- sident's right hand; and those who are for the other side, on his left; which of them shall have the right hand is to be determined by the president The presi- dent and four of the members bcii.g present Bhall have LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xh will dwell with an institution that The philosophical mind interest and pleasure combined so skilfully the means of instruction and of happiness ; and if grandeur look down with a smile on these simple annals, let us power to transact any ordinary part of the society's business. 3d. The club met and seated, (he president shall reqd the question out of the club's book of records, (which book is always to be kept by the president) then the two members nearest the president shall cast lots who of them shall speak first, and according as the lot shall determine, the member nearest the president on that side shall deliver his opinion, and the member nearest on the- other side shall reply to him ; then the second member of the side that spoke first; then the second member of the side that spoke second, and s<> on to the end of the company ; but if there be fewer members on the one side than on the other, when all the members of the least side have spoken according to their places, any of them, as they please among- themselves, may reply to the remaining members of the oppos te side; when both sides have spoken, the president shall Rive his opinion, after which they may go over it a second or more times, and so continue the question. 4th. The club shall then proceed to the choice of a question for the subject of next night's meeting The president shall first propose one, and any other member who chooses may propose more questions ; and what- ever one of them is most agreeable to the majority of the members, shall be the subject of debate next club- night. 5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new president for the next meeting; the president shall first name one, then any of the club may name another, and whoever of them has the majority of votes shall be duly elected; allowing the president the first vote, and the casting vote upon a par, but none other. Then after a general toast to mistresses of the club, they shall dismiss. 6th. There shall be no private conversation carried on during the time of debate, nor shall any member in. terrupt another while he is speaking, under the penalty of a reprimand from the president, for the first fault, doubling his share of the reckoning for the second, tre- Dling it tor the third, and so on in proportion for every other fault ; provided always, however, that any mem- ber may speak at any time after leave asked and given by the president. All swearing and profane language, and particularly all obscene and indecent conversa ion, is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty as afore- said in the first clause of this article. 7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, shall mention any of the club's affairs to any other person but a brother member, under the pain of being excluded ; and particularly, if any member shall reveal any of the speeches or affairs of the club, with a view to ridicule or lausfh at any of the rest of the members, he shall be for ever excommunicated from the society ; and the rest of the members are desired, as much as possible, to avoid, and have no communication with him as a friend or comrade. 8th. Every member shall attend at the meetings, without be can give a proper excuse for not attending; and it is desired that every one who cannot attend will send his excuse with some" other member ; and he \a ho shall be absent three meetings without sending such excuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, when, if he fail to appear, or send au excuse, he shall be ex. cl uded. 9th. The cmb snail not consist of more than sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to the parish of Tar- bolton ; except a brother member marry, and in that case he may be continued, if the majority of the club think proper. No person shall be admitted a member of this society, wiihout the unanimous consent of the club; and any member may withdraw from the club altogether, by giving notice to the president in writ- ing of his departure. 10th Every man proper for a member of this society, must have a frank, honest, open heart; above anything dirty or mean, and must be a professed lover of one or more of the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited i person, who looks upon himself as superior to the rest of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, worldly liortal, whose only will is to heap up money, shall upon wiy pretence wiiatever be admitted, In short, the pro- trust that it will be a smile of benevolence and approbation. It is with regret that the sequel of the history of the Bachelor's Club of Tar- bolton must be told. It survived several years after our poet removed from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by his talents, or cemented by his social affections, its meetings lost much of their attraction ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissension arising amongst its members, the institution was given up, and the records committed to the flames. Happily the preamble and the regulations were spared ; and, as matter of instruction and of example,, they are transmitted to posterity. After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, he and his brother were requested to assist in forming a similar institution there. The regulations of the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the club at Tar- bolton ; but one laudable alteration was made. The fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so arising, should be set apart for the purchase of books ; and the first work procured in this manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers of which were at that time recently collected and published in volumes. After it followed a number of other works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. The society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in the list of subscribers to the first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. The members of these two societies were originally all young men from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of per- sons in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, and more susceptible of improvement, than the self-sufficient mechanic of country towns. With deference to the Conversation-society of Mauch- line, it may be doubted, whether the books which they purchased were of a kind best adap- ted to promote the interest and happiness of persons in this situation of life. The Mirror and the Lounger, though works of great merit, may be said, on a general view of their contents, to be less calculated to increase the knowledge, than to refine the taste of those who read them ; and to this last object their morality itself, which is however always perfectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. As works of taste, they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners of the age or country in which they were pro- duced. But delicacy of taste, though the source of many pleasures, is not without som disadvantages; and to render it desirable, thf per person for this society, is a cheerful honest-hearte.1 lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet— is just as happy as this world can make him. xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. possessor should perhaps in all cases be raised above the necessity of bodily labour, unless in- deed we should include under this term the ex- ercise of the imitative arts, over which taste immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a blessing to him who has the disposal of his own time, and who can choose what book he shall read, of what diversion he shall partake, and what company he shall keep. To men so situated, the cultivation of taste affords a grateful occupation in itself, and opens a path to many other gratifications. To men of genius, in the possession of opulence and leisure, the cultiva- tion of the taste may be said to be essential ; since it affords employment to those faculties which, without employment, would destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use the expression ot Mr Hume, that delicacy of passion, which is the bane of the temperament of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibility of his passions, regulating all the effusions of his muse, and presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the thousands who share the original condi- tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass their lives in the station in which they were born, delicacy of taste, >vere it even of easy at- tainment, would, if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting ; and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situation, it presents ho means by which that situation may be im- proved. Taste and literature, which diffuse so many charms throughout society, which some- times secure to their votaries distinction while living, and which still more frequently obtain for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or even independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, and can scarcely be pursued with advantage by the peasant in the short intervals of leisure which bis occupations allow. Tiiose who raise themselves from the condi- tion of daily labour, are usually men who excel in the practice of some useful art. or who join habits of industry and sobriety to an acquain- tance with some of the more common branches of knowledge. The penmanship of Butter- worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; and they will assist the peasant more in the pursuit of independence, than the study of Ho- mer or of Shakspeare, though he could com- prehend, and even imitate, the beauties of those immortal bards. These observations are not offered without some portion of doubt and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and would justify an ample discussion. It may be observed, on the other hand, that the first step to improve- ment is to awaken the desire of improvement, and that this will be most effectually done by such reading as interests the heart and excites the imagination. The greater part of the sacred writings themselves, which in Scotland are more especially the manual of the poor, come under this description. It may be farther ob- served, that every human being is the proper judge of his own happiness, and, within the path of innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to give a preference to works of taste and of fancy,* it may be presumed they find a superior gratification in the perusal of such works; and it may be added, that it is of more consequence they should be made happy in their original condition, than furnished with the means, or with the desire, of rising above it. Such considerations are doubtless of much weight ; nevertheless, the previous reflections may deserve to be examined, and here we shall leave the subject. Though the records of the society at Tar- bolton are lost, and those of the society at j Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet we may safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguish- i ed member of both these associations, which ! were well calculated to excite and to develope | the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve J persons constituted the society at Tarbolton, and such a number is best suited to the pur- poses of information. Where this is the ob- ject of these societies, the number should be such, that each person may have an opportunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as of re- ceiving those of others ; and the powers of private conversation are to be employed, not those of public debate. A limited society of this kind, where the subject of conversa- tion is fixed beforehand, so that each member may revolve it previously in his mind, is per- haps one of the happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of | talents. Such an association requires indeed ; somewhat more of regulation than the rules of ; politeness est-' Wished in common conversation ; or rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, which in animated conversation are liable to perpetual violation, should be vigor- ously enforced. The order of speech establish- ed in the club at Tarbolton, appears to have been more regular than was required in so small a society ; where all that is necessary seems to be, the fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall address himself, and who shall in return secure the speaker from interruption. Conversation, which among men whom inti- macy and friendship have relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to sc many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so often diverges into separate and colla tend branches, in which it is dissipated and lost being kept within its channel by a simple limi tation of this kind, which practice renders eas^ * In several lists of book-sooieties among the poores class* s in Scotland which the Editor has seen, works ol this description form a great part. these societies art by no means general, nnd it is not supposed that thevara 1 ug at present. LIFE OF EQBSET BTJE3TS. xlvii and familar, flows along in one full stream, and becomes smoother and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may also be observed, that in this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual improvement of the faculty employed to convey it. Though some attention has been paid to the eloquence of the senate and the bar, which in this, as in all other free governments, is pro- ductive of so much influence to a few who ex- cel in it, yet little regard has been paid to the humbler exercise of speech in private conver- sation, an art that is of consequence to every description of persons under every form of government, and. on which eloquence of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much time, and of long patience. Children are al- ways defective in clear articulation, and so are young people, though in a less degree. What is called slurring in speech, prevails with some persons through life, especially in those who are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men before the age of twenty or upwards : in wo- men it reaches this point somewhat earlier. Female occupations require much use of speech, because they are duties in detail. Besides, their occupations being generally sedentary, the re- spiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; the natural consequence of which is, a more frequent utterance of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a distinct arti- culation at an early age. But in men who ha\ e not mingled early and familiarly with the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear in apprehension, it is often painful to ob- serve the difficulty with which their ideas are communicated by speech, through the want of those habits, that connect thoughts, words, and sounds together ; which, when established, seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, are the result of long and pain- ful practice, and when analyzed, exhibit the phenomena of most curious and complicated association. Societies then, such as we have been describ- ing, while they may be said to put each mem- ber in possession of the knowledge of all the rest, improve the powers of utterance, and by the collision of opinion, excite the faculties of reason and reflection. To those who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of labour as the condition of a peasant allows, this method of abbreviating instruction may, under proper regulations, be highly useful. To the student, whose opinions, springing out of solitary ob- servation and meditation, are seldom in the first instance correct, and which have notwith- standing, while confined to himself an increas- ing tendency to assume in his own eye the character of demonstrations, an association of this kind, where they may be examined as they arise, is of the utmost importance ; since it may prevent those illusions of imagination, by which genius being bewildered, science ia often debased, and error propagated through successive generations. And to men who, hav- ing cultivated letters or general science in the coarse of their education, are engaged in the active occupations of life, and no longer able to devote to study or to books the time requi- site for improving or preserving their acquisi- tions, associations of this kind, where the mind may unbend from its usual cares in discussions of literature or science, afford the most pleas- ing, the most useful, and the most rational of gratifications.* Whether, in the humble societies of which he was a member, Burns acquired much direct information, may perhaps be questioned. It cannothoweverbe doubted, that by collision,the faculties of his mind would be excited, that by practice, his habits of enunciation would be es- tablished, and thus wehavesomeexplanationof that early command of words and of expression which enabledhim to pour forth his thoughts in language not unworthy of his genius, and which, of all his endowments, seemed, on his appear- ance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary.f For associations of a literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable relish ; and happy had it been for him, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, if fortune had per- mitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was capable, so as to have fortified his prin- ciples of virtue by the purification of his taste, and given to the energies of his mind habits of exertion that might have excluded other associations, in which it must be acknowledged they were too often wasted, as well as debased. The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the banks of that river, as it bends to the east- ward about Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, * When letters and philosophy were cultivated in an- cient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tablets of learning and science, and necessity produced the habit of studying as it were in common. Poets were found reciting their own verses in public assemblies : in public schools only philosophers delivered their speculations. The taste of thehearers, the ingenuity of the scholars, were employed in appreciating andexamining the works of fancy and of speculation submitted to their consider- ation, and the irrevocable words were not given to the world before the composition, as well as the sentiments, were a^ain and again retouched and improved. Death alone put the last seal on the labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, may be in part explained the extraordinary art and skill with which the monuments of Grecian litera- ture that remain to us, appear to have been constructed. f It appears that our Poet made more preparation than might be supposed, for thediscussions of thesociety at Tarbolton. There was found some detatched memor- anda evidentlyprepared for these meetings: and, among others, the heads of a speech on the question mentioned in p. xliv. in which, as might be expected, he takes the imprudent side of the question. The following mayserve as afartherspecimen of the questionsdebated in the society at Tarbolton: — " Whether do we derive more happiness from love or friendship ? — Whether be- tween friends who have no reason to doubt eacb other's friendship, there should be any reserve P— nether is the savage man, or the peasant of a civil- i I country, in the most happy situation? — Whether is a young man of the lower ranks of life likeliest to be happy, who has got a good education, and his mind well informed, or he who lias just the education and information of those around hiiur"' xlvii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and they were frequented, as may be imagined, by our poet in his solitary walks. Here the muse often visited him. In one of these wan- derings, he met among the woods a celebrated Beauty or the west of Scotland ; a lady, of whom it is said, that the charms of her person correspond with the character of' her mind. This incident gave rise, as might be expected, to a poem, of which an account will be found in the following letter, in which he enclosed it to the object of his inspiration : To Miss- « Madam, Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. il Pop:ts 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 nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed 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 abili- ties 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 reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the favour- ite 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 the distant western hills $ not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden mo- ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the fea- thered 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 1 to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn- twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely- browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one ot 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 Calumnyand Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with' such t;n object. " What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. " The enclosed song was the work of my re- turn home ; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might be expected from such a scene. " I have the honour to be, « Madam, " Your most obedient, and very " humble servant, « ROBERT BURNS.' 'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang ;* The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; In every glen the mavis sang, All nature listening seemed the while, Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward strayed, My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair 1 chanc'd to spy ; Her look was like the morning's eye. Her air like nature's vernal smile. Perfection whispered passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle !f Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving through the garden gay, Or wandering in the lonely wild : But woman, nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile : Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. O had she been a country maid, And 1 the happy country swain, Though sheltered in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain. Through weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, 1 would toil, And nightly to my bosom strain The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slippery 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 bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time little * Hang, Scotticism for hung. f Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye Besooke the lasao' Ballochmyle LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. illX known, and where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his humour, than for those strains of tenderness, in which he after- wards so much excelled. To the lady herself his name had perhaps never been mentioned, and of such a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Her modesty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that supposing the verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult" to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high- born beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, Burns might have found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every country. And it is not to be denied, that lovely women have generally submitted to this sort of profanation with patience, and even with good humour. To what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the necessary consequence of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a descrip- tion of men who are incapable of control ? " The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact." It may be easily presumed, that the beauti- ful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the adora- tions of our poet, though she received them with silent modest) and dignified reserve. The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force of his imagination, exposed him in a particular manner to the impressions of beauty ; and these qualities united to his impassioned eloquence gave him in turn a powerful influ- ence over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthlul passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in our power, and the traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility to which they gave birth. The song entitled Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. " It was written," says our bard, " on one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days." The object of this passion died early in life, and the impression left on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines : in the manuscript book from which we extract them, they are addressed To Mary in Heaven ! Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can 1 forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green: The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear, My Mary, dear departed shade I Where is thy blissful place of rest/ Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? To the delineations of the poet by himself, by his brother, and by his tutor, these additions are necessary, in order that the reader may see his character in its various aspects, and may have an opportunity of forming a just notion of the variety, as well as the power of his ori- ginal genius.* * The history of the poems formerly printed, will be found immediately before the correspondence between Thomson and Burns. — It is there inserted in the words of Gilbert Bums, who in a letter addressed to the Editor, has given the following account of the friends which Robert's talents procured him beforehe left Ayr. shire, or attracted the notice of the world. " The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our corning to it (Martinmas 1783), was the property of the earl of Loudon, but was held in tack by Mr Gavin Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, from whom we had our bargain ; who had thus an opportunity of knowing and showing a sincere regard for my brother, before he knew that he was a poet. The poet's estimation of him, and the strong outlines of his character, may be collected from th> j dedication to this gentleman. When the publica- tion was begun, Mr H. entered very warmly into its interests, and promoted the subscription very extensive- ly. Mr Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of worth and taste, of warm affections, and connected with a most respectable circle of friends and relations. It is to this gentleman The Cotter's Saturday Night is in- scribed. The poems of my brother, which I have formerly mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, than they were quickly known, and well received in the exten- sive circle of Mr Aiken's friends, which gave them asort of currency, necessary in this wise world, even for the good reception of things valuable in themselves. But Mr Aikeii not only admired the poet; as soon as he be- came acquainted with him, he showed the warmest re- gard for the man, and did every thing in his power to forward his interest and respectability, The Epistle to a Young Friend was addressed to this gentleman's son, Mr A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the oldest of a young family, who were taught to receive my brother with i espect as a man of genius and their father's friend. " The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Ballautine, Esq. banker in Ayr; one of those gentlemen to whom my brother was introduced by Mr Aiken. He interest. ed himself very warmly in my brother's concerns and D LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. We have dwelt the longer on the early part of his life, because it is the least known, and because, as has already been mentioned, this part of his history is connected with some views of the condition and manners of the humblest tanks of society, hitherto little observed, and which will perhaps be found neither useless nor uninteresting. About the time of leaving his native country, his correspondence commences ; and in the series of letters now given to the world, the chief incidents of the remaining part of his lite will be found. This authentic, though melan- choly record, will supersede in future the ne- cessity of any extended narrative. Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of November, 1786, and arrived on the second day afterwards, having performed his journey on foot. He was furnished with a letter of introduction to Dr Blacklock, from the gentle- man to whom the Doctor had addressed the letter which is represented by our bard as the immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University, and had been entertained by that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ayr- shire. He had been introduced by Mr Alex- ander Dalzel to the Earl of Glencairn, who had expressed his high approbation of his poetical talents. He bad friends therefore tyho could introduce him into the circles of eonstantly showed the greatest friendship and attach- ment to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was all sold off, and a considerable demand pointed out the pro- Sriety of publishing a second edition, Mr Wilson, who ad printed the first, was asked if he would print the second, and take his chance of being paid from the first Bale. This he declined; and when this came to Mr Ballantine's knowledge, he generously offered to accom- modate Robert with what money he might need for that purpose ; but advised him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest place for publishing. When he did go to Edinburgh, his friends advised him to publish again by subscription,. bo that he did not need to acct pc this offer. Mr William Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, was a subscriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmarnock edi- tion. This may perhaps appear not deserving of notice here; but if the comparative obscurity of the poet, at this period, be taken into consideration, it appears to me a greater effort of generosity, than many things which appear more brilliant in my brother's future his- tory. " Mr Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was one of tho-e friends Robert's poetry had procured him, and one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman had no very great fortune, or long line of dignified ancestry: but what Robert says of Captain Matthew Henderson, might be said of him with great propriety, that he held the patent of his honours immediately from Almighty God. Nature had indeed marked him a gentleman in the most legible characters. He died while yet a young man, soon after the publication of my brother's first Edinburgh edition. Sir William Cunningham of Ro- bertland, paid a very flattering attention, and showed a good deal of friendship for the poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well asatter, Robert teemed peculiarly pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship and con- versation. " But of all the friendships which Robert acquired in Ayrshire or elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable to him than that of Mrs Dunlop, of Dunlop, nor any which has been more uniformly and constantly exerted in be- half of him and of his family ; of which, were it proper, I could give many instances. Robert was on the point *f setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs Dunlop had literature as well as of fashion, and his own manners and appearance exceeding every ex- pectation that could have been formed of them, he soon became an object of general curiosity and admiration. The following circumstance contributed to this in a considerable degree. — At the time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every Saturday producing a succes- sive number. His poems had attracted the notice of the gentlemen engaged in that under- taking, and the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, written by the elegant pen of Mr Mackenzie.* The Lounger had an extensive circulation among persons of taste and litera- ture, not in Scotland only, but in various parts of England, to whose acquaintance therefore our bard was immediately introduced. The paper of Mr Mackenzie was calculated to in- troduce him advantageously. The extracts are well selected ; the criticisms and reflections are judicious as well as generous; and in tie style and sentiments there is that happy deli- cacy, by which the writings of the author are so eminently distinguished The extracts from Burns' poems in the ninety-seventh number of The Lounger, were copied into the London, as well as into many of the provincial papers, and the fame of our bard spread throughout the heard of him. About the time of my brother's publish- ing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted with a long and severe illness, which had reduced her mind to the most distressing state of depression. In this situation, a copy of the printed poems was laid on her table by a friend, and happening to open on The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it over with the greatest pleasure and surprise : the poet's description of the simple cottagers, operating on her mind like the charm of a powerful ex- orcist, expelling the demon ennui and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and satisfaction. — Mrs Dunlop sent off a person express to Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging letter to my brother, desiring him to send her half a dozen copies of'his poems if he had them to spare, and begging he would do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. This was the beginning of a cor- respondence which ended only with the poet's life. The last use he made of his pen was writing a short letter to this lady a few days belore his death. " Col. Fullarton, who afterwards paid a very particu- lar attention to the poet, was not in the country at the time of his first commencing author. At this distance of time, and in the hurry of a wet day, snatched from laborious occupations, I may have forgot some persons who ought to have been mentioned on this occasion, for which, if it come to my knowledge, I shall be heartily sorry." The friendship of Mrs Dunlop was of particular calue to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole heiress to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, and lineal descendant of the illustrious Wallace, the first of Scottish warriors, pos- sesses the qualities of mind suited to her high lineage. Preserving, iu the decline of life, the generous affections of youth ; her admiration of the poet was soon accom- panied by a sincere friendship lor the man ; which pur- sued him in after life through good and evil report ; in poverty, in sickness, and in sorrow ; and which is con. tinued to his infant family, now deprived of their parent. * This paper has been attributed, but improperly, to Lord Craig, one of the Scottish Judges, author of the very interesting account of Michael Bruce, in the SGttt number of the Mirror. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fcdand. Of the manners, character, and con- duct of Burns at this period, the following ac- count has been given by Mr Stewart, in a letter to the editor, which he is particularly happy to have obtained permission to insert in these memoirs. Professor Dug aid Stewart of Edinburgh to Dr James Currie of Liverpool. '* The first time I saw Robert Burns was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my hou^e in Ayrshire, together with our com- mon friend Mr John Mackenzie, surgeon in Alauchline, to whom I am indebted for the p.easure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the date particularly, by some verses which Burns wrote aiter he returned home, and in which the day of our meeting is recorded. — My excellent and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and frankness of his manners, lett an impression on the mind of the poet, which never was effaced. The verses I allude to are among the most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the character to which they re- late, and of the light which they throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, before his name was known to the public* " I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at the period of our first ac- quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems had been just published, or was yet in the press. I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my possession copies, in his own hand- writing, of some of his favourite performances; particularly of his verses "on turning np a Mouse with his plough ;" — " on the Mountain Daisy;" and "the Lament." On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned what I knew of the author's history, to several of my friends, and, * This poem is as follows; 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 sprackled f up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. I've been at drunken writers' X feasts, Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, Wi' reverence be it spoken ; I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, ,When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi' a Lord — ? tand out my shin, A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, Up higher yet my bonnet; An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' As 1 look o'er my sonnet. But O for Hosrarth's magic power! To show Sir Bardy's willy art glour,§ among others, to Mr Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him to public notice in the 97th number of The Lounger. " At this time Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, however, without lamenting, that his want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an object than the station of an excise- man or ganger in his own country. " His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth ; but without any thing that indicat- ed forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He toi k his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him ; and listened with apparent attention and deference, on subjects where his want of education deprived hm of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness atid accommodation in bis temper, he would, I think, have been still more inter- esting ; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his various at- tainments, than the fluency, and precision, and originality 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 n.ost Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. " He came to Edinburgh early in the winter And how he stared and stammer'd, Whan goavan || as if led wi r branks,H An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour 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 geotle pride, the lordly state The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor same, nor state that I could spe, Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern, One rank as well's another ; Nae honest worthy man need care, To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother. These lines will be read with no common interest l)y all who remember the unaffected simplicity of appear ance, the sweetness of countenance and manners, an t the unsuspecting benevolence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. f Clambered i Attorneys. § Frightened strre- II Walking stupidly. T A kind of bridle. D 2 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. following, and remained there for several months. By whose advice be took this step, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his own curiosity to see a little more of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from the first, and always wished that his pursuits and habits should continue the same as in the former part of life ; with the addition of, what I considered as then com- pletely within his reich, a good farm on moder- ate terms, in a part of the country agreeable to his taste. " The attentions he received during his stay in town from all ranks and descriptions of per- sons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could per- ceive any unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self- importance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to his station, plain and unpretending, with a sufficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right he always wore boots ; and, when on more than usual ceremony, buck-skin Dreeches. " The variety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so often as I could have wished. In the course of the spring he called on me once or twice, at my request, early in the morning, and walked with me to Braid- Hills, in the neigh- bourhood of the town, when he charmed me still more by his private conversation, than he had ever done in company. He was passion- ately fond of the beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told me, when I was admir- ing a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cot- tages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained. " In his political principles he was then a Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to this, that his father was originally from the estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not appear to have thought much on such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at the levity with which he had heard it treated occasionally in some convivial meetings which he frequented. I speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7; for afterwards we met but seldom, and our conversations turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his private affairs. " I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of your letters to me, that you had ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is superfluous for me to add, that the idea which his conversation conveyed of the powers of * The editor lias seen a, id conversed with liurus. his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by his writings. Among the poets whom I have happened to know, I have been struck, in more than one instance, with the unaccountable disparity between their general talents, and the occasional inspirations of their more favoured moments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I could judge, equally vigorous; and his predilection for poetry was rather the result of his own enthu- siastic and impassioned temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of composition. From his conversation I should have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. " Among the subjects on which he was ac- customed to dwell, the characters of the indi- viduals with whom he happened to meet, was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them were always shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too much to sar- casm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the caprice and humour of the moment, than from the effects of attachment in blinding his judg- ment. His wit was ready, and always im- pressed with the marks of a vigorous under- standing; bur, to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, in bis printed works, are the only performances, perhaps, that he has produced, totally unwor- thy of his genius. " In summer, 1787, I passd some weeks in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think that he made a pretty long excursion that season to the Highlands, and that he also visited what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot and the Tweed. " I should have mentioned before, that not- withstanding various reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was however somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now compara- tively sedentary and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's campaign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. " In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make short unpremeditated compliments to different indi- viduals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. liii conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently ex- pressed. If I am not mistaken, he told me, that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small club of such of the inhabitants as had a taste for books, when they used to converse and debate on any inter- esting questions that occurred to them in the course of their reading. His manner of speak- ing in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution. " I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered as characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme facility and good-nature of his taste, in judging of the compositions of others, when there was any real ground for praise. I repeated to him many passages of English poetry with which he was unacquainted, and have more than once witnessed the tears of admiration and rapture with which he heard them. The collection of songs by Dr Aiken, which I first put into his hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwith- standing his former efforts in that very difficult species of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had some effect in polishing his subse- quent compositions. "In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally sound. I once read to him a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which I thought very happily executed, upon the model of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with indifference, when com- pared with the point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. The influence of this taste is very perceptible in his own prose com- positions, although their great and various ex- cellencies render some of them scarcely less objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- mances. The late Dr Robertson used to say, that considering his education, the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of the two. " His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of which he recited to me frequently long compositions with the most minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in our Scottish dialect; great- part of them (he told me) he had learned in his childhood, from his mother, who delight- ed in such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it probably wa-, gave, it is pre- sumable, the first direction of her son's genius. " Of the more polished verses which acci- dentally fell into his hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the recommenda- tory poems, by different authors, prefixed to Hervei/'s Meditations ; a book which has always had a very wide circulation among such of the country people of Scotland, as affect to unite *ome degree of taste with their religious studies. And these poems (although they are certainly below mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much the taste is liable to be influenced by ac- cidental circumstances. " His father appeared to me, from the ac- count he gave of him, to have been a respect- able and worthy character, possessed of a mind superior to what might have been expected from his station in life. He ascribed much of his own principles and feelings to the early impressions he had received from his instruc- tions and example. I recollect that he once applied to him (and he added, that the passage was a literal statement of fact), the two last lines of the following passage in the Minstrel, the whole of which he repeated with great enthusiasm ; " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When fate relenting, lets the flower revive ; Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?" Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain? No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; And mans majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- phant reign. This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught : In sooth Hwas almost all the shepherd knew, " With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot say any thing with certainty. He always spoke with respect and gratitude of the school-master who had taught him to read English ; and who, finding in his scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- cal principles of the language. He began the study of Latin, but dropped it before he had finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, &o but they seemed to be such as he had caught from conversation, and which he repeated by rote. I think he had a project after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study under his intimate friend, the late Mr Nicol, one of the masters of the grammar- school here ; but I do not know if he ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. " He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; and, if he had an affectation in any thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word or a phrase from that language. It is possibl that his knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but this you can learn from his more intimate ac quaintance. It would be worth while to in- quire, whether he was able to read the French authors with such facility as to receive from them any improvement to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much — nor would I be- lieve it, but on very strong and pointed evi- dence. " If my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- thing of practical geometry, particularly of Viv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. surveying.— All his other attainments were entirely his own. <- The last time I saw him was during the winter, 1788-89;* when he passed an evening with me at Drumsheugh, in the neighbour- hood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend Mr Alison was the only other in company. I never saw him more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I remember to have read with some degree of surprise at the distinct conception he appeared from it to have formed, of the several principles of the doctrine of association. When I saw Mr Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exis- tence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of our friend Mr Houlbrooke."f The scene that opened on our bard in Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a va- riety of other respects highly interesting, especially to one of his disposition of mind. To use an expression of his own, he found himself " suddenly translated from the veriest shades of life," into the presence, and, indeed, into the society of a number of persons, pre- viously known to him by repo r t as of the highest distinction in his country, and whose characters it was natural for him to examine with no common curiosity. From the men of letters, in general, his re- ception was particularly flattering. The late Dr Robertson, Dr Blair, Dr Gregory, Mr Stewart, Mr Mackenzie, and Mr Fraser Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of those who perceived his uncommon talents, who acknowledged more especially his power in conversation, and who interested themselves in the cultivation of his genius. In Edin- burgh, literary and fashionable society are a good deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, and frequently received from female beauty and elegance, those attentions above all others most grateful to him. At the table of Lord Mon- boddo he was a frequent guest ; and while he enjoyed the society, and partook of the hospi- talities of the venerable Judge, he experienced the kindness and condescension of his lovely and accomplished daughter. The singular beauty of this young lady was illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the union of cultivated taste and superior understanding, with the finest affections of the mind. The influence of such attractions was not unfelt by our poet. " There has not been any thing like Miss Burnet," said he in a letter • Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with confidence with respect to the particular year. Some of my other dales may possibly require correction, as I keep no Journal of Btich occurrences. » This letter will be found in page 65. to a friend, " in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her ex- istence."* In his Address to Edinburgh, she is celebrated in a strain of still greater eleva- tion : " Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his works indeed divine !''f This lovely woman died a few years after- wards in the flower of her youth. Our bard expressed his sensibility on that occasion, in verses addressed to her memory. \ Among the men of rank and fashion, Burns was particularly distinguished by James, Earl of Glencairn. On the motion of this noble- man, the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the principal of the nobility and gentry of Scot- land,) extended their patronage to our bard, and admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid their notice by a dedication of the enlarged and improved edition of his poems, in which he has celebrated their patriotism and independence in very animated terms. " I congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and that, from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty May corrup- tion shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious- ness in the people, equally find in you an inexo- rable foe ! It is to be presumed that these generous sen- timents, uttered at an era singularly propitious to independence of character and conduct, were favourably received by the persons to whom they were addressed, and that they were echoed from every bosom, as well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished noble- man, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon afterwards. Had he lived, and had his power equalled his wishes, Scotland might still have exulted in the genius, instead of la- menting the early fate of her favourite bard. A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of temperance and regularity, and Edinburgh, at the period of which we speak, contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of considerable talents, devoted to social excesses, in which their talents were wasted and debased. Burns entered into several parties of this de- scription, with the usual vehemence of his char* acter. His generous affections, his ardent elo- quence, his brilliant and daring imagination, fitted him to be the idol of such associations- and accuscoming himself to conversation of un- limited range, and to festive indulgences that scorned restraint, he gradually lost some por- tion of his relish for the more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found in the circles tp. 131 ? p- GO. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lv of taste, elegance, and literature. The sudden alteration in his habits of life operated on him physically as well as morally. The humble fare of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the effects of this change on his ardent consti- tution could not be inconsiderable. But what- ever influence might be produced on his con- duct, his excellent understanding suffered no correspondent debasement. He estimated his friends and associates of" every description at their proper value, and appreciated his own conduct with a precision that might give scope to much curious and melancholy reflection. He saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions to guard against it ; but he had embarked on the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its stream. Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- thentic, though imperfect document remains, in a book which he procured in the spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of recording in it whatever seemed worthy of ob- servation. The following extracts may serve as a specimen : Edinburgh, April .9, 1787. " As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of life as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. Gray observes in a letter to Mr Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in general, but with me, making my re- marks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, some one to please me, and help my discrimination, with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while to make any observation on what passe.-; around them, except where that observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very in- most soul, with unreserved confidence to an- other, without hazard of losing part of that re- spect which man deserves from man ; or from the unavoidable imperfections attend- ing human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my confident. I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, without feud or favour. — Where I hit on any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity ; and begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a security, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever. - " My own private story likewise, my love- adventures, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems and fragments, that must never see the light, shall be occasionally inserted. — In short, never did four shillings purchase so much friendship since confidence went first, to market, or honesty was set up to sale. " To these seeminglv invidious, but too just ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully make one exemption — the connexion between two persons of different sexes, when their interests are united and absorbed by the tie of love — When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. There, confidence — confidence that exalts them the more in one another's opinion, that endears them the more to each other's hearts, unreservedly 'reigns and revels.' But this is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am wise (which by the bye I have no great chance of being), my fate should be cast with the Psalmist's sparrow ' to watch alone on the house tops.' — Oh, the pity ! " There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay of avowed worth, is received every where, with the re- ception which a mere ordinary character, de- corated with the trappings and futile distinc- tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire something, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at table; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely have made an eightpmny tailor, and whose heaif. is not worth three farthings, meet with atten tion and notice, that are withheld from the sor of genius and poverty ? " The noble G has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and my- self), that I was within half a point of throw- ing down my gage of contemptuous defiance; but he shook my hand, and looked so bene- hi LIFE OF ItO BERT BURNS. volenfjy good at parting. God bless him though 1 should never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of the throes of grati- tude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. « With < I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or still more when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of eleva- tion, I say to myself, with scarcely any emo- tion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either ?'* The intentions of the poet in procuring this book, so fully described by himself, were very imperfectly executed. He has inserted in it few or no incidents, but several observations and reflections, of which the greater part that are proper for the public eye, will be found in- terwoven in the volume of his letters. The most curious particulars in the book are the delineations of the characters he met with. These are not numerous ; but they are chiefly of persons of distinction in the republic of letters, and nothing but the delicacy and re- spect due to living characters prevents us from committing them to the press. Though it appears that in his conversation he was some- times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis- coverable in these more deliberate efforts of his understanding, which, while they exhibit great clearness of discrimination, manifest also the wish, as well as the power, to bestow high and generous praise. By the new edition of his poems, Burns ac- quired a sum of money that enabled him not only to parcake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of visiting those parts of his native country, most attractive by their beauty or their gran- deur ; a desire which the return of summer na- turally revived. The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, and of its tributary streams strongly interested his fancy; and, accordingly, he left Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour through a country so much celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on horseback, and was accompanied, during some part of his journey, by Mr Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of his friendship and of his confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, which, however, contains only occasional remarks on the scen- ery, and which is chiefly occupied with an ac- count of the author's different stages, and with his observations on the various characters to whom he was introduced. In the course of this tour he visited Mr Ainslie of Berrywell, the father of his companion ; Mr Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a let- ter of introduction from Mr Mackenzie ; the Rev Dr Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian ; Mr and Mrs Scott of Wauchope ; Dr Elliot, physician, retired to a romantic spot on the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir James Hall of Dunglass ; and a great variety of other respectable characters. Every where the fame of the poet had spread before him, and every where he received the most hospi- table and flattering attentions. At Jedburgh he continued several days, and was honoured by the magistrates with the freedom of their bor- ough. The following may serve as a specimen of this tour, which the perpetual reference to living characters prevents our giving at large. " Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lam- mer-muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . . The family- meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; particularly the sister. "Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr Bowmaker. . . . "Monday. Coldstream glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr Ainslie and Mr Fore- man. Beat Mr Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel- House with Mr and Mrs Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where James the Second was accidently killed by the bursting of a can- non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hotel of the Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwick- shire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayr- shire— bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. . . . Low mar- kets, consequently low lands — magnificence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Tevi- ot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr Fair. . . Charming romantic situation of Jed burgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the houses and the ruins of a once magni- ficent cathedral. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle.— Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return to Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr Potts, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lvii writer, and to Mr Sommerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sad- ly addicted to punning. " Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the magistrates with the freedom of the town. " Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sensations. "Monday, May 14-, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club — ail gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to £lQ value and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English tour. " Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr Ker's again, and ser out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, re- markably stony." Having spent three weeks in exploring this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into Northumberland. Mr Ker, and Mr Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had become ac- quainted in the course of his tour, accompani- ed him. He visited Alnwick Castle ; the princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland; the hermitage and old castle of Warksvvorth ; Morpeth, and Newcastle. — In this town he spent two days, and then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham and Wardrue, to Car- lisle. — After spending a few days at Carlisle with his friend Mr Mitchell, he returned into Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates abruptly. Of the various persons with whom he be- came acquainted in the course of this journey, he has, in general, given some account ; and almost always a favourable one. That on the banks of the Tweed and of the Teviot, our bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, is what might be confidently presumed. Two of these are particularly described in his journal. But it does not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any effort of his muse, as was to have been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, and thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after an absence of six busy and eventful months. It will be easily conceived with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them poor, and com- paratively friendless ; he returned to them high in public estimation, and easy in his circum- stances. He returned to them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had bestowed. Having remained with them a few days, he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediate- ly set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have been found among his manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mr Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crochairbas, by Locldeary, June 28, 1787, commences as fol- lows : " 1 write you this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with sav- age flocks, which starvingly 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." From this journey Burns returned to his friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the month of July, renewing his friendships, and extending his acquaintance throughout the county, where he was now very generally known and admired. In August he again visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey towards the middle of this month, in company with Mr M. Adair, now Dr Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gentleman has favoured us with the following account: " Burns and I left Edinburgh together in August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- works at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly struck. The resemblance between that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, which must have occurred to every classical visitor, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling the prospects from the castle strongly inter- ested him ; in a former visit to which, his national feelings had been powerfully excited by the ruinous and roofless state of the hail in which the Scottish Parliaments had frequent- ly been held. His indignation had vented itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical lines, which had given much offence, and which he took this opportunity of erasing, by break- ing the pane of the window at the inn on which they were written. "At Stirling we met with a company of travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was a character in many respects congenial with that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the teachers of the High Grammar-School at Edmbuigh — the same wit and power of con- versation ; the same fondness for convivial society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, characterized both. Jacobitical principles in politics were common to both of them ; and these have been suspected, since the revolution 1 of France, to have given place in each, to LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I nave preserved no memorabilia of their conver- sation, either on this or on other occasions, when I happened to meet them together. Many songs were sung; which I mention for the sake of observing, that when Burns was called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- stead of singing, to recite one or other of his own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis, which, though not correct or harmonious, were impressive and pathetic. This he did on the present occasion. " From Stirling we went next morning through the romantic and fertile vale of Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, then inhabited by Mrs Hamilton, with the younger part of whose family Burns had been previous- ly acquainted. He introduced me to the family, and there was formed my first ac- quaintance with Mrs Hamilton's eldest daugh- ter, to whom I have been married for nine years. Thus was I indebted to Burns for a connexion from which I have derived, and ex- pect further to derive, much happiness. " During a residence of about ten days at Flarvieston, we made excursions to visit vari- ous parts of the surroundi g scenery, inferior to none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- bell, the ancient seat of the family of Argyle ; and the famous cataract of the Devon, called the Cauldron Linn ,• and the Rumbling Bridge, a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to be believed, across the river, at about the height of a hundred feet above its bed. I am surprised that none of these scenes should have called forth an exertion of Burns's muse. But I doubt if he had much taste for the picturesque. I well remember, that the ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on this jaunt, expressed their disappointment at his not expressing in more glowing and fervid language, his impressions o the Cauldron Linn scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. " A visit to Mrs Bruce of Clackmannan, a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of that race which gave the Scottish throne its brightest ornament, interested his feelings more powerfully. This venerable dame, with charac- teristicai dignity, informed me, on my observing that I believed she was descended from the family of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung from her family. Though almost de- prived of speech by a paralytic affection, she preserved her hospitality and urbanity. She was in possession of the hero's helmet and two handed sword, with which she conferred on Burns and myself the honour of knight- hood, remarking, that she had a better right to confer that title than some people You will of course conclude that the old lady's political tenets were as Jacobitical as the poet's, a conformity which contributed not a little to the cordiality of our reception and entertainment. — She gave as her first toast after dinner, Awa, Uncos, 01, Away with the Strangers. — Who these strangers were, you will readily understand. Mrs A. corrects me by saying it should be Hooi, or Hoohi uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to drive away the sheep. " We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the shore of Lochleven) and Queensferry. I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, or had died there a short while be- fore. A meeting between the bards, or a visit to the deserted cottage and early grave of pool Bruce, would have been highly interesting.* " At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey, and the abbey-church, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assum- ing the character of a penitent for fornication ; while Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied from that which had been delivered to himself in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shame together. " In the church-yard two broad flag-stones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than common vener- ation. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred fervour, and heartily fsuus ut mos eratj execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of the first of Scottish heroes, "f The surprise expressed by Dr Adair, in his excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of the Devon shuuld have failed to call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature singular ; and the disappointment felt at his not expressing in more glowing language his emotions on the sight of the famous cataract of that river, is similar- to what was felt by the friends of Burns on other occasions of the same nature. Yet the inference that Dr Adair seems inclined to draw from it, that he had little taste for the picturesque, might be ques- tioned, even if it stood uncontroverted by other evidence. The muse of Burns was in a high degree capricious ; she came uncalled, and often refused to attend at his bidding. Of all the numerous subjects suggested to him by his friends and correspondents, there is scarcely one that he adopted. The very expectation that a particular occasion would excite the energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive of the effect expected. Hence perhaps it may be explained, why the banks of the Devon and the Tweed form no part of the subjects of his song. A similar train of reasoning may perhaps explain the want of emotion with which ha * Bruce died some years before. f Extracted from a letter of Dr Adair to the Editor. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ]': viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there are no affections of the mind more deadened by the influence of previous expectation, than those arising from the sight of natural objects, and more especially of objects of grandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, of a sublime nature, should never be given to those who are about to view them, particularly if they are persons of great strength and sensibility of imagination. Language seldom or never con- veys an adequate idea of such objects, but in the mind of a great poet it may excite a pic- ture that far transcends them. The imagina- tion of Bums might form a cataract in com- parison with which the Cauldron Linn should seem the purling of a rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara a humble cascade.* Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining our Bard's deficiency of impression on the occasion referred to, or whether it ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occu- pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume not to decide ; but that he was in general feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- dence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly heightened in his mind, as might be expected, when combined with moral emotions of a kind with which it happily unites. That under this association Burns contemplated the seen ery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine poet, the following lines, written at this very period, may bear witness. On a Young Lady, residing on the banks of the small river Devon, 171 Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoarj' wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! * This reasoning might be extended, with some mo. ditications, to objects of sight of every kind. To have formed before-hand a dis inct picture in the mind, of any interesting person or thing, generally lessens the pi asure of the first meeting wuh them. Though t .is picture be not superior, or even equal to the reality, still it can never be expected to be an exact resem- blance ; and the disappointment felt at ti iding it some- thing different from what, was expected, interrupts and diminishes the emotion that womd otherwise be pro- duced. In such cases the second or third interview gives more pleasure than the first. See the Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, by Mr Stewart, p. 4St. Such publications as The Guide to the Lakes, where every scene is described in the must minute manner, aud sometimes with considerable exaggeration of language, are in this point of view object ouable. Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lib'es, And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either dorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. The different journeys already mentioned did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the beginning of September, he again set out from Edinburgh, on a more extended tour to the Highlands, in company with Mr Nicol, with whom he had contracted a particular intimacy, which lasted during the remainder of his life. Mr Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally humble with our poet. Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, ami fell by the strength of his passions. He died in the summer of J 797. Having received the elements of a classical instruction at his parish school, Mr Nicol made a very rapid and singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking the office of an instructor himself, he acquired the means of entering himself at the Univer- sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a stu- dent of theology, then a student of medicine, and was afterwards employed in the assistance and instruction of graduates in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which the Latin language is employed. In this situation he was the contemporary and rival of the cele- brated Dr Brown, whom he resembled in the particulars of his history, as well as in the leading features of his character. The office of assistant teacher in the High- School being vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- tion ; and, in the face of some pr> judices, and perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all the other candidates. This office he filled at the period of which we speak. It is to be lamented; that an acquaintance with the writers of Greece and Rome does not always supply an original want of taste and correctness in manners and conduct; and where it fails of this effect, it sometimes inflames the native pride of temper, which treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has not learned to excel. It was thus w.th the fellow- traveller of Burns. Formed by nature in a model of great strength, neither his person nor his manners had any tincture of taste or ele- gance ; and his coarseness was not compensa- ted by that romantic sensibility, and those towering flights of imagination, which distin- guished the conversation of Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies of his manners were absorbed and disappeared. Mr Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- chaise, which they engaged for the journey, and passing through the heart of the Highlands, stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond Inverness. There they bent their course east- ward, across the island, and returned by the shore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. In the course of this tour, some particulars of which will be found in a letter of our bard, page 18, they visited a number of remarkable lx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, scenes, and the imagination of Burns was constantly excited by the wild and sublime icenery through which he passed. Of this, several proofs may be found in the poems for- merly printed.* Of the history of one of these poems, The humble Petition of Bruur Water, page 150, and of the bard's visit to Athole House, some particulars will be found in Letters No. 33. and No. 34 : and by the favour of Mr Walker of Perth, then residing in the family of the Duke of Athole, we are enabled to give the following additional ac- count. " On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He accepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, begged J would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and un- certain, view of their beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant land- scape, but I never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot help thinking it might have been here that he conceived the idea of the follow- ing lines, which he afterwards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only fancy- ing such a combination of objects as were now present to his eye. Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild, chequering through the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. " It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. " My curiosity was great to see how be would conduct himself in company so different from what he had been accustomed to.f His mariner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his • See " Lines on seeing pome water-fowl in Loch Turit, a wild scene among the hills of Ochtei tyre," p. lftl. " Lines written with a Pencil over the diiinney- piece, in the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth," p. 151, '• Lines written with a pencil standing by the Fall of Pyres, near Lurhness," p. 152. t In the preceding winter, Burns had Ireen in com. pany of tbe highest rank in Edinburgh; but this de. Bcription ol his manners is perfectly applicable to his uist appearance in such society. own native good sense for directing bis beha- viour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to forget a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, pro- priety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank their healths as honest men and bonuie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, and with which he has very feli- citously closed his poem.* " Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neighbourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I vvill mention a remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by coarse- ness of manners ; "in short," he added, "his mind is like his body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." " Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some descriptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of Bruar, and in a few days I received a 1. tter from Inver- ness, with the verses enclosed."! Jt appears that the impression made by our poet on the noble family of Athole v\ as in a high degree favourable . it is certain he was charmed with the reception he received from them, and he often mentioned the two days he spent at A thole- house as among the happiest of his life. He was warmly invited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his engagement with Mr Nicol ; which is the more to be re- gretted, as he would otherwise have been intro- duced to Mr Dundas (then daily expected on a visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might have had a favourable influence on Burns's future fortunes. At Athole-house, he met for the first time, Mr Graham of Fintry, to whom he was afterwards indebted for his office in the Excise. The letters and poems which he addressed * See p. 151. t Extract of a letter from Mr Walker to Mr Cun. ningham, dated Perth, 24th October, 1797. The letter mentioned as written to Mr Walker bv Mr Burns, will be found in p. 18. Mr Walker will it is hoped, have the goodness to excuse the printing of las repl) (without his permission), p. 20. LIFE OF ROBERT BURls XI to Mr Graham, bear testimony of his sensibi- lity, and justify the supposition, that he would not have been deficient in gratitude had he been elevated to a situation better suited to his disposition and to his talents.* A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at Fochabers. In the course of the preceding winter Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr Nicol at the inn in the village. At the castle our poet was re- ceived with the utmost hospitality and kind- ness, and the family being about to sit down to dinner, he was invited to take his place at table as a matter of course. This invitation he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses of wine, he rose up and proposed to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his engagement with his fellow- traveller; and his noble host offering to send a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, Burns insisted on undertaking that office him- self. He was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in all the forms of politeness. The invitation came too late ; the pride of Nicol was inflamed to a high degree of passion, by the neglect which he had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, being de- termined to proceed on his journey alone : and they found him parading the streets of Focha- bers, before the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no ex- planation nor entreaty could change the pur- pose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating from him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the last of these alternatives : and seating himself beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with mortification and regret, he turned his back on Gordon Castle, where he had promised himself some happy days. Sensible, however, of the great kindness of the noble family, he made the best return in his power, by the following poem.f Streams that glide in orient plains Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands : These, their richly gleaming waves, 1 leave to tyrants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle- Gordon. * See the first EpisVe to Mr Graham, soliciting an employment in the Excise, p. 33; and his second Epis- tle, pl44. f 1 his information is extracted from a letter of Dr Cuiiper of Fochabers to the Editor. II. 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. III. Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole ; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood, Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle-Gordon.* Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipation of that metropolis. It appears that, on the Slst day of December, he attended a meeting to cele- brate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish or purpose of the original institutors of this annual meeting, there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which it was at this time composed, were not per- fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It is not to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling wine, they indulged the generous feelings which the recollection of fallen greatness is calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain — valour worthy of a nobler cause and a hap- pier fortune. On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, though deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished versifica- tion that such compositions require, might, on a fair competition, where energy of feelings and of expression were alone in question, have won the butt of Malmsey from the real lau- reate of that day. The following extracts may serve as a spe- cimen : — 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 — Ave can no more; And, owning Heaven's mysterious swaj Submissive, low, adore. * These verses our poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air of which he was extremely fond Lxij LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. II. 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.* III. Not unrevenged 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 cliff, 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 .... In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sympathy with which he traced out the grave of his predecessor Fergusson, over whose ashes, in the Canon, gate church-yard, he obtained leave to erect an humble monument, which will be viewed by reflecting minds with no common interest, and which will awake, in the bosom of kindred genius, many a high emotion. f Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he experienced from a poet then living, the amiable and accomplished Blacklock To his encouraging advice it was owing (as has already appeared) that Burns, instead of emigrating to the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He received him there with all the ardour of affec- tionate admiration ; he eagerly introduced him to the respectable circle of his friends ; he consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame ; he lavished upon him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart, into which nothing selfish or envious ever found admittance. Among the friends whom he introduced to Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn of 1787, at his delightful retirement in the neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we have the fol- lowing particulars : " I have been in the company of many men of genius," says Mr Ramsay, " some of them poets, but never witnessed such flashes of in- * In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful imagery, which the poet, afterwards interwove in a happier manner, in the Chevaliers Lament, (See p. 26.) But if there were no other reasons for omitting to print the entire poem, the want of originality would be suf- ficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for which, indeed, precedent may be cited in various other odes, but with which it is impossible to go along. t See page 21, where the Epitaph will be found, &c. tellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire ! 1 never was more delighted, therefore, than with his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I should have made little of him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not always know when to play off and when to play on. . . . I not only proposed to him the writing of a pity similar to the Gentle Shep- herd, qualem decet esse sororem, but ScoitiJi georglcs, a subject which Thomson has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. What beau- tiful landscapes of rural liie and manners might not have been expected from a pencil so faith- fid and forcible as his, which could have ex- hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who knows our swains in the unadultered state, instantly recognises as true to nature. But to have executed either of these plans, steadiness and abstraction from company were wanting, not talents. When I asked him whether the Edinburgh Literati had mended his poems by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of some spin- sters in my country, who spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof." He said he had not changed a word except one, to please Dr Blair."* Having settled with his publisher, Mr Creech, in February, 1788, Burns found himself mas- ter of nearly five hundred pounds, after dis- charging all his expenses. Two hundred pounds he immediately advanced to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon himself the support of their aged mother, and was strug- gling with many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, and some further eventual profits from his poems, he determined on settling himself for life in the occupation of agriculture and to;,k from Mr Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at Whitsunday, J 788. Flaving been previous- ly recommended to the Board of Excise, his name had been put on the list of candidates for the humble office of a ganger or excise- man ; and he immediately applied to acquiring the information necessary for filling that office, when the honourable Board might judge it pro- per to employ him. He expected to be called into service in the district in which his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to unite with success the labours of the farmer with the duties of the exciseman. When Burns had in this manner arranged his plans for futurity, his generous heart turned to the object of his most ardent attach- ment, and listening to no considerations but * Extract of a tetter from Mr liamsay to the Editor " This incorrigibility of Burns extended, however, only to his poems printed before be arrived in Edinburgh; for, in regard to his unpublished poems, he was amena- ble to criticism, of which many proofs may be given." See some remarks uu this subject, in Appendix. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lxiii those of "honour and affection, he joined with her in a public declaration of marriage, thus legalizing their union, and rendering it perma- nent for life. Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a specimen of his poetry had recommended him to Mr Miller of Dalswinton. Understand- ing that he intended to resume the life of a farmer, Mr Miller had invited him in the spring of 1787, to view his estate in Niths- dale, offering him at the same time the choice of any of his farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns and his friends might judge pro- per. It was not in the nature of Burns to take an undue advantage of the liberality of Mr Miller. He proceeded in this business, however, with more than usual deliberation. Having made choice of the farm of Ellisland, he emDloyed two of his friends skilled in the value of land, to examine it, and, with their approbation, offered a rent to Mr Miller, which was immediately accepted. It was not convenient for Mrs Burns to remove imme- diately from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore took up his residence alone at Ellisland, to prepare for the reception of his wife and chil- dren, who joined him towards the end of the year. The situation in which Burns now found himself was calculated to awaken reflection. The different steps he had of late taken were in their nature highly important, and might be said to have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He had become a husband and a father ; he had engaged in the management of a consi- derable farm, a difficult and laborious under- taking; in his success the happiness of his family was involved; it was time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety and dissipation of which he had been too much enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, and to form virtuous re- Solutions respecting the future. That such was actually the state of his mind, the follow- ing extract from his common-place book may bear witness : — " Ellisland, Sunday, Uth June, 1788. " This is now the third day that I have been in this country. « Lord, what is man !' What a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! . . There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, virtue sole survives. " Tell us, ye dead : Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? A little time Will make us wise as you are, and as close." " I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my mother's lap, and be at peace-' " But a wife and children bind me to strug- gle with the stream, till some sudden squal shall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless return of years, its own crazmess reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though half- sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and humour, are at best but thriftless idling with the precious current of exisvnce ; nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho, the watei is naught and the ground barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally- gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. " Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were to be any thing with me but names, was what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my present situation it was absolutely neces- sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of character, justice to my own happiness for after life, so far as it could depend (which it surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all these joined their warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attach- ment, to urge the step I have Uken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. — I can fancy how, but have never seen where, I could have made a better choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious passage in Young — 1 On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man !' " Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in the state he found it, was inadequate to the ac- commodation of his family. On this occasion, he himself resumed at times the occupation of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his skill impaired. — Pleased with surveying the grounds he was about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a building that should give shelter to his wife and children, and as he fondly hoped, to his own grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of domestic content and peace rose on his ima- gination ; and a few days passed away, as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, if nut the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* * Animated sentiments of any kind, almost always gave rise in our poet to some production of his mu*e. His sentiments on this occasion were in part express< d by the following vigorous and characteristic, though not very delicate verses : they are in imitation of an old ballad. I hae a wife o' my ain, I'll partake wi' nae-bo.1y; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to na«-bi;dy. I hae a penny to spend, There — thanks to nae-body ; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae nae-body. I am nae-body's lord, I'll be slave to nae-body ; I hae a gnid braid t»word, I'll tak dunts frae nae-body, [XIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his life, our poet was without the society of his wife and children. A great change had taken place in his situation ; his old habits were broken ; and the new circum- stances in which he was placed were calculated to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct.* But his application to the cares and labours of his farm was interrupted by several visits to his family in Ayrshire; and as the distance was too great for a single day's journey, he generally spent a night at an inn on the road. On such occasions he sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had formed. In a little while temptation assailed him nearer home. His fame naturally drew upon him the at- tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance in the district in which he lived. The public voice had now pro- nounced on the subject of his talents ; the re- ception he had met with in Edinburgh had given him the currency which fashion bestows; he had surmounted the prejudices arising from his humble birth, and he was received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale with wel- come, with kindness, and even with respect. Their social parties too often seduced him from his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and in- flamed those propensities which temperance might have weakened, and prudence ultimately suppressed. f It was not long, therefore, be- fore Burns began to view bis farm with dis- like and despondence, if not with disgust. Unfortunately he had for several years look- ed to an office in the Excise as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he had been recommended to the Board of Excise, and had received the instruction necessary for such a situation. He now applied to be employed ; und by the interest of Mr Graham of Fintra, was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called gauger, of the district in which ne lived. His farm was, after this, in a great measure abandoned to servants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment. He might indeed still be seen in the spring, directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body ; If nae-body care for me, I'll eare for nae-body. *Mrs Burns was about to be confined in child-bed, and the house at EHMand was rebuilding f The poem of The Whistle celebrates a Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen of N.thsdale, where Jim -ns appears as umpire. Mr Riddel died before our Bard, and some elegiac verses to his memory will be "i" 1 '. '!' P--, 1 , From him > and f '»m all the members of his family, Burns received not kindness omv but inendship ; and the society he metin general at Friar's Larse was calculated to improve his habits as well as his manners Mr Ferguson of Craigdarroch, so well known for his eloquence and sociai talents, died soon alter our poet. Sir Robert Lawrie, the thud person in the drama survives, and has since been enffaeed in contests ol a bloodier nature. Long may he live to light the battles of his country ! (1799.) celled ; or with a white sheet containing his seed-corn, slung across bis shoulders, striding with measured steps along his turned up fur- rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, but his farm no longer occupied the prin- cipal part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, this high-minded poet was pursuing the defaul- ters of the revenue, among the hills and vahn of Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his waywaid fancies as he moved along. " I had an adventure with him in the year 1790," says Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in a letter to the editor, " when passing through Dumfries- shire, on a tour to the south, with Dr Steuart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly near Closeburn, I said to my companion, • that is Burns.' On coming to the inn, the hostler told us he would be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he met with any thing seizable he was no better than any other gauger, in every thing else, he was perfectly a gentleman. After leaving a note to he delivered to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was much pleased with his uxor Sabina qualis, and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. In the evening he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said as he entered, I come, to use the words of Shak- speare, stewed in haste. In fact, he had ridden incredibly fast after receiving my note. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had now gotten a story for a drama, which he was to call Bob MacquechaiCs Elshon, from a popular story of Robert Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, when the bee of his boot having loosened in his flight, he ap- plied to Robert Macquechan to fix it; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up the king's heel. We were now going on at a great rate, when Mr S popped in his head; which put a stop to our discourse, which had become very interesting. Yet in a little while it was resumed, and such was the force and versatility of the bard's genius, that he made the tears run down Mr S 's cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. • • • "**• From that time we met no more, and I was grieved at the reports of him afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its motions, which did not do good proportioned to the blaze of light it displayed." In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- men who had before met with him in Edinburgh, made a visit to him at Ellisland. On calling at the house, they were informed that he had walk- ed out on the banks of the liver ; and dismount- ing from their horses, they proceeded in search of him. On a l'ock that projected into tha stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS- lxv of i fox's skin on his head, a loose great- coat ii.M-d round him by a belt, from which depend- ed an enormous highland broad-sword. It was JJurns. He received them with great cordial- ity, and asked them to share His humble dinner — an invitation which they accepted. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetables and barley.broth, after the manner of Scot- land, of which they partook heartily. After dinner, the bard told them ingenuously that he had no wine to offer them, nothing better than Highland whiskey, a bottle of which Mrs Burns set on the board. He produced at the same time his punch-bowl made of Inverary^ marble, and mixing the spirits with water and sugar, filled their glasses, and invited them to drink.* The travellers were in haste, and be- sides, the flavour of the whiskey to their south- ron palates was scarcely tolerable ; but the generous poet offered them his best, and his ardent hospitality they found it impossible to resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the charms of his conversation were altogether fascinating. He ranged over a great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. He related the tales of his infancy and of his youth ; he recited some of the gayest and some of the tenderest of his poems ; in the wildest of his strains of mirth, he threw in touches of melancholy, and spread around him the elec- tric emotions of his powerful mind. The high- land whiskey improved in its flavour; the marble bowl was again and again emptied and replen- ished ; the guests of our poet forgot the flight of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the hour of midnight they lost their way in return- ing to Dumfries, and could scarcely distinguish it when assisted by the morning's dawn, j- Besides his duties in the Excise and his so- cial pleasures, other circumstances interfered with the attention of Burns to his farm. He engaged in the formation of a society for pur- chasing and circulating books among the far- mers of his neighbourhood, of which he under- took the management ;\ and he occupied him- self occasionally in composing songs for the musical work of Mr Johnson, then in the course of publication. These engagements, useful and honourable in themselves, contri- buted, no doubt, to the abstraction of his thotrghts from the business of agriculture. The consequences may be easily imagined. Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and good management of Mrs Burns, and though his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to resign his farm to Mr Miller; after having oc- cupied it three years and a haif. His office in the Excise had originally produced about fifty pounds per annum. Having acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the Board, he had been * This bowl was made of the stone of which Inverary house is built, the mansion of the family <>f Argyle. f Giveu from the information of one of the party. J See p. 52. appointed to a new district, the emoluments of which rose to about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping to support himself and his family on this humble income till promotion should ! reach him, he disposed of his stock and of his . crop on Ellisland by public auction, and re- J moved to a small house which he had taken in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in social parties, had abstained from the habit- ual use of strong liquors, and his constitution had not suffered any permanent injury from the irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so easily beset him, continually presented themselves ; and his ir- regularities grew by degrees into habits. These temptations unhappily occurred during his en- gagements in the business of his office, as well as during his hours of relaxation; and though he clearly foresaw the consequence of yielding to them, his appetites and sensations, which could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over all the powers of his will. Yet this victory w r as not obtained with- out many obstinate >truggles, and at times tem- perance and virtue seemed to have obtained the mastery. Besides his engagements in the Ex- cise, and the society into which they led, many circumstances contributed to the melancholy fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, and few persons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries without attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his con- versation. As he could not receive them un- der his own humble roof, these interviews passed at the inns of the town, and often ter- minated in those excesses which Burns some times provoked, and was seldom able to resist. And among the inhabitants of Dumfries and its vicinity, there were never .wanting persons to share his social pleasures ; to lead or accom- pany him to the tavern ; to, partake in the wildest sallies of his wit;' to witness the strength and degradation of his genius. Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste and respectability, and in their company could impose on himself the restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor was his muse dormant. In the four years which he lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that he attempted any poem of considerable length. During this time, he made several excursions into the neighbouring country, of one of which, through Galloway, an account is preserved in a letter of Mr Syme, written soon after ; which, as it gives an animated picture of him by a correct and masterly hand, we shall present to the reader. " I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride on. We dined the first day, 27th July, 1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton ; a beautiful situa- tion on the banks of the Dee. In the evening we walked out, and ascended a gentle emi- nence, from which we had as fine a view oi Ixvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Alpine scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful soft evening showed all its wilder as well as its grander graces. Immediately op- posite, and within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep ?W more for me. * This was classical ground for Burns. He viewed " the highest hill which rises o'er the source of Dee ; " and would have staid till " the passing spirit " had appeared, had we not resolved to reach Ken more that night. We arrived as Mr and Mrs Gordon were sitting down to supper. " Here is a genuine baron's seat. The cas- tle, an old building, stands on a large natural moat. In front, the river Ken winds for se- veral miles through the most fertile and beauti- ful holm,\ till it expands into a lake twelve miles long, the banks of which, on the south, present, a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, natural wood, and here and there a grey rock. On the north, the aspect is great, wild, and I may say, tremendous. In short, I can scarcely conceive a scene more terribly roman- tic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun the work. We spent three days with Mr Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an original and endearing kind. Mrs Gordon's lap-dog, Fcho, was dead. She would have an epitaph for him. Several had been made. Burns was asked for one. This was setting Hercules to his distaff. He disliked the sub- ject; but, to please the lady, he would try. Here is what he produced : 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. " We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. I took him the moor-road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of the soil ; it became lowering and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene — he spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured in floods upon us. * A beautiful and well-known ballad, winch begins thus : The moon had climb*d the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And, from the eastern summit, shed Its silver light on tower and tree. f The level low ground on the hanks of a river or stream. This word should he adopted from the Scot- tish, as, indeed, ought several others of the same nature. That dialect is singularly copious and exact in the de- nominations of natural ohjeils. For three hours did the wild elements rumble tlieir belly-full upon our defenceless heads. Oh, oh / 'twas foul. We got utterly wet ; and to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gate- house on our getting utterly drunk. *« From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which had been thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in such a manner that it was not possible to get them on again. — The brawny poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. A whifling vexa- tion of this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. We were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Sel- kirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A. sick stomach, and a heart-ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse was quite accable. I attempt • ed to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage ! Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedients, and at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed him the house of* • • •, across the bay of Wigton. Against • • • •, with whom be -was offended, he expectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a most epigrammatic humour indeed! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one whom he does not love. He had a passing blow at him. When , deceased, to the devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him bat Satan's own crown : Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never. 1 grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever. " Well, 1 am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his fulminations, and in contempt of appear- ances ; and what is more, Lord Selkirk carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they were worth mending. "We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. I had promised that we should dine with one of the first men in our country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild and obstre- perous humour, and swore he would not dine where he should be under the smallest restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr Dalzell to dine with us in the inn, and had a very agree- able party. In the evening we set out for St Mary's Isle. Robert had not absolutely re- gained the milkiness of good temper, and it occurred once or twice to him, as he rode along, that St Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was not an aristocrate, at least in his sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and coffee. St Mary's Isle is one of the most de- lightful places that can, in my opinion, be form. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii ed by the assemblage of every soft but not tame object which constitutes natural and cul- tivated beauty. But not to dwell on its exter- nal graces, let me tell you that we found all the ladies of the family (all beautiful.) at home, and some strangers ; and among others, who but Urbani ! The Italian sung us many Scot- tish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We had the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked for, to have an opportunity of calling on Burns to recite his ballad to that tune. He did recite it ; and such was the effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence as a mind of feeling naturally pre- serves when it is touched with that enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but the contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad.* The fastidious critic may perhaps say, some of the sentiments ana imagery are of too ele- vated a kind for such a style of composition ; for instance, " Thou bolt of Heaven that pass- est by;" and, " Ye mustering thunder,'' &c. ; but this is a cold-blooded objection, which will be said rather than felt. •" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delight- ed with his company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The lion that had raged so vio- lently in the morning, was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in medi- tation. What do you think he was about ? He was charging the English army, along with Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the following address of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell. * ' Scots, Avha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' &c." Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the Excise ; but circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfilment, and which, in his own mind, destroyed all expectation of their being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary events which ushered in the revolution of Fiance, interested the feelings, and excited the hopes of men in every corner of Europe. Pre- judice and tyranny seemed about to disappear from among men, and the day-star of reason to rise upon a benighted world. In the dawn of this beautiful morning, the genius of French freedom appeared on our southern horizon with the countenance of an angel, but speedily as- * See p. t See p. 2J9 sumed the features of a demon, and vanished in a shower of blood. Though previously a jacobite and a cavalier, Burns had shared in the original hopes enter- tained of this astonishing revolution, by ardent and benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard of the attempt meditated by the First, or Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his daring tem- per ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be given to every kind of talents, was doubtless gratifying to the feelings of conscious but in- dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was to be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, which, on its commencement, promised so much happiness to the human race. And even after the career of guilt and of blood commenced, he could not immediately, it may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze from a people who had so lately breathed the sentiments of universal peace and benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope and of happiness to which those sentiments had given birth. Under these impressions, he did not always conduct himself with the cir- cumspection and prudence which his depend- ent situation seemed to demand. He engaged indeed in no popular associations, so common at the time of' which we speak; but in com- pany he did not conceal his opinions of public measures, or of the reforms required in the practice of our government ; and sometimes, in his social and unguarded moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. Information of this was given to the Board of Excise, with the exaggerations so general in such cases. A superior officer in that de- partment was authorized to inquire into his conduct. Burns defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the board, written with great independence of spirit, and with more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire into his conduct gave a favourable report. His steady friend, Mr Graham of Fintra, interposed his good offices in his behalf ; and the imprudent gauger was suffered to retain his situation, but given to understand that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future behaviour. This circumstance made a deep impression on the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his misconduct, and represented him as actually dismissed from his office : and this report in- duced a gentleman of much respectability to propose a subscription in his favour. The offer was refused by our poet in a letter of great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives an account of the whole of this transaction, and defends himself from imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, from the charge of having made submissions for the sake of his office, unworthy of his char- acter. " The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- serves, " has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to sup- JS 2 XV111 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, port. In the poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I hope have been found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and children, have pointed out my present occupation as the only eligible line of lite within my reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of the degrading epithets that malice or misrepre- sentation may affix to my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy ma- lice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in bis works, and alter having been held up to public view, and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry excisemen, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. " In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but — I will say it! the sterling of his honest worth, poverty could not debase, and his inde- pendent British spirit, oppression might bend, but could not subdue.*' It was one of the last acts of his life to copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, ac- companied by some additional remarks on the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a season of universal alarm for the safety of the constitution, the indiscreet expressions of a man so powerful as Burns, should have attracted notice. The times ceitainly required extraor- dinary vigilance in those intrusted with the administration of the government, and to insure the safety of the constitution was doubtless their first duty. Yet generous minds will lament that their measures of precaution should have robbed the imagination of our poet of the last prop on which his hopes of independence rested, and by embittering his peace, have ag- gravated those excesses which were soon to conduct him to an untimely grave. Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many improper and un- guarded expressions, there seems no reason to doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of government. In his common- place book, where he could have no temptation to disguise, are the following sentiments " Whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever adjured the idea. _ A constitution which, in its original principles, experience has proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it would be in- sanity to abandon for an untried visionary theory." In conformity to these sentiments, when the pressing nature of public affairs called in L795 for a general arming of the people, Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries volunteers, and employed his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism ;* and at tbifc. season of alarm, he brought forward the follow- ing hymn, worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece was most conspicuous for genius and valour. Scene— A Field of Battle— Time of the day, Evening — the wovnded and dying of the vic- torious army are supposed to join in the fol- lowing Song. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave ; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 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 ebbing sands, O ! who would not rest with the brave !t Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns had in his constitution the peculiarities and the delicacies that belong to the temperament of genius. He was liable, from a very early pe- riod of life, to that interruption in the process of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes the cause of depression of spirits* Connected with this disorder of the stomach, there was a disposition to head ache, affecting more especially the temples and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied by violent and irregular movements of the heart. Endowed by nature with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions ; to fever of body as well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, which strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep, might have subdued, habits of a different nature strength- ened and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its various forms, the * See p. 180 t This poem was written in 1791. See p. 71. It wns printed in Johnson's Musical Museum. The poet had an intention, in the latter part of his life, of printing it separately, set to music, but was advised against it, or at least discouraged from it. The martial ardour which rose so high afterwards, on the threatened invasion, hiid not I hen acquired the tone necessary to give popularity to this noble poem : which, to the editor, seems more calculated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season of real and pressing danger, than any production of modern times. It is here printed with his last correc- tions, varied a little from the copy followed, p. 71. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Lxix inordinate actions of the circulating system be- came at length habitual ; the process of nutri- tion was unable to supply the waste, and the powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there was an evident de- cline in our poet's personal appearance, and though his appetite continued unimpaired, he was himself sensible that his constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought he reflect- ed with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the goal towards which he was hastening, without the strength of mind neces- sary to stop, or even to slacken his course. His temper now became more irritable and gloomy; he fled from himself into society, often of the lowest kind. And in such com- pany, that part of the convivial scene, in which wine increases sensibility and excites benevo- lence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled passion generally presided. He who suffers the pollution of inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution? But let us refrain from the mention of errors over which delicacy and humanity draw the veil. In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- ness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings of his own remorse. He acknowledged his trans- gressions to the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and again and again received par- don for his offences. But as the strength of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predominating strength. From October, 1792, to the January follow- ing, an accidental complaint confined him to the house. A few days after he began to go abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home about three o'clock in a very cold morning, be- numbed and intoxicated. This was followed by an attack of rheumatism, which confined him about a week. His appetite now began to fail; his hand shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His pulse became weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and too well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- covery, he was ever musing on the approaching desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk into a uniform gloom. It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live through the months of spring, the succeeding season might restore him. But they were disappointed. The genial beams of the sun infused no vigour into his languid frame ; the summer wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the latter end of June he was advised to go into the country, and impatient of medical advice, as well as of every species of control, he determin- ed for himself to try the effects of bathing in , the sea. For this purpose he took up his resi- dence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on the shore of the Solvvay- Frith. It happened that at that time a lady witn whom he had been connected in friendship by the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing in the immediate neighbourhood.* Being in- formed of his arrival, she invited him to din- ner, and sent her carriage for him to the cot- tage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. — " I was struck," says this lady (in a confi- dential letter to a friend written soon after), " with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was ' Well, madam, have you any commands for the other world ?' I replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soon- est, and that I hoped that he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his con- cern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philo- sophy, but with firmness as well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotected, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly ex- pectation of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the pro- mising genius of his eldest son, and the flatter- ing marks of approbation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the re- flection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. Pass- ing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his literary fame, and particu- larly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation: that let- ters and verses written with unguarded and improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would re- strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their venom to blast his fame. " He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he en- tertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; and many indiffer- ent poetical pieces, which he feared would For a character of this lady, see p. 72. Ixx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion." — The lady goes on to mention many other topics of a private nature on which he spoke. — " The conversation," she adds, "was kept up with great evenness and animation on his side. I had seldom seen his mind greater or more col- lected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not dis- guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. " We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of July, 1796) ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !'' At first, Burns imagined bathing in the sea had been of benefit to him : the pains in his limbs were relieved; but this was immediate- ly followed by a new attack of fever. "When brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand upright. At this time a tremor per- vaded his frame ; his tongue was parched, and his mind sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength dimi- nished. On the fourth, the sufferings of this great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, arid a life was closed in which virtue and passion had been at perpetual variance.* The death of Burns made a strong and general impression on all who had interested themselves in his character, and especially on the inhabitants of the town and county in which he had spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, they had not deprived him of the respect and regard entertained for the extraordinary powers of his genius, and the generous qualities of his heart. The Gentlemen- Volunteers of Dum- fries determined to bury their illustrious asso- ciate with military honours, and every prepar- ation was made to render this last service solemn and impressive. The Fencible Infan- try of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance on this occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them from a considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of July, the remains of Burns were re- moved from his house to the Town- Hall, and the funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the volunteers, selected to perform • The particulars respecting the illness and death of Burns were obligingly furnished by Dr Maxwell tiie physician who ai.temieii him. the military duty in the church-yard, stationed themselves in the front of the procession, with their arms reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on which were placed the hat and sword of their friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous body of attendants ranged themselves in the rear ; while the Fencible regiments of infantry and cavalry lined the streets from the Town- Hall to the burial-ground in the Southern church- yard, a distance of more than half a mile. The whole procession moved forward to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Dead March in Saul: and three vollies fired over his grave marked the return of Burns to his parent earth ! The "spectacle was in a high degree grand and solemn, and accorded with the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had called forth. It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the morning of the day of her husband's fune- ral, Mrs Burns was undergoing the pains of labour, and that during the solemn service we have just been describing, the posthumous son of our poet was borji. This infant boy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. He has already become an inhabitant of the same grave with his celebrated father. The four other children of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time about ten years of age) yet survive, and give every pro- mise of prudence and virtue that can be ex- pected from their tender years. They remain under the care of their affectionate mother in Dumfries, and are enjoying the means of edu- cation which the excellent schools of that town afford ; the teachers of which, in their conduct to the children of Burns, do themselves great honour. On this occasion, the name of Mr Whyte deserves to be particularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science.* Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- pendence of his spirit, and the exemplary pru- dence of his wife, had preserved him from debt. He had received from his poems a clear profit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum, the part expended on his library (which was far from extensive) and in the humble furniture of his house, remained ; and obliga- tions were found for two hundred pounds advanced by him to the assistance of those to whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still more by those of esteem and affection. When it is considered, that his expenses in Edin- burgh, and on his various journeys, could not- be inconsiderable ; that his agricultural under- taking was unsuccessful ; that his income from the Excise was for some time as low as fifty, and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; that his family was large, and his spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that his circum- stances were so poor, or that, as his health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk under * The author of St Guerdoyi's Well, a poem ; aud of i Tribute to the Memory of Burns. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. .XXI the secret consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty nether bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in his conduct. He carried his disregard of money to a blameable excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily to the world, and received with a jealous reluctance every offer of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured him great celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for the latter offsprings of his pen might have produced him considerable emolument. In the year 1765, the Editor of a London news- paper, high in its character for literature, and independence of sentiment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish them, once a- week, with an article for their poetical depart- ment, and receive from them a recompense of fifty- two guineas per annum; an offer which the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had for several years furnished, and was at that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward, and was obstinately refusing all recompense for his assistance to the greater work of Mr Thomson, which the justice and generosity of that gentleman was pressing upon him. The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- proaching distress of his infant family, pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. Yet he al-luded to his indigence, at times, with something approaching to his wonted gaiety. — " What business," said he to Dr Maxwell, who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has a physician to waste his time on me ? I am a poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers enough upon me to carry me to my grave." And when his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- choly train ; the horrors of a jail were continu- ally present to his troubled imagination, and produced the most affecting exclamations. As for some months previous to his death he had been incapable of the duties of his orfice, Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. The Board, however, to their honour, continued his full emoluments ; and Mr Graham of Fintra, hearing of his illness, though unac- quainted with its dangerous nature, made an offer of his assistance towards procuring him the means of preserving his health. — Whatever might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was Hot of the number. — Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are found of the sense he enter- tained of Mr Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards that gentleman has induced us to suppress ; and on the last occasion there »s no doubt that his heart overflowed towards him, though he had no longer the power of expressing his feelings.* * The letter of Mr Graham alluded to above, is dated on the 13th of July, and probably arrived on the loth. Burns became delirious on the 17th or 18th, and died on the 21st. On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife and family; and Mr Miller, Mr M'Murdo, Dr Maxwell, and Mr Syme, gentlemen of the first respectability, became trustees for the application of the money to its proper objects. The subscription was extended to other parts of Scotiand, and of England also, particularly London and Liverpool. By this means 3 sum was raised amounting to seven hundred pounds ; and thus the widow and children were rescued from immediate distress, and the most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, though equal to their present support, is in- sufficient to secure them from future penury. Their hope in regard to futurity depends on the favourable reception of those volumes from the public at large, in the promoting of which the candour and humanity of the reader may induce him to lend his assistance. Burns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a form that indicated agility as well as strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed ; and his countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. His mode of dressing, which was often slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend in his shoulders, characteristic of his original profession, disguised in some degree the natu- ral symmetry and elegance of his form. The external appearance of Burns was most strik- ingly indicative of the character of his mind. On a first view, his physiognomy had a certain air of coarseness, mingled, however, with an expression of deep penetration, and of calm thoughtfulness approaching to melancholy. There appealed in his first manner and address, perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern and almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, incompatible with openness and affability, which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of superior talents. — Strangers that supposed themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, who could make rhymes, and to whom their notice was an honour, found themselves speedily overawed by the presence of a man who bore himself with dignity, and who pos- sessed a singular power of correcting forward- ness and of repelling intrusion. But though jealous of the respect due to himself, Burns never enforced it where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, though inaccessible to the ap- proaches of pride, he was open to every advance of kindness and of benevolence. His dark and haughty countenance easily relaxed into a look of good-will, of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assumed with equal ease the expression of the broadest humour, of the most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melan- choly, or of the most sublime emotion. The Ixxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lones of his voice happily corresponded with .he expressioti of his features, and with the feel : ngs of his mind. When to these endow- ments are added a rapid and distinct apprehen- sion, a most powerful understanding, and a happy command of language — of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall be able to account for the extraordinary attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery which in his social parties he seemed to exert on all around him. In the company of women this sorcery was more especially apparent. Their presence charmed the fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart; and, by restraining the vehemence and the exuberance of his lan- guage, at times gave to his manners the im- pression of taste, and even of elegance, which in the company of men they seldom possessed. This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed to the best society, declared with characteristic naivete, that no man's conversation ever carried her so com- pletely off her feet as that of Burns •, and an English Lady, familiarly acquainted with several of the most distinguished characters of the present times, assured the editor, that in the happiest of his social hours, there was a charm about Burns which she had never seen equalled. The charm arose not more from the power than the versatility of bis genius. No languor could be felt in the society of a man who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the simple to the sublime ; who wielded all his faculties with equal strength and ease, and never failed to impress the offspring of his fancy with the^amp of his understanding. This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest phasis. In large and mixed, parties, he was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the in- solence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality of for- tune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singular degree compassionate, he was on the other hand proud, irascible, and vindictive. His virtues and his failings had their origin in the extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and equally partook of the chills and glows of sen- timent. His friendships were liable to inter- ruption from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died away under the influence of pity or self-accusation. His understanding was equal to the other powers of his mind, and his deliberate opinions were singularly candid and just; but, like other men of great and irregular genius, the opinions which he delivered in con- versation were often the offspring of temporary feelings, and widely different from the calm decisions of his judgment. This was not merely true respecting the characters of others, but in regard to some of the most important points of human speculation. On no subject did he give a more striking proof of the strength of his understanding, than in the correct estimate he formed of himself. He knew his own failings ; he predicted their consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was never long absent from his mind ; yet his pas- sions carried him down the stream of error, and swept him over the precipice he saw di- rectly in his course. The fatal defect in his character lay in the comparative weakness of his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, which governing the conduct according to the dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it to be denominated rational; which is the parent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; which, by regulating and combining human exertions, may be said to have effected all that is great in the works of man, in literature, in science, or on the face of nature. The occu- pations of a poet are not calculated to strength- en the governing powers of the mind, or to weaken that sensibility which requires perpe- tual control, since it gives birth to the vehe- mence of passion as well as to the higher powers of imagination. Unfortunately the favourite occupations of genius are calculated to increase all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride, which disdains the littleness of prudence, and the restrictions of order ; and, by indulgence, to increase that sensibility, which, in the present form of our existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or happiness, even when accompanied with the choicest gifts of fortune. It is observed by one who was a friend and associate of Burns,* and who has contemplated and explained the system of animated nature, that no sentient being, with mental powers greatly superior to those of men, could possibly live and be happy in this world — "If such a being really existed," continues he, " his misery would be extreme. With senses more delicate and refined ; with perceptions more acute and penetrating; with a taste so exquisite that the objects around him would by no means gratify it ; obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for his frame ; he must be born only to be miserable, and the continuation of his existence would be utterly impossible. Even in our present condition, the sameness and the insipi- dity of objects and pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and the infinite sources of excruciat- ing pain, are supported with great difficulty by cultivated and refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, continue the same objects and situation, and no man could bear to live." Thus it appears, that our powers of sensa- tion, as well as all our other powers, are adapt- ed to the scene of our existence ; that they are limited in mercy, as well as in wisdom. The speculations of Mr Smellie are not to be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; they were probably founded on sad experience. ■* Smellie— See his Philosophy of Natural History, Vol I. u. 526. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxiii The being he supposes, " with senses more de- licate and refined, with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be found in real life. He is of the temperament of genius, and per- haps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? Are there no means by which the happiness of one so constituted by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it will be found, that regular and constant occupation, irksome though it may at first be, is the true remedy. Occupation in which the powers of the understanding are exercised, will diminish the force of external impressions, and keep the imagination under restraint. That the bent of every man's mind should be followed in his education and in his destina- tion in life, is a maxim which has been often repeated, but which cannot be admitted with- out many restrictions. It may be generally true when applied to weak minds, which, being capable of little, must be encouraged and strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that little is produced. But where indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought fre- quently to be the rule of conduct. In minds of a higher order, the object of instruction and of discipline is very often to restrain rather than to impel ; to curb the impuls'es of imagination so that the passions also may be kept under control. * Hence the advantages, even in a moral point of view, of studies of a severe nature, which, while they inform the understanding, employ the volition, that regulating power of the mind, which like all our other faculties, is strength- ened by exercise, and on the superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and honourable fame, are wholly dependent. Hence also the ad- vantage of regular and constant application, which aids the voluntary power by the produc- tion of habits so necessary to the support of order and virtue, and so difficult to be formed in the temperament of genius. The man who is so endowed and so regu- lated, may pursue his course with confidence in almost any of the various walks of life which choice or accident shall open to him ; and pro- vided he employs the talents he has cultivated, may hope for such imperfect happiness, and such limited success, as are reasonably expect- ed from human exertions. The pre-eminence among men, which pro- cures personal respect, and which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- * Quinctilian discusses the important question, whether the bent of the individual's genius should be followed in h s education (an secundum sui quisque in genii dooendus sit naturam,) chiefly, indeed, with a re- ference to the orator, bur in a way that admits of very general application. His conclusions coincide very much with those of the text. An vero Isocrates cum de Ephoro atque Theopompo sic judicaret, ut alteri FiiENis, alteri calcaribus oPi'S esse dice subjects of his muse. His writings may therefore be regarded as affording a great part of the data on which our account of his per- sonal character has been founded ; and most of the observations we have applied to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to the poet. The impression of his birth, and of his ori- ginal station in life, was not more evident on his form and manners, than on his poetical productions. The incidents which form the subjects of his poems, though some of them highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness of his condition, or to throw into shade the circumstances attending it, which more feeble or more artificial minds would have endeavour- ed to conceal. The same rudeness and inat- tention appears in the formation of his rhymes, which are frequently incorrect, while the measure in which many of the poems are written has little of the pomp or harmony of modern versification, and is indeed, to an English ear, strange and uncouth. The greater part of his earlier poems are written in the dialect of his country, which is obscure, if not unintelligible to Englishmen, and which, though it still adheres more or less to the speech of almost every Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are now endeavouring to banish from their tongues as well as their writings. The use of it in composition na- turally therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in the mind. These singularities are increased by the character of the poet, who delights to express himself with a simplicity that ap- proaches to nakedness, and with an unmeasured energy that often alarms delicacy, and some- times offends taste. Hence, in approaching him, the first impression is perhaps repulsive : there is an air of coarseness about him, which is difficultly reconciled with our established notions of poetical excellence. As the reader, however, becomes better acquainted with the poet, the effects of his peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his poems, even on the lowest subjects, expressions of sentiment, and delineations of manners, which are highly interesting. The scenery he describes is evidently taken from real life ; the characters he introduces, and the incidents he relates, have the impression of nature and truth. His humour, though wild and un bridled, is irresistibly amusing, and is some- times heightened in its effects by the introduc- tion of emotions of tenderness, with which genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. The reader, as he examines farther, discovers that the poet is not confined to the descriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic: he is found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease into the terrible and the sublime. Every where he appears devoid of artifice, performing what he attempts with little apparent effort ; and impressing on the offspring of his fancy the stamp of his under- standing. The reader, capable of forming a just estimate of poetical talents, discovers in these circumstances marks of uncommon genius, and is willing to investigate more minutely its nature and its claim to originality. This last point we shall examine first. That Burns had not the advantages of a classical education, or of any degree of ac- quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers in their original dress, has appeared in the history of his life. He acquired, indeed, some knowledge of the French language, but it does not appear that he was ever much conversant in French literature, nor is there any evidence of his having derived any of his poetical stories from that source. With the English classics he became well acquainted in the course of his life, and the effects of this acquaintance are observable in his latter productions ; but the character and style of his poetry were formed very early, and the model which he followed, in as far as he can be said to have had one, is to be sought for in the works of the poets who have written in the Scottish dialect — in the works of such of them more especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. Some observations on these may form a pro- per introduction to a more particular examina- tion of the poetry of Burns. The studies of the editor in this direction are indeed very recent and very imperfect. It would have been imprudent for him to have entered on I XXX. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. this subject at all, but for the kindness of Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom the reader must ascribe whatever is of any value in the following imperfect sketch of literary compo- sitions in the Scottish idiom. It is a circumstance not a little curious, and which does not seem to be satisfactorily ex- plained, that in the thirteenth century, the language of the two British nations, if at all different, differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welch and Armoric in the other, being confined to the mountainous dis- tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the game language. We may observe also, that in Scotland the history ascends to a period nearly as remote as in England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the fathers of poetry in England ; and in the opinion of Mr Wharton, not inferior to them in genius or in composition. Though the language of the two countries gradually devi- ated from each other during this period, yet the difference on the whole was not considera- ble ; nor perhaps greater than between the different dialects of the different parts of Eng- land in our own time. At the death of James the Fifth, in 154-2, the language of Scotland was in a flourishing condition, wanting only writers in prose equal to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. The first was the p&ssion of the Scots for composition in Latin ; and the second, the accession of James the Sixth to the English throne. It may easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters in Italy, he would have left compositions in that language which might have excited other men of genius to have followed his example, f and given duration to the language itself. The union of the two crowns in the person of James, overthrew all reasonable expectation of this kind. That monarch, seated on the English throne, would no longer be addressed in the rude dialect in which the Scottish clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or English only, both of which he prided himself on writing with purity, though he himself never could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scot- tish idiom and intonation to the last. Scots- men of talents declined writing in their native language, which they knew was not acceptable to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time when national prejudice and enmity * Historical Essays on Scottish Song, p. 20, bv Mr Riteon. f e. g. The Authors of the Deliciae Poetarum Scoto- tum, Sfc prevailed to a great degre?, they disdained to study the niceties of the English tongue, though of so much easier acquisition than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. They studied the language of England, and composed in it with precision and elegance. They were how. j ver the last of their country- men who deserved to be considered as poets in that century. The muses of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a period of eighty years. To what causes are we to attribute this ex- treme depression among a people comparatively learned, enterprising, and ingenious? Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of the coven anters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart after their restoration to the throne? Doubt- less these causes operated, but they seem un- equal to account for the effect. In England, sin.ilar distractions and oppressions took place, yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable degree. During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the causes already mentioned, another must be added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish literature — the want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to employ. The civil wars had frightened away the Latin muses, and no standard had been established of the Scottish tongue, which was deviating still farther from the pure English idiom. The revival of literature in Scotland may be dared from the establishment of the union, or rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally incorpo- rated, it was clearly seen that their tongues must in the end incorporate also ; or rather in- deed that the Scottish language must degener- ate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the united legislature. Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- peared, who studied the English classics, and imitated their beauties, in the same manner as they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. They had admirable models of com~ position lately presented to them by the writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particu- larly in the periodical papers published by Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, which circulated widely through Scotland, and diffused every where a taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in English composition, and a union was formed of the literary talents, as well as of the legisla- tures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets took the lead. While Henry Home,* Dr Wallace, and their learned associates* were only laying in their intellectual stores, and studying to clear themselves of their Scot* .* Lord Kaiais. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxi tish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamilton of Bangour, had made their appearance before the public, and been enrolled on the list of | English poets. The writers in prose follow- ! ed — a numerous and powerful band, and | poured their ample stores into the general | stream of British literature. Scotland pos- sessed her four universities before the acces- sion of James to the English throne. Im- mediately before the union, she acquired her parochial schools. These establishments com- bining happily together, made the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, and presented a direct path, by which the ardent student might be carried along into the recesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider field was opened to literary ambition, and the influence of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became more and more apparent. It seems indeed probable, that the establish- ment of the parochial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less splendid in their nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the people. There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of the British isles pos- sessed a peculiar and interesting species of music, which being banished from the plains by the successive invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, but the differ- ence may be considered as in dialect only, and probably produced by the influence of time, like the different dialects of their common language. If this conjecture be true, the Scot- tish music must be more immediately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character somewhat distinct, must have descended from the mountains in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry have been long in posses- sion of a number of songs and ballads com- posed in their native dialect, and sung to their native music. The subjects of these compositions were such as most interested the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of time varied probably as the condition of society varied. Louring the separation and the hos- tility of the two nations, these songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect documents enable us to judge., were chiefly warlike ; such as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns, when a certain degree of peace and tranquil- lity took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. " In the want of real evidence respecting the history of our songs," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, who had formerly been warriors from choice, and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted the country, or were transformed into real shepherds, easy in their circumstances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Froissart, re- mained sufficient to inspire elevation of senti ment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which had long sub- sisted between the gentry and the peasantry, could not all at once be obliterated, and this connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music would still maintain its ground, though it would na- turally assume a form congenial to the more peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish parliament, but contended in vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pro- bably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tributary streams, one or more original ge- niuses mayhave arisen who were destined to give a new turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would see that the events and pursuits which chequer private life were the proper sub- jects for popular poetry. Love, which had for- merly held a divided sway with glory and ambition, became now the master-passion of the soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast„of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus himself would not have been ashamed, might be composed by an uneducated fustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- ed, the truth of character, and the language of nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes the sweetest of the Highland luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine descriptions of the manners of an energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though in their portraits some objects are brought into open view, which more fasti- dious painters would have thrown into shade." " As those rural poets sung for amusement, Ixxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like the words of the elder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, but trea- sured up in the memory of their friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronized by the great, these rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names have been forgotten.* When proper models for pastoral songs were produced, there would be no want of imitators. To succeed in this species of composition, soundness of under- standing and sensibility of heart were more re- quisite than flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. Great changes have certainly taken place in Scottish song-writing, though we can- not trace the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, that the music may have remained nearly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled. ''f These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of ease and tranquillity described by Mr Ram- say took place among the Scottish peasantry immediately on the union of the crowns, or in- deed during the greater part of the seventeenth century. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not till after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent establishment of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that period that a great number of the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the peace and security derived from the Revolu- tion, and the Union, produced a favourable change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruction was diffused universally among the peasantry, contributed to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengonar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still * In the Pepys collection, there are a few Scottish Bongs ot the last century, but the names of the authors are not preserved. f Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay of Ochtertijre to Ike Editor, Sept II, 179!). In the Bee, Vol. It p. ■201, is a communication of Mr Ramsay, under the signa- ture of J. Huiieole, which enters into this subject some- what more at large. In that paper lie j,'ives his reason:; "ir questioning the antiquity of many ot the celebrated Si ottish Songs. shown to the inquiring traveller.* He was the son of a peasant, and probably received such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admitted, f Ramsay made his appearance in PJdinburgh, in the be- ginning of the present century, in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber; he was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By de- grees he acquired notice for his social disposi- tion, and his talent for the composition of verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of a bookseller, he be- came intimate with many of the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time.i- Having published a volume of poems of his own in 1721, which was favour- ably received, he undertook to make a collec- tion of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards encour- aged to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. " From what sources he pro- cured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether from tradition or manuscript, is un- certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some rash attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient poems, he probably used still great- er freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more ancient than the present century, shall be produced, or access be obtained to his own pa- pers, if they are still in existence. To several tunes which either wanted words, or had words that were improper or imperfect, he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the melodies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the golden age. These verses were perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the genuine off- spring oi' the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay had advantages not possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lanca- shire, could never be popular, because these dialects have never been spoken by persons of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the English moralists and poets were by this time read by every person of 'condition, and considered as the standards for polite com- position. But, as national prejudices were still * See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 185. t The father of Mr Ramsay was, itissaid, a workman in the lead-mines of the Karl of Hopetoun.at Lead-hills. The workmen at those mines at present are of a very superior character to miners in general. They have only six hours of labour in the day, and have time for reading, They have a common library supported by contribution, containing several thousand volumes. When this was instituted I have not learned. These miners are said to be of a very sober and moral charac- ter. Allan Ramsay, when very young, is supposed to have been a washer of ore in these mines. % " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club of small wits, who, about 1719, published a very poor miscellany, to which Dr Young, the author of the Nig/it Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses." Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay ofOchtertyre to the Editor, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxni strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak their native dialect, and chat with an elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just notion. I am old enough to have conversed with Mr Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all the members af the Union Parliament, in which he had a eat. His pronunciation and phraseology dif- fered as much from the common dialect, as the language of St James's from that of Thames Street. Had we retained a court and parlia- ment of our own, the tongues of the two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would have its own classics, not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of literature. " Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them at- tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- sons too idle or too dissipated to think of compositions that required much exertion, succeeded very happily in making tender son- nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and transforming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language of the characters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote the modern song of Tweedside,* which has been so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, in the character of a love-sick swain, a beauti- ful song, beginning, My sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook, on the marriage of his mis- tress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And about twelve years afterwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of the Fores t,\ and supposed to allude to the battle of Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sorrow. The more modern words to the same tune, beginning, / have seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, were written long before by Mrs Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present century, all of whom were very fond of her. I was delighted with her company, though when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know that is now lost." In addition to these instances of Scottish songs, produced in the earlier part of the present century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardi- knute. by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the song entitled the Birhs of Liver may, by Mallet ; the love-song, begin- ning, For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, pro- duced by the youthful muse of Thomson; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- * Beginning. What beauties does Fiora disclose ! f Beguiling, I have heird a lilting at our ewes- milking. vailed for the national songs and music. " For many years," says Mr Ramsay, " the singing of songs was the great delight of the higher and middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceed- ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he being their great favourite next the Scriptures. When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first emotion of genius, he wanted not models sui generis. But though the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand among the Scottish peasantry, the product was probably like that of pears and apples — of a thousand that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this last description. They had the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they were not without the aid of the best English writers ; and, what was of still more importance, they were no strangers to the book of nature, and to the book of God." From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems under the name of The Ever- Green, his collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have in some degree super- seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all of these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have been produc- ed in our own times, and of which it will be necessary to give a short account. Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their power to procure him a liberal education, a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, implies no very high rank in society. From a well written and apparently authentic account of his life,* we learn that he spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee and se- veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and St Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time destined for the Scottish church ; but as he ad- vanced towards manhood, he renounced that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer to the signet, a title which desig- nates and separates a higher order of Scottish attorneys. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and talents for so- * In tl>e Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britannicn, See al-c, Campbells Introduction to the History of Po>. etry in Hcotland, See p. '. xxxi. t Notwithstanding the evidence produced on this sub- ject by Mr Tytler, the Editor acknowledges his being somewhat ol a sceptic on thispoint Sir David Dalrym- ) ].• inclines to tin- opinion that it was written by his i James the Fifth. There are difficulties attend- in-,' tins supposition also. But on the subject of Scot- tioh Antiquities the Editor is an incompetent judge describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a contention in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of concord, and the renewal of* the rural sporta with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of the poets describes the man- ners of his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uniformity; a striking proof of the identity of character in the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, dis- tant from each other three hundred years. It is an honourable distinction to this body of men, that their character and manners, very little embellished, have been found to be sus- ceptible of an amusing and interesting species of poetry; and it must appear not a little cu- rious, that the single nation of modern Europe which possesses an original poetry, should have | received the model, followed by their rustic bards, from the monarch on the throne. The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the happiest of his productions. His chief excel- lence indeed, lay in the description of rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any very high powers either of im- agination or of understanding. He was well acquainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives and opinions. The subject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject, and he has shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are delineations from nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, the passions and affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and the heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole there is an air of reality which the most careless reader cannot but per- ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps acquir- ed so high a reputation, in which truth receiv- ed so little embellishment from the imagination. In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, Ram- say appears to less advantage, indeed, but still with considerable attraction. The story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat licentious, may rank with the happiest produc- tions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure English composition, he is feeb.e and uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- crity.* _ Neither are his familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was not of the highest order; nor did his learning, which was considerable, improve his genius. His poems written in pure English, in which he often follows classical models, though superior to the English poems of Ram- say, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in those LIFE OF ROBERT EURNS. lXXXV composed in the Scottish dialect he is often very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As he spent the greater part of bis life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his amusement in the intervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the in- cidents of a town life, which, though they are not susceptible of humour, do not admit of those delineations of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so denominate them, are however faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a very happy vein of humour. His poems enti- tled The Daft. Days, The King's Birth- day in Edinburgh, Leith Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In these, particu- larly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done before him. His Address to the Tron-hirh Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely ex- celled. In appreciating the genius of Fergus- son, it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the careless effusions of an irregular though amiable young man, who wrote for the periodi- cal papers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life been prolonged under happier circumstances of fortune, he would probably have risen to much higher reputation. He might have excelled in rural poetry, for tnough his professed pastorals on the establish- ed Sicilian model, are stale and uninteresting, The Farmer's Ingle,* which may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the happiest of all his productions, and certainly was the archetype of the Cotter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have shown, that the character and manners of the peasantry of Scotland, of the present times, are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself informs us, he had " frequently in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile imitation." His descriptive powers, whether the objects on which they are employed be comic or serious, animate, or inanimate, are of the highest order. — A superiority of this kind is essential to every species of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; and this he chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue between two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons and characters of the (speakers. The first, whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog of condition : — * The farmer's fire- side . " His locked, letter'd, braw brass-collar, Showed him the gentleman and scholar." High-bred though he is, he is however full of condescension : " At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, An stroau't on slanes an' hillocks wi' him." The other Luath, is a " ploughman's-collie. but a cur of a good heart and a sound under " His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; His breast was white, his towsie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' ujiward curl, Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to moralize, are described with an equal degree oi happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the different condition of the two speakers, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- count of their merriment on the first day ci the year ; " That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds : The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, And sheds a heart-inspirin' steam ; The luntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; The canty auld folks craokin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wP them." Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- man affairs since the days of iEsop, the dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacity, as from his being, more than any other, the friend and associate of man. The dogs of Burns, exceping in their talenl for moralizing, are downright dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and Pan- ther of Dryden, men in the shape of brutes. It is this circumstance that heightens the humour of the dialogue. The " twa dogs " are con- stantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast between their form and character as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the humour, and deepens the impression of the poet's satire. Though in this poem the chief excellence maybe considered as humour, yet great talents are displayed in its composi- tion ; the happiest powers of description and the deepest insight into the human heart.* * When this poem first appeared, it was thought ky some very surprising-, that a peasant who had not an op- portunity of associating even with a simple gentleman Ixxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns appears in so simple a form. The live- liness of his sensibility frequently impels him to introduce into subjects of humour, emotions of tenderness or of pity ; and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert the higher powers of imagination. In such in- stances he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and associates himself with the masters of English poetry, whose language he frequently assumes. Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- amples may be found in The Death and Dying Words oj poor Mailie, in The auld Farmer's New- Year's Morning Salutation to his Mare Maggie, and in many other of his poems. The praise of whisky is a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering influence in a variety of situations, he describes, with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating effects on the blacksmith working at his forge : "Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong fore-hammer, Till block an' studdie ring and reel W dinsome clamour/' On another occasion,* choosing to exalt whisky above wine, he introduces a comparison between the natives of more genial climes, to whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and his own countrymen who drink the spirit of malt. The description of the Scotsman is humorous: «' But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,f Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe ; He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow." Here the notion of danger rouses the imagi- nation of the poet. He goes on thus ; 11 Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings teaze him ; Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him, And when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him In faint huzzas." should have been able to portray the character of high- life with loch accuracy. And when it was recollected that he hud probably been at the races of Ayr, where nobility aa well as gentry are to be seen, it was con- eluded that the race ground had been the field of his observation. This was sagacious enough; but it did not require. such instruction to inform Burns, that hu- man nature is essentially lb.- same in the high and low; and a genius whicb comprehends the human mind, easily comprehends the accidental varieties introduced by situ- ttton. * The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Bepmml itivet in Parliament, p. 92. f Of whisky. Again, however, he sinks into humour, and concludes the poem with the following most laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : " Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 'Till where you sit, on craps 0' heather, Ye tine your dam ; Freedom and Whisky gang thegither, Tak* aff your dram !•• Of this union of humour, with the higher powers of imagination, instances may be found in the poem entitled Death and Dr Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest of his produc- tions. After reproaching this terrible being with all his " doings '* and misdeeds, in the course of which he passes through a series of Scottish superstitions, and rises at times into a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in the following words : " But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben () wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! Ye ablins might— 1 dinna ken — Still ha'e a stake— I'm wae to think upo' yon den Evn for your sake! Humour and tenderness are here so happily intermixed, that it is impossible to say which preponderates. Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the Causeway and the Flainstones,* of Edinburgh. This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue between the Old and New Bridge over the river Ayr.f The nature of such subjects requires that they shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. Though the Causeway and the Plainstones talk together, no attempt is made to personify the speakers. A " cadie"| heard the conver- sation, and reported it to the poet. In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayi, Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and occasion on which it occurred is related with great circumstantiality. The poet, "press'd by care," or "inspired by whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter night, to the mouth of the river, where the stillness was interrupted only by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. It was after, midnight. The Dungeon-clock^ had struck two, and the sound had been repeated by Wallace- Tower. S All else was hushed. The moon shone brightly, and " The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept,gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream." * The middle of the street, and the side-way. t The Brigs of Ayr, p. 98. t A messenger. ^ The two steeples of Ayr. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii In this situation, the listening bard hears the "clanging sugh" of wings moving through the air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- scribes, and whose conversation with each other he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of the respective edifices over which they preside, and afterwards, as is usual between the old and young, compare modern characters and manners with those of past times. They differ, as may be expected, and taunt and scold each other in broad Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly humor- ous, may be considered as a proper business of the poem. As the debate runs high, and threatens serious consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of wonders : ; all before their sight A fairy train appear'd in order bright; Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; "While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung," "The Genius of the Stream, in front appears, A venerable chief, advanced in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound." Next follow a number of otner allegorical beings, among whom are the four seasons, Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. " Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode: Last, while-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instrument of Death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- dling wrath." This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, displays various and powerful talents, and may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In particular, it affords a striking instance of his being carried beyond his original purpose by the powers of imagination. In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and Causeway contrast the characters of the dif- ferent persons who walked upon them. Burns probably conceived, that, by a dialogue be- tween the Old and New Bridge, he might form a humorous contrast between ancient and modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of night ; and tins led our poet into a description of a midnight scene, which excited in a high degree the powers of his imagination. During the whole dialogue the scenery is pre- sent to his fancy, and at length it suggests ta him a fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the moon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. Incongruous as the different parts of this poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- pleases ; and we have only to regret that the poet did not bestow a little pains in making the figures more correct, and in smoothing the versification. The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esq. discover, like his other writings, the powers of a supe- rior understanding. They display deep insight into hu'.nan nature, a gay and happy strain of reflection, great independence of sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, that in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other poems, his humour degenerates into personal satire, and is not sufficiently guarded in other respects. The Halloween of Burns is free from every objection of this sort. It is inter- esting not merely from its humorous descrip- tion of manners, but as it records the spells and charms used on the celebration of a festi- val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, but which was once observed over the greater part of Britain and Ireland.* These charms are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, especially on the subject of marriage, the mosi interesting event of rural life. In the Hal- loween, a female, in performing one of the spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running to- wards the South.f It was not necessary for Burns to give a description of this stream. But it was the character of his ardent mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion re- quired, but what it admitted ; and the tempta- tion to describe so beautiful a natural object by moonlight, was not to be resisted — " Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round the rocky scar it strays : Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles giitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Beneath the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. Those who understand the Scottish dialect will allow this to be one of the finest instan- ces of description which the records of poetry afford — Though of a very different nature, it may be compared, in point of excellence, with Thomson's description of a river swollen by the rains of winter, bursting through the streights that confine its torrent, " boiling, wheeling, foaming, and thundering along."| In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in rural poetry of a serious natural, Burns ex- * In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quite in disuse in Wales. | + See page L15. t See Thomson's Winter. IXXXV111 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. celled equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, using less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, he becomes more generally in- telligible. It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse whose nest was turned up with the plough,* should be considered as seri- ous or comic. Be this as it may, the poem is one of the happiest and most finished of his productions. If we smile at the " bickering brattle" of this little flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part is admirable : the moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, that arises to the sublime. The Address to a Mountain Daisy, turned down with the plough, f is a poem of the same nature, though somewhat inferior in point of originality, as well as in the interest produced. To extract out of incidents so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph, of original genius. The Vision, in two cantos, from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the Lounger, is a poem of great and various excellence. The opening, in which the poet describes his own state of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied, from the labours of the day, to moralize on his conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is an exquisite painting; " There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, I sat and eyed the spewing reek, That fdl'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek That aulcl clay biggin ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin." To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, required the powers of Burns — he, however, succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike those of other spiri- tual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting on her mantle, on which is de- picted (he most striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished characters, of his native country, some exceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,| and the shield of Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, and some of the objects repre- sented upon it are scarcely admissible, accord- ing to the principles of design. The generous temperament of Burns led him into these exuberances. In his second edition he en- larged the number of figures originally intro- duced, that he might include objects to which lie was attached by sentiments of affection, gfititude, or patriotism. The second Duan, * Page 117. f Page 126. % See the first Idyllium of Theocritus. or canto of this poem, in wnich Coila describes her own nature and occupations, particularly her superintendance of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles him to the character of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the harmony of numbers, with the higher produc- tions of the English muse. The concluding stanza, compared with that already quoted, will show to what a height Burns rises in this poem, from the point at which he set out : — " 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." In various poems Burns has exhibited the picture of a mind under the deep impressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this character. In the first of these poems the eighth stanza, which describes a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns often indulged in those melancholy views of the nature and condition of man, which are so congenial to the temperament of sensibility. The poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, affords an instance of this kind, and The Winter Night* is of the same description. The last is highly characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and of the condition of Burns. It begins with a description of a dreadful storm on a night in winter. The poet represents himself as lying in bed, and listening to its howling. In this situation, he naturally turns his thoughts to the ourie\ Cattle, and the silly \ Sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tem- pest. Having lamented their fate, he proceeds in the following : " Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! That in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e ?" Other reflections of the same nature occur to his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muffled with clouds," casts her dreary light on his window, thoughts of a darker and more melancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of re- flection. The mourner compares the fury of the elements with that of man to his brother man, and finds the former light in the balance, * See p. 117. { Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle. Cattle that are un. . housed all winter. I t Silly is in this, as in other places, a term of compas- sion ana endearment. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxix * See stem Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." He pursues this train of reflection through a variety of particulars, in the course of which he introduces the following animated apo- strophe : O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! lll-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw he lays him down to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." The strain of sentiment which runs through this poem is noble, though the execution is un- equal, and the versification is defective. Among the serious poems of Burns, The Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Fergus- son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, as has been already mentioned ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his own powers for the execution. Fergusson's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms which depend on rural characters and manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under circumstances highly grateful to the im- agination. The Farmer's Ingle begins with describing the return of evening. The toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire-side. The reception which he and his men-servants receive from the careful house-wife, is pleasingly described. After their supper is over, they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. " 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; And there how Marion for a bastard son, Upon the cutty-stool was forced to ride, The waefu' scauid o* our Mess John to bide. The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand-children, and while she spins from the rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," she is relating to the young ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, 11 O mock nathis my friends ! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring Avi' reason clear, Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu 1 days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's aye cradVd when the grave is near. " In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which extends on one side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions to his men-servants for the succeeding day. The house-wife follows his example, and gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet conclc.des by bestowing his blessing on the " husbandman and all his tribe." This is an original and truly interesting pastoral. It possesses every thing required in this species of composition. We might have perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday Night, The cottager returning from his labours, has no servants to accompany him, to partake of his fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle which he joins, is composed of his wife and children only ; and if it admits of less variety, it affords an opportunity for represent- ing scenes that more strongly interest the affections. The younger children running to meet him, and clambering round his knee ; the elder, returning from their weekly labours with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains with their parents, and receiv- ing their father's blessing and instructions ; the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman grown," are circumstances of the most interesting kind, which are most happily delineated ; and after their frugal sup- per, the representation of these humbler cottag- ers forming a wider circle round their hearth, and uniting in the worship of God, is a picture the most deeply affecting of any which the rural muse has ever presented to the view. Burns was admirably adapted to this delineation. Like all men of genius he was of the tempera- ment of devotion, and the powers of memory co-operated in this instance with the sensibility of his heart, and the fervour of his imagination.* The Cotter's Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is solemn and devotional, and rises at length in a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with which it concludes, correspond with the rest of the poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes and the characters it so exquisitely describes.! * The reader will recollect that the Cotter was Burns's father. See p. xxxix. f A great number of manuscript poems were found among the papers of Burns, addressed to him by admir- ers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland and America. Among these was a pin-, tical epistle from Mr Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior merit. It was written in the dialect of Scotland (of which, country Mr Telford is a native,) and in the v** p xc LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- fer a few observations on the lyric productions of Burns. His compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, sificatinn generally employed by our poet himself. Its object is to recommend to him other subjects of a serious nature similar to that of the Cotter's Saturday Night; and the reader will find that the advice is happily en- forced by example. It would have given the editor Eleasure to have inserted the whole of this poem, which e hopes will one day see the light; he is happy to have obtained, in the mean time, his friend Mr Telford's per- mission to insert the following extracts : Pursue, O Burns, thy happy style, " Those manner- painting strains," that while They bear me northward many a mile, Recall the days, When tender joys, with pleasing smile, Blest my young ways. I see my fond companions rise, I join the happy village joys, I see our green hills touch the skies, And thro' the woods, I hear the river's rushing noise, Its roaring floods.* No distant Swiss with warmer glow, E'er heard his native music flow, Nor could his wishes stronger grow, Than still have mine When up this ancient mountf 1 go, With songs of thine. O happy Bard ! thy gen'rous flame, Was given to raise thy country's fame, For this thy charming nu nbers came, Thy ma;chless lays ; Then sing and save her virtuous name, To latest days. But mony a theme awaits thy muse, Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, Then in such verse thy soul infuse, With holy air, And sing the course the pious choose, With all thy care. How with religious awe imprest, They open lay the guiltless breast, And youth and age with fears distrest, AD due prepare, The symbols of eternal rest Devout to share.J How down ilk lang withdrawing hiL, Successive crowds the valleys fill, While pure religious converse still Beguiles the way, And gives a cast to youthful will, To suit the day. How placed along the sacred board, Their hoary pastor's looks adored. His voice with peace and blessing stored, Sent from above; And faith, and hope, and joy afford, And boundless love. OVr this, with warm seraphic glow, Celestial beings, pleased, bon-, And, whispered, hear the holy vow, . . , 'Mid grateful tears; And mark amid such ecenes below, Their future peers. • Thetentaofth; E*k in Dumfriesshire, are here a!luded to. t A beautiful little mount which itands Immediately before, or gilher fonm a part of Shrewsbury ca«tle, a seat of Sir William rullrney, 15 ir(. t i he Sacrament, generally administered in the country junkies kI Scotland iii the open air. and always after the model of the Scottish songs, on the general character and moral in- fluence of which, some observations have al- ready been offered. We may hazard a few more particular remarks. O mark the awful solemn scene J* When hoary winter clothes the plain, Along the snowy hills is seen A pproaching slow, In mourning weeds, the village train, In silent woe. Some much-respected brother's bier, (By turns in pious task they share) With heavy hearts they forward bear Along the path ; Where nei'bours saw, in dusky air,f The light of death. And when they pass the rocky howe, Where bin wood bushes o'er them flow, And move around the rising knovve, Where far away The kirkyard trees are seen to grow, By th' water brae. Assembled round the narrow grave, While o'er them wintry ten pests rave, In the cold wind their grey locks wave, As low they lay Their brother's body 'mongst the lave Of parent clay. Expressive looks from each declare 1'he griefs within, their bosoms bear, One holy bow uevout they share, Then home return, And think o'er all the virtues fair, Of him they mourn. Say how by early lessons taught, (Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) Congenial to th' untainted thought, The shepherd boy, Who tends his flocks on lonely height, Feels holy joy. Is aught on earth so lovely known, On Sabbath morn, and far alone, His guileless soul all naked shown Before his God — Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, And blest abode. O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; And all his constant, kind employ Is how to give The best of lear he can enjoy, As means to live. The parish-school, its curious site, The master who can clear indite, And lead him on to count and write, Demand thy care ; Nor pass the ploughman's school at night Without a share. Nor yet the tenty curious lad, Who o'er the ingle hings his head, And begs o' nei'bours books to read; For hence arise Thy country's sons, who tar are spread, Baith bauld and wise. • A Scottish funeral. t This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskriare, and An. namlale, that a light precedes in the night every funeral, malkina the precise path it is to pass. * LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XC1 Of the historic cr heroic ballads of Scot- land it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where imitated them, a circumstance to be re- gretted, since in this species of composition, from its admitting the more terrible, as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs which served as a model to Burns, are almost without exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship, or a country wedding ; or they describe the differences of opinion which arise in married life. Burns has imitated this species, and surpassed his models. The song beginning, " Husband, husband, cease your strife," may be cited in support of this obser- vation.* His other comic songs are of equal merit. In the rural songs of Scotland, whe- ther humorous or tender, the sentiments are given to particular characters, and very gener- The bonny lasses as they spin, Perhaps wi' Allan's sangs begin, How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin Thro' flowery hows ; Where Shepherd-lads their sweethearts win With earnest vows. Or may be. Burns, thy thrilling page May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, While playful youth and placid age In concert join, To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, Improves the mind. Long may their harmless, simple ways, Nature's own pure emotions raise : May still the dear romantic blaze Of purest love, Their bosoms warm to latest days, And aye improve. May still each fond attachment glow, O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow : May rugged rocks still dearer grow, And may their souls Even love the warlock glens which through The tempest howls. To eternize such themes as these, And all their happy manners seize, Will every virtuous bosom please, And high in fame To future times will justly raise Thy patriot name, While all the venal tribes decay, That bask in flattery's flaunting ray, The noisome vermin of a day, Thy works shall gain O'er every mind a boundless sway, And lasting reign. When winter binds the harden'd plains, Around each hearth, the hoary swains Shall teach the rising youth thy strains, And anxious say, Our blessing with our sons remains, And Burns's Lay I * The dialogues between husbands and their wives which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are almost all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests the lady is generally victorious. From the collections of Mr Pin- kerton, we find that the comic muse of Scotland delight- ed in such repesentations from very early times, in her rude dramatic efforts, as well as in her rustic songs. ally, the incidents are referred to particular scenery. This last circumstance may be con- sidered as a distinguishing feature of the Scot, tish songs, and on it a considerable part of their attraction depends. On all occasions the sen- timents, of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of the person principally interest- ed. If love be described, it is not as it is ob- served, but as it is felt ; and the passion is de- lineated under a particular aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of desire that are express- ed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; but those gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, which do not entirely absorb the lover; but permit him to associate his emotions with the charms of external nature, and breathe the ac- cents of purity and innocence, as well as of love. In these respects the love-songs of Scotland are honourably distinguished from the most admired classical compositions of the same kind ; and by such associations, a variety as well as liveliness, is given to the representation of this passion, which are not to be found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be considered as invocations from lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions a degree of interest and reality is given to the sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy interviews being particularized. The lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on the Banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- voked to wander among the wilds of Hoslin or the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot mere- ly pointed out; the scenery is often described as well as the character, so as to represent a complete picture to the fancy.* Thus the * One or two examples may illustrate this observation. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years ago, begins thus : — " On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, I met my lassie, braw and tight, Come wading barefoot a' her lane. My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms about her lily-neck, And kissed and clasped there fu' lang— My words they were na mony feck." The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the language he employed with his Lowland maid to win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The senti- ments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel them with double force, while we conceive that they were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he met all alone on a summer's evening, by the banks of a beau- tiful strean, which some of us have actually seen, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. Let us take another example. It is now a nymph, that speaks. Hear how she expresses herself — " How blythe each morn was I to see My swain come o'er the hill ! He skipt the burn, and flew to me, I met him with good will." Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- XC11 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. maxim of Horace, utpictura poesis, is faithfully observed by these rustic bards, who are guided by the same impulse of nature and sensibility tvhich influenced the father of epic poetry, on whose example the precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- gination is employed to interest the feelings. When we do not conceive distinctly, we do not sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Ab- straction, so useful in morals and so essential in science, must be abandoned when the heart is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of society paint individual objects ; and hence, among other causes, the easy access they ob- tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice of poets, whose learning overpowers their ge- nius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. The dramatic style which prevails so much in the Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly to the interest they excite, also shows that they have originated among a people in the earlier stages of society. Where this* form of compo- sition appears in songs of a modern date, it in- dicates that they have been written after the ancient model.* ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a brook, watching her lover as he descends the opposite hill. He bounds lightly along; he approaches nearer and nearer ; he leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. In the recollection of thet.e circumstances, the surround- ing scenery becomes endeared to the fair mourner, and she bursts into the following exclamation. " O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom, The broom of the Co^den-knowesI I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and his ewes." Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is pointed out, and the picture is completed. * That the dramatic form of writing characterizes productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, of a rude stape of society, may be illustrated by a re- ference to the most ancient compositions that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the writings of Homer. The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever the situa- tions described become interesting. This sometimes produces a very striking effect, of which an instance may be given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a composition apparently of the sixteenth century. The story of the ballad is shortly this :— The Castle of Rhodes in the absence of its lord is attacked by the robber Edom Gordon. The lady stands on her defence, beats off the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his race orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are carried into effect, we learn from the expostulation of the lady, who is repre.-ented as standing on the battle- ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- terrupted— " O then bespake her little son, Sate on his nourico knee ; Says ' mither dear, «i' owre this house, F..r the reck it smithers me.' " 1 wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, Sic w d 1 a' my Ice, l"i ;.,. I, last ,,' the westlin wind, To t'law the reek frae thee." The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-son^, and the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them probably arises from their being the descendants and successors ol the ancient ballads. In the beautiful mo flern song of Mary oj Caatle-Cary, the dramatic form baa a very happy effect. The same may he said of Do. n ald and Flora, and Come under mv vlaidie. bv the b ame author, Mr Maenici'. * The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe- tical merit, and this inequality often extends to the different parts of the same song. Those that are humorous, or characteristic of man- ners, have in general the merit of copying na- ture ; those that are serious are tender and of- ten sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high powers of imagination, which indeed do no! easily find a place in this species of composition. The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs with the music has in some instances given to the former a popularity, which otherwise they would never have obtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs with the more beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same effect. It has given them not merely popularity, but permanence ; it has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of the works of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- perience of the past, we may judge with any confidence respecting the future, songs of this description are of all others the least likely to die. In the changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the associated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden-Knowes. The first attempts of Burns in song-writing were not very successful. His habitual inat- tention to the exactness of rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, arising probably from the models on which his versification w r as formed, were faults likely to appear to more advantage in this species of composition, than in any other; and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and the exu- berance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within the limits of gentleness, deli- cacy and tenderness, which seem to be assign- ed to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted by nature for following in such compositions the model of the Grecian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice he however surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; and some of his later compositions of this kind may be compared, in polished de- licacy, with the finest songs in our language, while in the eloquence of sensibility they sur- pass them all. The songs of Burns, like the models he followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory : and the beauties of rural nature are every where associated with the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- daining to copy the works of others, he has not, like some poets of great name, admitted into his descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes he has painted, and the objects with vyhich they are embellished, are, in every single instance, such as are to be found in Irs own country. In a mountainous region, especially when it is comparatively rude and LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XC11J naked, the most beautiful scenery will always be found in the valleys, and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiar- ly interesting at the close of a summer day. As we advance northwards, the number of the days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but from this cause, as well as from the mildness of the temperature, the attraction increases, and the summer night becomes still more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of twilight to the midnight hours, and the shades of the evening seem to mingle with the morn- ing's dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as may be expected, associate in their songs the expression of passion, with the most beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season of the year, and generally in those hours of the even- ing when the beauties of nature are most in- teresting.* To all these adventitious circumstances, on which so much of the effect of poetry depends, great attention is paid by Burns. There is scarcely a single song of his in which particu- lar scenery is not described, or allusions made to natural objects, remarkable for beauty or in- terest ; and though his descriptions are not so full as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish songs, they are in the highest de- gree appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof of this might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan Water, from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. Occasionally the force of his genius carries him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural objects introduced have more of the character of sublimity. An instance of this kind is noticed by Mr Syme, f and many others might be adduced. " Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar ; There would 1 weep my woes, * A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains high admirati' n (Mrs Barbauld), has fallen into an error in this respect. In her prefatory address to the works of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may be employed to give interest to the descriptions of passion, she observes, " they present an inexhaustible variety, from the Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milking-pails through the frosts and snows of their less genial, but not less pastoral country." The damsels of Ramsay do not walk in the midst of frost and snow. — Almost all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in the open air, amidst beau- tiful natural objects, and at the most genial season of the year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with a pre- fatory description to assure us of this. The fault of the climate of Britain is not, that it does not afford us the beauties of summer, but that the season of such beauties is comparatively short, and even uncertain. There are days and nights even in the northern division of the island, which equal, or perhaps, surpass what are to be found in the latitude of Sicily or of Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote his exquisite Ode to May, felt the charm as well as the transientness of these happy days : Salve fugacis gloria seculi, Salve secunda digna dies nota, Salve vetustae vitse imago, Et specimen venientis M\\ ! * Sec page Ixvi. There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close Ne'er to wake more. " In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter night, the " wan moon " is described as " setting behind the white waves "; in an- other, the "storms '' are apostrophized, and com- manded to " rest in the cave of their slumbers.*' On several occasions, the genius of Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in Liberty, a Vision, and in his two war-songs, Bruce to his troops, and the Song of Death. These last are of a de- scription of which we have no other in our language. The martial songs of our nation are not military, but naval. If we were to seek a comparison of these songs of Burns with others of a similar nature, we must have re- course to the poetry of ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. Burns has made an important addition to the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the music. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country. Many of her rivers and moun- tains, formerly unknown to the muse, are now consecrated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their borders will be trode with new and superi- or emotions. The greater part of the songs of Burns were written after he removed into the county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits formed in early life, he usually composed while walking in the open air. When engaged in writing these songs, his favourite walks were on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Ab- bey; and this beautiful scenery he has very happily described under various aspects, as it appears during the softness and serenity of evening, and during the stillness and solemnity of the moon-light night. There is no species of poetry, the produc- tions of the drama not excepted, so much cal- culated to influence the morals, as well as the happiness of a people, as those popular verses which are associated with the national airs, and which being learnt in the years of infancy, make a deep impression on the heart before the evolution of the powers of the understand- ing. The compositions of Burns, of this kind, now presented in a collected form to the world, make a most important addition to the popular songs of his nation. Like all his other writings, they exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to the domestic circle of their infancy: and to cherish those sensibi. lities which, under due restriction, form the purest happiness of our nature. If in his unguarded moments he composed some song* XC1V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. nn which this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily be forgotten. In several instances, where Scottish airs were uilied to words ohjectionable in point of deli- cacy, Burns has substituted others of a purer character. On such occasions, without chang- ing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now united to words that breathe a strain of conjugal tender- ness, that is as highly moral as it is exquisitely affecting. Few circumstances could afford a more striking proof of the strength of Burns's genius, than the general circulation of his poems in England, notwithstanding the dialect in which the greater part are written, and which might be supposed to render them here uncouth or obscure. In some instances he has used this dialect on subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he confines it to sentiments or descrip- tion of a tender or humorous kind-, and, where he rises into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer English style. The singular faculty he possessed of mingling in the same poem humorous sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a sublime and terrific nature, ena- bled him to use this variety of dialect on some occasions with striking effect. His poem of Tarn o' Shunter affords an instance of this. There he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, to situation*; of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a musician that runs from the lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish dialect enables him to add two additional notes to the bottom of his scale. Great efforts have been made by the inha- bitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to approximate in their speech to the pure Eng- lish standard; and this has made it difficult to write in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them some feelings of disgust, which in England are scarcely felt. An Englishman who understands the meaning of the Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perhaps pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be with the Doric Greek of Theo- critus. But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- try, if a man of education, and more especially if a literary character, has banished such words from his writings, and has attempted to banish them from his speech ; and being accustomed to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dislike of this kind is, however, accidental, not natural. It is of the species of disgust which \ e feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress of B rustic ; u hich if she be really young and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to overcome. A lady who assumes such a dress u its her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She rejects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fashion; she, possiblvj abandons the grace [ of elegant and flowing drapery ; but her native charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, because the less adorned; and to these she trusts for fixing her empire on those affections over which fashion has no sway. If she suc- ceeds, a new association arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. And when, in after ages, the contemplative observer shall view her picture in the gallery that contains the portraits of the beauties of successive centuries, each in the dress of her respective day, her drapery will not deviate, more than that of her rivals, from the standard of his taste, and he will give the palm to her who excels in the lineaments of nature. Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of his country., and by them their native dialecr is universally relished. To a numerous class of the natives of Scotland of another descrip- tion, it may also be considered as attractive in a different point of view. Estranged from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their country unites with the sentiments and the descriptions on which it is employed, to recall to their minds the interest- ing scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aber- deen, cannot judge on this point for one hun- dred and fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen.* To the use of the Scottish dialect in one species of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste of the public has been for some time reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as has already been observed, in the copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which is very generally approved. Neither does the regret seem well founded which some persons of taste have expressed, that Burns used this dialect in so many other of his compositions. His declared purpose was to paint the manners of rustic life among his " humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive, that this could have been done with equal humour and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. There are some, indeed, who will think the subject too low for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted in many a polite and learned author ; let them not seek for gratifi- * These observations are excited by some remarks of respectable correspondents of the description alluded to. This calculation or the number of Scotchmen living- out of Scotland is not altogether arbitrary, and it is probably below the truth. It is, in some degree, founded on the proportion between the number of the sexes in Scot. tana, as it appears from the invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. — For Scotchmen of this description more particularly, Burns seems to have written his song be- ginning, Their groves o' street myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it may be confidently predicted, will be sung with equal or superior interest, on the banks of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on those of the Tay on the Tweed. LIFE OF ROBERT BURlNo. XCV cation in the rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of this bard of nature. To determine the comparative merit of Burns would be no easy task. Many persons afterwards distinguished in literature, have been born in as humble a situation of life ; but it would be difficult to find any other who while earning his subsistence by daily labour, has written verses which have attracted and retained universal attention, and which are likely to give the author a permanent and dis- tinguished place among the followers of the muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- tinguished for ease as well as energy ; and these are indications of the higher order of genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling in strength, another in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. Every species of intellectual superiority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrangement. One writer excels in force — another in ease ; he is superior to them both, in whom both these qualities are united. Of Homer himself it may be said, that like his own Achilles, he surpasses his competi- tors in mobility as well as strength. The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding, and in the sensibility of his heart ; and these will be found to infuse the living principle into all the works of genius which seem destined to immortality. His sensibility had an uncommon range. He was alive to every species of emotion. He is one of the few poets that can be mentioned, who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the ancients, and which in modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the Scottish peasant with the works of these giants in literature, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be asserted that he has displayed the foot of Hercules. How near he might have approached them by proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such materials have been reared the fairest and the most durable of the monuments of genius. THE DEATH OF BURNS, BY MR ROSCOE. A great number of poems have been written on the death of Burns, some of them of con- siderable poetical merit. To have subjoined all of them to the present edition, would have been to have enlarged it to another volume at least; and to have made a selection, would have been a task of considerable delicacy. Tne Editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy subject ; a poem which has not before appeared in print. It is from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the fate of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author — the Biographer of Lorenzo da' Medici. Of a person so well known, it is wholly unnecessary for the Editor to speak ; and, if it were necessary, it would not be easy for him to find language that would adequately ex.' press his respect and his affection. Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red • But ah ! what poet nuw shall tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! As green thy towering pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may g'ow, As gaily charm thy feathery throng; But now, unheeded is the song, And dull and lifeless all around, For his wild harp lies all unstrung. And cold the hand that waked its sound. "What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters 1 eyes, And health in every feature dwell ; Yet who shall now their praises tell, In strains i in passion 'd, fond, and free, t.nce he no more the song shall swell To love, and liberty, and thee. With step-dame eye and frown severe His hapless youth why didst thou view? For all thy joys to him were dear, And all his vows to thee were due ; Nor greater bless his bosom knew, In opening youth's delightful prime, Than when thy favouring ear he drew To listen to his chanted rhyme. Thv lonely wastes and frowning skies To him were all with rapture fraught He heard with joy the tempest rise That waked him to sublimer thought ; And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe per- And with sincere devotion brought To thee the summer's earliest bloom. But ah ! no fond maternal smile His unprotected youth enjoy'd, His limbs inur d to early toil, His days with early hardships tried ; And more to mark the gloomy void, And hid him feel his misery, Before his infant eyes would glide Day-dreams of immortality. Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, Sunk with the evening sun to rest, And met at morn his earliest smile. Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile The powers of fancy came along, And sooth'd his lengthened hours of t>»iL With native wit and sprightly sung. G XCVlil Oi\ THE DEATH OF BURNS. —Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, When vigorous health from labour springs And bland contentment smooths the bed, And sleep his ready opiate brings; And hovering round on airy wings Float the light forms of young desire, That of unutterable things The soft and shadowy hope inspire. Now spells of mightier power prepare, Bid brighter phantoms round him dance; Let Flattery spread her viewless snare, And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp 'd her zone, Till, lost in love's delirious trance, He scorns the joys his youth has known. Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, Expanding all the bloom of soul ; And Mirth concentre all her rays, And point them from the sparkling bowl ; And let the careless moments roll In social pleasure unconfined, And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind : And lead his steps those bowers among, Where elegance with splendour vies, Or Science bids her favour'd throng, To more refined sensations rise : Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, And freed from each laborious strife There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits the sons of polisk'd life. Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high With every impulse of delight, Dash from his lips the cup of joy, And shroud the scene in shades of night; And let Despair, with wizard light, Disclose the yawning gulf below, And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : And show beneath a cheerless shed, With sorrowing heart and streaming eye!: In silent grief where droops her head, The partner of his early joys ; And let his infants' tender cries His fond parental succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; His high reluctant spirit bends; In bitterness of soul he bleeds, Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laugh the welkin rends As genius thus degraded lies ; Till pitying Heaven the veil extends That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. —Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red But never more shall poet tread Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breath'd the soothing strain. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE OF ROBERT BURNS LETTERS, &c No. I. TO A FEMALE FRIEND. ■WRITTEN ABOUT THE SEAR 1780. 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 a zealous bigot, who. conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minis- ter. I don't know how it is, my dear; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth that 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 af- fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feel- ing 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 bestow- ing you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my endeavours to make your life as comfort, able and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher 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 of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his affection is centered in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-woo- ing as he goes to the horse-market^ to choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say I of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of so- ciety. Poor devils ! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner. * * * * No. II. TO THE SAME. MY DEAR E. I do not remember in the course of your ac- quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of life : I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person. Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the af- fair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greatest part of us, and I must own, my dear E. it is a hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccount- able fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the next time I have th§, pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the pas- sion I have professed for you is perhaps one of A 2 BURNS' WORKS. loose transient flashes I have been describing ; but I hope, ray dear E. you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you, that the love I have for you is founded on the sa- cred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence, so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the married state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please ; and a warm fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always oeen my opinion, that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see, that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- proved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. " O ! happy state, when souls each other draw " When love is liberty, and nature law." I know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl W*ho thinku herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridi- culous — but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you. When I look over what I have written, I ton sensible it is vastly different from the ordi- nary style of courtship — but I shall make no apology — I know your good nature will excuse what your good sense may see amiss. No. III. TO THE SAME. MR DEAR E. I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is very difficult fur a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt; and to make vows of con- stancy and fidelity, which are never intended to he performed, if he be villain enough to practise such detestable conduct: but to a man whose hpart glows with the principles of integrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refine- ment of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding feai %, and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak o what to write I am altogether at a loss. There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and false- hood, that I am surprised they can be used by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. No, my dear E. I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such detest- able practices. If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life ; there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts un- worthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnest- ly request of you, and it is this ; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall only add further, that if a behaviour regulat- ed (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart de- voted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness ; and if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a husband ; I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover. No. IV. TO THE SAME. I ought in good manners to have acknowledg- ed the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the con- tents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write to you on the* subject. I will not attempt to describe what 1 felt on receiving your letter. I read it oyer and over, again and again, and though it vias in the po- litest language of refusal, still it. was peremp- tory ; " you were sorry you could not make me a retu#n, but you' wish me" what, without you, I never can obtain, " you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and unmanly to say, that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life LETTERS. with you, ivould have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I never can taste. Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good^sense, do not so much strike me ; these, possibly in a few instances, may be met with in others-; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an education much be- yond any thing I have ever met w r ith in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination has fondly flattered itself with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fond, ly brooded over them ; but now I am wretch- ed for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask to be admit- ted as a friend. As such I wish to be allow- ed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, I sup- pose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will par- ion it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear expression for once.) * * * No. V. TO MR JOHN MURDOCH. SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. dear SIR, Lochlee, \5th January, 1783. As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter, without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kind- ness and friendship. I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and 1 wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what 1 am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but as a man of the world,- 1 am most miserably deficient. — One would have thought, that bred as I have been, under a father who has figured pretty well as un homme des ajj aires, l might have been what the world calls a push- ing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see, and observe ; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be any thing original about him which shows me human nature in a different light from any thing I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their manners, and their ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other con- sideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift- of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me : I know that even then my talent for what country folks call " a sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, that even then — I would learn to be happy. How- ever, I am under no apprehensions about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- ly delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy, and in many things, especially in tavern matters, 1 am a strict economist ; not indeed for the sake of the money, but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea, of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun. — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimentai kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his Ele- gies ; Thomson ,• Man of Feeling, a book I prize next to the Bible; Man of the World; Sterne, especially his Sentimental Journey ; Macpherson's Ossian, &c. These are the glorious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lightened up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race— he " who can soar above this little scene of things," can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terrsefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ? O how the glorious tri- umph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- kets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and " catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side as an idle en- cumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a * The last shift alluded to herc ; must he the cor.du tion of an itinerant beggar. A2 BURNS' WORKS. mere common-place story, but — my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare ; and accept of the same for yourself, from, Dear Sir, Yours, &c. No. VI. [The following is taken from the MS. prose presented by our Bard to Mr Riddel.] On rummaging over some old papers, I light- ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to write myself out, as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that, some time or other, even after I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of appre- ciating their value. It sets off thus : Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poe- try, #-c. by R. B. — a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, and a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational. As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic way of life •, but as I believe they are really his own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- sure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diver- sified by the modes and manners of lite, operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the species. " There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the same importance which they do to those which appear in print." — Shenstone. " Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of our youthful mind." Ibid. April, 1793. Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest en- comiums that have been passed on it. If any thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, n the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of affection. August. There is certainly some connection between love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I have always thought a fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love composition : " As tow'rd her cot, he jogg*d along, Her name was frequent in his song." For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous lan- guage of my heart. September. I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- pher, Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. . Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. Of all tne numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with an guish, Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind Has ihis to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self!" Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin J O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heai. 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. March, 1784. I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has someihing good about him ; though very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other person, be- sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us, examine im- partially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but LETTER S- for want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- cause he was out of the line of such tempta- tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebt- ed to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye. I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- ther than was consistent with the safety of my character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- lity or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes " stained with guilt, * * * * * *," I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. April. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out- of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- sure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there is some- thing even in the " Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it plea- sure — but something which exalts me, some- thing which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion ; my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard^ " walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following : The wintry west extends his blast,- &c. See Songs. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion.. As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was at the time, genuine from the heart. Behind yon hills, &c. See Songs I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry } though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but with- out much deliberation, follow the strong im- pulses of nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent — in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those heads are capable of al the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. • As the grand end of human life is to culti- vate an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that can render life delightful ; and to maintain an in- tegritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revela- tion teach us to expect beyond the grave : I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and hon- ours ; and I do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespat- tering all about him, gains some of life's little BURNS' WORKS. eminences ; where, after all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : and it has often given me many a heart- ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the ex- ploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very names (O how mor- tifying to a bard's vanity !) are now " buried among the wreck of things which were." O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the muses' train — one who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortu- nate in the world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the wo- man he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she taught him in rustic mea- sures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world seldom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and more than all. R. B. No. VII. TO MR AIKEN. [The Gentleman to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is addressed J SIR, _ Ayrshire, 1786. I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between 118. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer ot the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readi- est, 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 lor the printing, if I will advance for the paper j but this you know, is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an epocha which. I think, will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edi- tion, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of The Briys of Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capa- ble, 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 con- sequence of reflection, but sheerly the instinc- tive emotion of a 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, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into busi- ness, 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 settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a fa- ther. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the 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, in some points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life be- yond the stinted bourne of our present exis- tence ; if so, then how should I, in the pre- sence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling in- nocency 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 wan- dered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! LETTERS. Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thick- ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful iu 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 this last complaint, as the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- fenceless, I looked about in vain for a 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 pro- gressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the bye, was rather more than I could well boast,) still, more than these pas- sive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful com- peers (those misguided few excepted, who join- ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of the human race), were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- ing 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. * No. VIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. madam, Ayrshire, 1786. I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order * This letter was evidently written under the dis- tress of miud occasioned by our Poet's separation from Mrs Burns, for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour oj his Country. " Great, patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal : the next was The History of Sit William Wallace: for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- ous 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 explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. No. IX. 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 friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great enter tainment to you: but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much even in manu- script. I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of Na- ture's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workman- ship, the finest indeed we know any thing of, 8 BURNS*. WORKS. an amiable, beautiful young woman ; * but 1 have no common friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. 1 am quite aware, madam, what task 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 godlike qualities and ac- tions, should be recounted with the most ex- aggerated description. This, madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connections in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am 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 remember — the recep- tion I got, when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness ; but I know a good deal of benevo- lence of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- ly, did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors 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, f No. X. I)R BLACKLOCK TO THE REVEREND MR G. LOWRIE. REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 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 formidable disadvantages ; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a pa- thos 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 t The song enclosed is that given in the Life of our Poet ; beginning, Twas e'en— the dewy fields were green, &c too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonish- ment 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 in- trinsic merit, and the exertion of the author's friends, might give it a more universal circula- tion than any thing of the kind which has been published within my memory.* No. XL FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. SIR, Edinburgh, Uh December, 1786. I received your letter a few days ago. I do not pretend to much interest, but what I have I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attainment of any object you have in view. Your character as a man (forgive my reversing your order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. I have been told you wished to be made a guager; I submit it to your considera- tion, whether it would not be more desirable, if a sum could be raised by subscription, for second edition of your poems, to lay it out in the stocking of a small farm. I am persuaded it would be a line of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and in the end more satisfac- tory. When you have considered this, let me know, and whatever you determine upon, T will endeavour to promote as far as my abilL ties will permit. With compliments to my friend the doctor. I am, Your f i iend and well-wisher, JOHN WHITEFORD. P. S. — I sha]l take it as a favour when you at any time send me a new production. * The reader will perceive that this is the letter which produced the determination of our Bard to give up his scheme of going to the West Indies, and to try the late of a new edition of his poems in Edinburgh. A copy of this letter was sent by Mr Lowrie to Mr G. Hamilton, and by him communicated to Burns, among whose papers it was found. LETTERS. No. XIJ. FROM DEAR sir, 22d December, 1786. I last week received a letter from Dr Black- lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing you. I write this to you, that you may lose no time in waiting upon him, should you not yet have seen him. I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower still higher by the new publication. But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your share of detraction and envy — a train that always accompany great men. For your comfort, I am in great hopes that the number of your friends and admirers will in- crease, and that you have some chance of ministerial, or even * * * * patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success is very uncommon : and do you think yourself in no danger of suffering by applause and a full purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he spoke from experience, "stronger is he that conquers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus, by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. I hope you have also Mi- nerva with you. I need not tell you how much a modest diffidence and invincible temperance adorn the most shining talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the imagination even of a poet. I hope you will not imagine I speak from suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak from love and good report, and good opinion, and a strong desire to see you shine as much in the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. This is my prayer, in return for your elegant composition in verse. All here join in compliments, and good wishes for your fur- ther prosperity. No. XIII. TO MR CHALMERS. Edinburgh, 21th Dec. 1786. MY DEAR FRIEND, I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of all men living, I had intended to send you an entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding conceited ma- jesty preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have heen ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour as to write a com- mentary on the Revelations. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- ed, I inclose you two poems I have carded and scim since I past Glenbuck. One blank in the address to Edinburgh, " Fair B ," is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been any thing nearly like her, in all the com- binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. I have sent you a parcel of subscription- bills, and have written to Mr Ballentine and Mr Aiken, to call on you for some of them, if they want them. My direction is — Care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge Street. No. XIV. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. MY LORD, Edinburgh, January, 1787. As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world ; but have all those na- tional prejudices which, I believe, glow pecu- liarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely any thing to which I am sc feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare ot my country ; and, as a poet, I have no highei enjoyment than singing her sons and daugh- ters. 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 coun- tenance 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, cer- tainly deserves my very grateful acknowledg- ments ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- liarly suited to my feelings. I am not mastei enough of the etiquette of life to know whethei 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 ser- vility, I trust, I shall ever have so much hon- est pride as to detest. 10 BURNS' WORKS. No. XV. TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, \5th January, 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 him, 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 dis- gracing the little character I have; and to write the author of The View of Society and Man- ners a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write him to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have al- ready experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglin- ton, with ten guineas by way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- plied for the opinion of some of the Literati here, who honour me with their critical stric- tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask J cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. 1 have not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print, and the enclosed, which I will print in this edition.* You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my Vision, long ago, I had attempt- ed a description of Kyle, of which the addi- tional 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 will- ing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; hut 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 ail the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be drag- ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite * Stanzas in the Vision, beginning third stanza, "By stately tower or palace lair," and ending with the firbt duan. observation, with all my imperfections of awk- ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you, madam, I do not dis- semble when I tell you I tremble for the con- sequences. The novelty of a poet in my ob- scure situation, without any of those advan- tages which are 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, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do 1 see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. Your patronising me, and interesting your- self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my sub- scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- ed with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace? No. XVI. TO DR MOORE. sir, 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 noticed in such a manner by judges of the first charac- ter. Your criticisms, sir, I receive with rever- ence ; only, I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a peccant passage or two, that I would certainly have altered, were gone to the press. The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those even who are au- thors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever chang- ing 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 iew, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, 1 may have seen men and manners in a differ- ent phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still J know very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice 1 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 Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins de- LETTERS. 11 scribed the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. No. XVII. FROM DR MOORE. sir, Clifford Street, January 23, 1787. I have just received your letter, by which I find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts from my letters to her, by much too freely and too carelessly written for your perusal. I must forgive her, however, in consideration of ber good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom I use with certain ex- pressions, in consideration of my admiration of the poems in general. 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 bril- liant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I ad- mire in your works ; the love of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all the ob- jects of humanity, and the independent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the poet, and have made me 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 longer in Scotland than I have been for many years. I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr Blair, who, I am informed, interests him- self very much for you. I beg to be remem- bered to him : nobody can have a warmer re- gard for that gentleman than I have, which, independent of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by the memory of our common friend, the late Mr George 13 e. Before I received your letter, I sent in- closed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Williams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote on reading your Mountain-Daisy; perhaps it may not displease you.* I have been trying to add to the number of your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- quaintance are already among them. I have only to add, that with every sentiment of es- teem, and most cordial good wishes, I am, Your obedient humble servant, J. MOORE. * The sonnet is as follows : While soon the garden's flaunting flowers decay, And scattered on the earth neglected lie, The " Mountain- Daisy," cherished by the ray A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, IS or ever knew the shelter of the vale. By genius in her native vigour nurst, "On nature with impassion'd look he gazed; Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. Scf tia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard, His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will guard. No. XVIII. TO DR MOORE. reverend sir, Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago, I knew no other em- ployment than following the plough, nor could boast any thing higher than a distant ac- quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me : I have no- thing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but genius, polished by learn- ing, 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 country- men, have borne me to a height altogether un- tenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss W. 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 hither- to quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her ; but the other day I got her poems, which, for several rea- sons, 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. No. XIX. FROM DR MOORE. dear sir, Clifford Street, 2Sth February, Y78R. Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal 12 BURNS' WORKS. &f pleasure. It is not surprising that you im- prove in correctness and taste, considering where you have been for some time past. And I dare swear there is no danger of your admitting any polish which might weaken the Vigour of your native powers. I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit as a poet — an affectation which is dis- played with most ostentation by those who have the greatest share of self-conceit, and which only adds undeceiving falsehood to dis- gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit of your poems would be arraigning the fixed opinion of the public. As the new edition of my View of Society is not yet ready, I have sent you the former edition, which, I beg you will accept as a small mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the care of Mr Creech; and, along with these four volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Medical Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop : this you will be so obliging as to transmit, or if you chance to pass soon by Dunlop, to give to her. I am happy to hear that your subscription is so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good fortune that befalls you : for you are a very 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 writ- ings are adapted to various tastes and situa- tions. My youngest son who is at Winches- ter school, writes to me that he is translating some stanzas of your Hallowe'en into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. This union of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scottish partiality, with which they are all somewhat tinctured. Even your translator, who left Scotland too early in life for recollection, is not without it. I remain, with greatest sincerity, Your obedient servant, J. MOORE. No. XX. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. MY lord, Edinburgk, 1787. I wanted to purchase a profile of your lord- ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blunder- ing painter has spoiled a " human face di- vine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could I have been so happy as to pro- cure one with any thing of a likeness. As J will soon return to my shades, I want- ed to have something like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, There is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lordship by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this peti- tion.* I owe to your lordship ; and what has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust, I have a heart as in. dependent as your lordship's, than which I can say nothing more : and I would not be behold- en to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of the much fa- voured sons of fortune. Almost every poet has celebrated his pa- trons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country, allow me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I have the honour to be Your lordship's highly indebted, And ever grateful humble servant. No. XXI. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. MY LORD, The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : " Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, They best can give it who deserve it most. ' Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- grimage through my native country; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reve- ries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phan- tom strides across my imagination, and pro- nounces these emphatic words, " I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." * It does not appear that the earl granted this re- quest, nor have the verses alluded to , been found | among the MSS. LETTEES. 13 This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough- tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and grati- tude to those her distinguished sons, who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times draw forth the swelling tear. Ext Property in favour of Mr Robert Burns, to erect and keep up a Headstone in memory of Poet Fergusson, 1787. Session-house, within the Kirk of Ca- nongate, the twenty -second day of Fe- bruary, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- yard Funds of Canongate. Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr Robert Burns, of date the sixth current, which was read, and appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- book, and of which letter the tenor follows : " To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. " Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scotish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the "narrow house" of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying. " I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to per- mit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic subscriber), * ROBERT BURNS." Thereafter the said managers, in considera- tion of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Ex- tracted forth of the records of the managers, by William Sprott, Clerk. No, XXIII. TO MY DEAR SIR, You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say — thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there 's nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to me so unaccountable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use : but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the d . I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr Sprott sent it me. The Inscription on the Stone is as follows : HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Born September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay " No storied urn nor animated bust ;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. On the other side of the Stone is as follows : " By special grant of the Managers to Eohert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." No. XXIV. EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM 8th March, 1787. I am truly happy to know you have found a friend in ; his patronage of you does him great honour. He is truly a good man ; by far the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in this world. But I must not speak all I think of him, lest I should ha thought partial. 14 BURNS' WORKS. So you have obtained liberty from the ma- gistrates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as Shakspeare says, "in the olden-time-." " The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone. " It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that this is written. But how many brothers of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been served with the same sauce ! The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? O generous magistrates !*•**, celebrated over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's memory ! — most generous ! * * * once upon a time gave that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. But then it must be considered that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- ness of hunger ; and, over and above, he re- ceived a worth, at least one-third of the value, in exchange, but which, I believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. Next week I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay will be for eight or ten days, I wish you or would take a snug, well-aired bed-room for me, where I may have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But by all accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty to see you at all, unless your company is be- spoke a week before-hand. There is a great rumour here concerning your great intimacy with the Duchess of , and other ladies of distinction. I am really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose there would also be " bribes to your old secretary." It seems you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fer- gusson, Qucerenda pe- cunia prirnum est, virtus post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it while in this country ; but probably some phi- losopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense. Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- ing? — Are you yet seized " With itch of picture in the front, With bays of wicked rhyme upon't !" But I must give up this trifling, and attend to matters that more concern myself: so, as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal drink phan we meet. * * The above extract is from a letter of one of the ablest of our post's correspondents, which contains come interesting anecdotes ol Fergusson, that we should have been happy to have inserted, if they could have oven authenticated. The writer is mistaken in buppos- No. XXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. madam, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- rence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the lite- rati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thimring for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures : his hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects •, there I can give you no light ; it is all " Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was rolPd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound." The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, un plagued with the routine of busi- ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers $ and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thought- lessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excus- able : nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half-sanctify a heedless character : but where God and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care ; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, oi strangely lost to reflection, whom these con nexions will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to ing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer. gusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between Burns and the Kirk Session of the Canongate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor any where else, do magistrates usu- ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a poor poet in furnished, or how his grave if adorned. LETTERS. 15 have any intention, to return to my old ac- quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence far- mer. I do not intend to give up poetry : being bred to labour secures me independence ; and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only, enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life : but while follow- ing my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country and the patronage of a Wallace. Thus, honoured madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. No. XXVI. TO THE SAME. madam, Edinburgh, \5th April, 1787. There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my part, madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence for selfish- ness. 1 have this moment broke open your letter, but " Rude am I in speech, And therefore little can 1 grace my cause In speaking for myself — " so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest, sense of your good- ness. I come abroad in print for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting on you. Dr Smith* was just gone to London the morning before I received your letter to him. No. XXVII. TO DR MOORE. Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs Dunlop. I am ill- skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for meta- * Adam Smith. phors of gratitude. I thank you, sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book, is what I have in common with the world ; but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden-Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, 8fc. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- hood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and literature. My ..most respectful compliments to Miss W. If once this tangent flight "of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted lei- surely motion in my old circle, I may probaLly endeavour to return her poetic compliment in kind. No. XXVIII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. Your criticisms, madam, I understand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered those who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no created being either in prose or verse. _ I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. I am happy, madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- ticular approbation. For my Dream, which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence, in person. 10 BURNS' WORKS. No. XXIX. TO THE REVEREND DR HUGH BLAIR. Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my country, whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notiee, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and litera- ture, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man ; I knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters. I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- go's work for me, done on Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- warm gratitude I am, &c. No. XXX. FROM DR BLAIR, Argyle- Square, Edinburgh, 4tth May, 1787. DEAR SIR, I was favoured this forenoon with your very obliging letter, together with an impression of your portrait, for which I return you my best thanks. The success you have met with I do not think was beyond your merits ; and if I have had any small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in which literary persons, who are advanced in years, can do more service to the world, than in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. I was the first person who brought out to the notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry which I published, and afterwards, by my setting on foot the undertaking for collecting and pub- lishing the Works of Ossian; and I have always considered this as a meritorious action of my life. Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular; and, in being brought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy, to so greut a share of public notice and observation, v°u had to stand a severe triaL I am happy that vou have stood it so well ; and as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your charac- ter and behaviour. You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of life ; and I trust, will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence, and honour. You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the midst of those em- ployments, which your situation will render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to pro- mote that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attending to such productions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a haste to come for- ward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents ; for on any second pro- duction you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. As you very properly hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in your rural retreat, you do not find yourself surrounded with that glare of notice and applause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a philosopher. He must lay his account, that any one, who exposes himself to public observation, will occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it is always best to overlook and despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will not affect to shine always, that he may at pro- per seasons come forth with more advantage and energy. He will not think himself ne- glected if he be not always praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old man, to give advice and make reflections which your own good sense will, I dare say, render unne- cessary. As you mention your being just about to leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr Miller's farms. 1 heartily wish the offers to be made you there may answer ; as I am per- suaded you will not easily find a more gener- ous and better hearted proprietor to live under than Mr Miller. When you return, if you come this way, I will be happy to see you, and to know concerning your future plans of life. You will find me, by the 22d of this month, not in my house in Argyle Square, but at a country-house at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all success and prosperity, I am, with real regard and esteem, Dear Sir, Yours sincerely, HUGH BLAJil. LETTERS. 17 No. XXXI. FROM DR MOORE. DEAR sir, Gufford Street, May 23, 1787. I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edition of your poems. You seem to think it incumbent on you to send to each subscriber a number of copies proportionate to his subscription mo- ney ; but you may depend upon it, few sub- scribers expect more than one copy, whatever they subscribed. I must inform you, however, that I took twelve copies for those subscribers for whose money you were so accurate as to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green grow the Rashes, and the two songs immedi- ately following ; the latter of which was ex- quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such compositions, which you ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired on account of his Odes than all his other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and Cottar's Saturday Night. In these are united fine imagery, natural and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and thought It is evi- dent that you already possess a great variety of expression and command of the English lan- guage ; you ought, therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future in the provincial dia- lect : — why should you, by using that, limit the number of your admirers to those who under- stand the Scottish, when you can extend it to all persons of taste who understand the English language? In my opinion, you should plan some larger work than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper subject, and arrange the plan in your mind, without beginning to execute any part of it till you have studied most of the best English poets, and read a little more of history. The Greek and Roman stories you can read in some abridgment, and soon become master of the most brilliant facts, which must highly delight a poetical mind. You should also, and very soon may, become master of the heathen my- thology, to which there are everlasting allusions in all the poets, and which in itself is charm- ingly fanciful. What will require to be stu- died with more attention, is modern history ; that is, the history of France and Great Bri- tain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I know very well you have a mind capable of attaining knowledge by a shorter process than is commonly used, and I am cer- * His subsequent compositions will bear testimony to the accuracy of Dr Moore's judgment. tain you are capable of making a better use of it, when attained, than is generally done. I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing to me when it is inconvenient, and make no apology, when you do write, for hav- ing postponed it ; be assured of this, however, that 1 shall always be happy to hear from you. I think my friend Mr told me that you had some poems in manuscript by you of a satirical and humorous nature (in which, by the way, I think you very strong,) which your prudent friends prevailed on you to omit, par- ticularly one called Somebody's Confession; if you will intrust me with a sight of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no copies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal of them. I understand you intend to take a farm, and make the useful and respectable business of husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will not prevent your making occasional ad- dresses to the nine ladies who have shown you such favour, one of whom visited you in the auld clay biggin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world that there is nothing in the busi- ness of husbandry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that you may afford an example of a good poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in my power to visit Scot- land this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may depend on a very cordial welcome from this family. I am, dear Sir, Your friend and obedient Servant, J. MOORE. No. XXXII. FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. SIR, Jamaica, St Ann's, lith June, 1787. I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Janu- ary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were engaged with Mr Douglas of Port Antonio, for three years, at thirty pounds sterling a- year; and am happy some unexpected accidents in- tervened that prevented your sailing with the vessel, as I have great reason to think Mi Douglas's employ would by no means have answered your expectations. I received a copy of your publications, for which I return you my thanks, and it is my own opinion, as well as that of such of my friends as have seen them, they are most excellent in their kind ; although some could have wished they had been in the English style, as they allege the Scottish dialect is now becoming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and beauties of youi poems are in a great measure lost to far the greater part of the community. Nevertheless there is no doubt you had sufficient reasons for B 18 BURNS' WORKS. your conduct — perhaps the wishes of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your patrons, who will always relish their own old country 6tyle; and your own inclinations for the same. It is evident from several passages in your works, you are as capable of writing in the English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the specimen yon have already given, will turn out both for profit and honour to yourself and country. I can by no means advise you now to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I assure you, there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius here ; and am very confident you can do far better in Great Bri- tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my friends are well, and shall always be happy to hear from you at all convenient opportunities, wishing you success in all your undertakings. I will esteem it a particular favour if you will send me a copy of the other edition you are now printing. I am, with respect, Dear Sir, yours, &c. JOHN HUTCHINSON. No. XXXIII. TO MR WALKER, BLA3R OF A THOLE. Inverness, 5th September, 1787. MY DEAR SIR, 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 N *s 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 Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need, I shall never forget. The little "angel band !" — I declare I pray- er! for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little 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 G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I wish I had the powers of Gnido to do them justice! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, markedly kind, indeed Mr G. of F 's charms of conversation — Sir W. M \s friendship in short, the recollection of all * "Tho humble Petition of Bruar- Water to th< Dukf of Athole." that polite, agreeable company, raises an honest glow in my bosom. No. XXXIV. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, \7th September, 1787. MY DEAR BROTHER, I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near six hundred miles, windings included. My farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the heart of the Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among cascades and druidical circles of stones to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- ing nearly two days with his Grace and fa- mily ; thence many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music, Badenoch, &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 says, King Duncan was mur- dered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen; thence to Stonehive, where James Burnes, from Mon- trose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old wo- men. John Caird, though 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 particulars I de- lay till I see you, which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon Castle next day with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am thinking to 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 birth for William, but am not likely to be successful. — Farewell. LETTERS. 19 No. XXXV. FROM MR R— SIR, Ochterfyre, 22d October, L787. Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- stoune's answer, that neither the words of Down the burn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (I forgot which you mentioned), were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him, I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and a letter to Mr Young, whose company and musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast to you. * Nobody can give you better hints, * These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, are iielow :— WRITTEX IN 1768. SOU THE SALICTUMf AT OCHTERTYRE. Salubritatis voluptatisque causa, Hoc Salictum, Paludem olim iiiiidam, Mihi meisqne desiceo et exorno. Hie, procui negotiis strepituque Innncuis deliciis Silvulas inter uascentes reptandi, Apiumque laboree suspkiendi, Fnmr, Hie, si faxit Dens opt. max. Prope hunc fontem pel lucid um. Cum quadam juventutis amico superstite, Saepe conquiescam, s^uex, Contentus modicis, meoque laetus! Sin aliter — iEvique paululum supersit, Vos silvula?, et amici, Cfeteraque amcena, Valete, diuque lajtamini ! ENGLISHED. To improve both air and soil, I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, Which was lately an unprofitable morass. Here, far from noise and strife, I love to wander, Now fondly marking- the progress of my trees, Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. Here, if it pleases Almighty God, May I often rest in the evening of life, Near that transparent Fountain, With some surviving friend of my yo Contented with a competency, And happy with my lot. If vain these humble wishes, And life draws near a close, Ye trees and friends, And whatever else is dear, Farewell, and long may ye nourish. nth : ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. WRITTEN IN-1775. Mihi meisque utinam contingat, Prope Taichi marginem, Avito in agello, Bene vivere fausteque raori I t S.11ietum_Grove of Willows, Willow-trround. as to your present plan, +han he. Receive also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make such a deep impression on your imagination, that I am not without hopes it will beget some- thing to delight the public in due time : and, no doubt, the circumstances of this little tale might be varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his countrymen were in the field. His station may be somewhat varied, without losing his simplicity and kindness * * * *. A group of characters, male and female, connected with the plot, might be formed from his family, or some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- dispensable that the guest should be a man of high station ; nor is the political quarrel in which he is engaged, of much importance, un less to call forth the exercise of generosity and faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To introduce state affairs, would raise the style above comedy ; though a small spice of them would season the converse of swains. Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- commend the study of the character of Eumaeus in the Odyssey, which, in Mr Pope's transla- tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing from nature, that would suit some of our coun- try elders of the present day. Tliere must be love in the plot, and a happy discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the reward of hospitality, and honest attachment to misguided principles. When you have once thought of a plot, and brought the story into form, Dr Blacklock, or Mr H. Mackenzie, may be useful in dividing it into acts and scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some attention to certain rules of the drama. These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me advise you to study the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, * which is natural without being low, and, under th« trammels of verse, is such as country people in their situations speak every day. You have only to bring down your own strain a very lit- tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. I approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissipation to a farm o? very moderate size, ENGLISHED. On the banks of the Teith, In the small btit sweet inheritance Of my fathers, May I and mine live in peace, And die in joyful hope! These inscriptions, and the translations, are in the hand- writing of Mr R . This gentleman, if still alive, will, it is hopfd, excu-e the liberty taken by the unknown editor, in enriching the correspondence of Burns with his excellent lettei. and with inscriptions so classical and so interesting. * Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. 20 BURNS' WORKS. sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, but not so great as to absorb better things. And if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- ment. Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, permit me to go a step farther. Let those bright talents which the Almighty has bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- duals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious ques- tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- cur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints. Well ! what think you of good Lady C. ? It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- pitality and elevation of mind were conspicu- ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it were no more than to show that you take the effusions of an obscure man like me in good part. I beg my best respects to Dr and Mrs Blacklock,* And am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant. J. RAMSAY. * TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth century), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the com- mand of the royal army. They marched into Lochaber, with a view of attacking- a body of M'Donalds, com- manded by Donald Balloch, and posted upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Having timely intelligence Of their approach, the insurgents got oil' precipitately to the opposite shore in their curaghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's troops encamped in ful. security; but the M'Donalds. returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole army. The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any attendants, and made lor the more hilly part of the country. In the course of his flight he came to the house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Came- roil. The landlord welcomed his guest with the utmost kiucluess ; but, as there was no meat in the house, he No. xxxsr. FROM MR W — Athole House, \3th September, 1787. Your letter of the 5th reached me only on the 11th; what awkward route it had taken ] know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure of writing to you in the manner you proposed, as you must have left Dundee before a letter could possibly have got there. I hope your disappointment on being forced to leave us was as great as appeared from your expressions. This is the best consolation for the greatness of ours. I still think with vexation on that ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) possessed of those very dispositions and talents I most admire ; one You know how anxious the Duke was to have another day of you, and to let Mr Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation as the best dainty with which he could enter- told his wife he would directly kill Moot Odhar,* to feed the stranger. " Kill our only cow !" said she, " our own and our little children's principal support!" More attentive, however, to the present call for hospi- tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. The best and tenderest parts were immediately roasted be- fore the fire, and plenty of innirich, or Highland soup, prepared to conclude their meal. — The whole family and their guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent as usual, in telling tales and singing songs beside a cheer- ful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron bru.-hed the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The Earl wrapped his plaid about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the family betook themselves to rest in a corner of the same room. Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew whom he had entertained? " You may probably," an- swered he, "be one of the king's officers; but whoever you are, you came here in distress, and here it was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, you are most welcome." — "Your guest, then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mar : and if hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come to the castle of Kildrurnmie." — " My blessing be with you ! noble stran- ger," said Omeron j "if I am ever iu distress, you shall soon see me." The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife and children to the gate of Kildrurnmie Castle, and required admittance with a confidence which hardly corresponded with his habit and appearance. The porter told him, rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He became noisy and importunate: at last his name was announced. Upon hearing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seat, and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of poetical stanza, " 1 was a night in his house, and fared most plentifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breu- gach is an excellent fellow!" He was introduced into the great ball, and received with the welcome he de- served. Upon hearing how he had been treated, the Earl gave him, a four merk land near the castle; and i*. is said there are si ill in the country a number of Carno- rous descended of this Highland Eumajus. * Moo' Oilliar, i. e. the brown humble cow. LETTERS. 21 tain an honoured guest. You know likewise the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; but perhaps you do not know the scheme which they devised, with their usual fertility in resources. One of the servants was sent to your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush failed. Proh mirum ! The driver was incor- ruptible. Your verses have given us much delight, and I think will produce their proper effect.* They produced a powerful one im- mediately; for the morning after I read them, we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where none of the ladies had been these seven or eight years, and again enjoyed them there. The passages we most admired are the descrip - tion of the dying trouts. Of the high fall «' twisting strength," is a happy picture of the upper part. The characters of the birds, "mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safety I highly approve. The two stanzas beginning " Here haply too " — darkly dashing, is most descriptively Ossianic. Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of mentioning an incident which happened yester- day at the Bruar. As we passed the door of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied to us with looks of such poverty, and such contentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her some money. She was astonished, and in the confusion of her gratitude, iwvited us in. Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, entered — but, good God, what wretch- edness ! It was a cow-house — her own cottage had been burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood perfectly silent — looked at Miss C. then to the money, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined her, and, with a vehemence of sensibility, took out her purse, and emptied it into the old woman's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet accomplished girl of seven- teen in so angelic a situation ! Take your pencil and paint her in your most glowing tints. — Hold her up amidst the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, without ever feeling one generous, one great emotion. Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- mouth. It is a charming place, but still I think art has been too busy. Let me be your Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, gave me most delight. But I think the last has not been taken proper advantage of. The hermitage is too much in the common-place style. Every body expects the couch, the book-press, and the hairy gown. The Duke's * " The humble Petition of Bruar- Water to the Duke of Atluy'ft-." idea I think better. A rich and elegant apart- ment is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine horrors. I must now beg your permission (unless you have some other design) to have your verses printed. They appear to me extremely cor- rect, and some particular stanzas would give universal pleasure. Let me know, however, if you incline to give them any farther touches. Were they in some of the public papers, we could more easily disseminate them among our friends, which many of us are anxious to do. When you pay your promised visit to the Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr and Mrs Graham of Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduc- ting you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, which is now in their possession. The Duchess would give any consideration for another sight of your letter to Dr Moore ; we must fall upon some method of procuring it for her. I shall inclose this to our mutual friend Dr B , who may forward it. I shall be extremely happy to hear from you at your first leisure. Inclose your letter in a cover ad- dressed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. God bless you, J W -. No. XXX VII. FROM MR A M . sir, 6th October, 1787. Having just arrived from abroad, I had your poems put into my hands : the pleasure I re- ceived in reading them, has induced me to solicit your liberty to publish them amongst a number of our countrymen in America, (to which place I shall shortly return), and where they will be a treat of such excellence, that it would be an injury to your merit and their feeling to prevent their appearing in public. Receive the following hastily-written lines from a well-wisher. Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob, Your leisom way o' writing, Whiles, glowring o'er your warks I sob, Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting : Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, Their words are wondrous bonny, But guid Scotch drink the truth does say. It is as guid as ony Wi' you this day. Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, Ye did the poor thing wra?-g, To leave her tether'd on the brink Of stank sae wide and lang ; Her dying words upbraid ye sair, Cry fye on your neglect ; Guid faith ! gin ye had got play fair, This deed had stretch'd your neck That mournfu' day. 22 But, wae s me, how dare I fin' faut, Wi' sic a winsome bardie, Wlia great an' sma's begun to daut s And tak' him by the gardie; ]t sets na ony lawland chiel, Like you to verse or rhyme, For few like you can fley the de'il, And skelp auld wither'd Time On ony day. It's fair to praise ilk canty caliau, Be he of purest fame, If he but tries to raise as Allan, Auld Scotia's bonny name ; To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, Better 1 canna gi'e, And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, Accept these lines frae me, Upo' this day. Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, Frae that e'en to the line, In ilka place where Scotsmen bleed, There shall your hardship shine; Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick, Will there aye meet a brither, He lang may seek and lang will look, Ere he *ni' sic anither On ony day. Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge Some wark of wordie mak', I'se nae mair o' thic head enlarge, But now my farewell tak'; Lang may you live, lang may you write, And sing like English Weischell, This prayer 1 do myself indite, From yours still, A — . BURNS' WORKS This very day. No. XXXVIII. FROM MR J. RAMSAY, REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. dear str, Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. Allow me to introduce Mr Burns, whose poems, I dare say, have given you much plea- sure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt not, you will relish the man as much as his works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- land luinigs or songs played, which delighted him so much that he has made words to one or two of them, which will render these more popular. As he has thought of being in your quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a sample of those sweet artless melodies, which only want to be warned (in Milton's phrase) to congenial words. I wish we could conjure r.p the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a portion of his ei/thusiasm for those neglected airs, which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. But if it be true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their taste; — this, however, is going out of my province. You can show Mr Burns the manner of singing these same luinigs ; and, if he can humour it in words, I do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the original style, round a napkin. I am very sorry we are likely to meet so seldom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has so few opportunities of cultivating acquaintances at a distance. I hope, however, some time or other, to have the pleasure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs Boog and Mylne. If Mr B. goes by , give him a billet on our friend Mr Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the frown of his diocesan. I am, Dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY No. XXXIX. FROM MR RAMSAY, TO DR BLACKLOCK. dear sir, Ochtertyre, 27th October, 1787. I received yours by Mr Burns, and give you many thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed between us on the subject of my hints, to which I have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other day to your care. You may tell Mr Burns, when you see him, that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, having written the words of The Bush aboon Traquair, and Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart of the Cas- tlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr John Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty- five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and had lived long in France. Lady Anker- ville is his niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like me might moralize upon the vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions — But I have LETTERS. 23 hardly room to offer ray best compliments to Mrs Blacklock ; and I am, Dear Doctor, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. XL. FROM MR JOHN MURDOCH. MY dear sir, London, 28th October, 1787. As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the opportunity of telling you that I am yet alive, tolerably well, and always in expectation of being better. By the much-valued letters be- fore me, I see that it was my duty to have given you this intelligence about three years and nine months ago; and have nothing to allege as an excuse but that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in London, are so much taken up with the various pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we seldom think of any person, creature, place, or thing, that is absent. But this is not altogether the case with me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and Mus- sel, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan brurt- stane, all in the same minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleasing thought, that you and I shall meet some time or other either in Scotland or Eng- land. If ever you come hither, you will have the satisfaction of seeing your poems relished by the Caledonians in London, full as much as they can be by those of Edinburgh. We frequently repeat some of your verses in our Caledonian society ; and you may believe, that I am not a little vain that I have had some share in cultivating such a genius. I was not absolutely certain that you were the author, till a few days ago, when I made a visit to Mrs Hill, Dr M- Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, and who told me that she was informed of it by a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom you had been in com- pany when in that capital. Pray let me know if you have any intention of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? It would afford matter for a large poem. Here you would have an opportunity of indulging your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a greater degree than in any city upon the face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce. Present my respectful compliments to ..Irs Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the universe bless you all with those princi- ples and dispositions that the best of parents took such uncommon pains to instil into your minds from your earliest infancy ! May you live as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at once, and affected in a manner I cannot de- scribe. I shall only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures I promise myself before I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose memory I revere more than that of any person that ever I was acquainted with. I am, my dear Friend, Yours sincerely, JOHN MURDOCF-J. No. XLI. FROM MR —. SIR, Gordon Castle, 3lst October, 1787. If you were not sensible of your fault as well as of your loss in leaving this place so sud- denly, I should condemn you to starve upon cauld kail for ae towmont at least; and as for Dick Latine,* your travelling companion, without banning him wi' a* the curses contain- ed in your letter, (which he'll no value a baw- bee,) I should give him nought but Stra'bogie castocks to chew for sax ouks, or aye until he was as sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. Your song I showed without producing the author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be the production of Dr Beattie. I sent a copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs M'Pherson in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have recorded it likewise, by Lady Char- lotte's desire, in a book belonging to her lady- ship, where it is in company with a great many other poems and verses, some of the writers of which are no less eminent for their political than for their poetical abilities. When the Duchess was informed that you were the author she wished you had written the verses in Scotch. Any letter directed to me here will come to hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, aj long as the Duke is in this country. I am, Sir, yours sincerely. No. XLII. FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. sib, Linshart, \Uh November, 17S7. Your kind return without date, but of post- Mr NicoL 24 BURNS' WORKS. mark October 25th, came to my hand only this day; and, to testify my punctuality to my poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- ing genius, and your opinion of my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The difference between our two tracts of edu- cation and the ways of life is entirely in your favour, and gives you the preference every manner of way. I know a classical education will not create a versifying taste, but it migh- tily improves and assists it ; and though, where both these meet, there may sometimes be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears single, as it were, and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, I will always sustain the justice of its prior claim to applause. A small portion of taste, this way, I have had almost from childhood, especially in the old Scottish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness for Christ's kirk o' the Green, which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, I at- tempted to turn into Latin verse. While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; but on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which have made a public appearance beyond my expectation, and contrary to my intentions, at the same time, that I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the ciotb, which I would always wish to see re- spected. As to the assistance you propose from me in the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are all juris fa- miliate, and the old woman their mother has Jost that taste. There are two from my own pen, which I might give you, if worth the while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dum- barton's Drums. The other perhaps you have met with, as your noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a brother parson in her neighbourhood, to ac- commodate a new Highland reel for the Mar- quis's birth-day, to the stanza of , " Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly. " &c. If this last answer your purpose, you may have it from a brother of mine, Mr James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, can give the music too. There is another humorous thing, I have heard said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, and which hit my taste much : • " A plan of publishing ^ complete collection of Scot- | HbIi bongs," &c. j " There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the fair, Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikle care ; It took upo' the wine's heart, and she began ti- spew, And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binnafou, I wish, &c. &c." I have heard of another new composition, by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The humours of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have mentioned these, such as they are, to show my readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have in hand, and which I wish all success to. You have only to notify your mind, and what you want of the above shall be sent you. Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I may say, employed, do not sheath your own proper and piercing weapon. From what I have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and morality, delivered in your amusing style, and from such as you, will operate more than dozens would do from such as me, who shall be told it is our employment, and be never more minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one of the many, what comes will be admired. Admiration will produce regard, and regard will leave an impression, especially when example goes along. Now bmna saying I'm ill bred, Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad For cadgers, ye have heard it said, And sic like fry, Maun aye be harland in their trade, And sae maun I. Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, and in my other character, all happiness and heavenly direction, I remain, with esteem, Your sincere friend, JOHN SKINNER, No. XL III. FROM MRS *- Bir, K k Castle, 30th November, 1787. I hope you will do me the justice to believe, that it was no defect in gratitude for your punctual performance of your parting promise, that has made me so long in acknowledging it, but merely the difficulty I had in getting the Highland songs you wished to have, accurately noted •, they are at last inclosed : but how shall I convey along with them those graces they acquired from the melodious voice of one of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! • Mrs Ross of Kilravock, Nairnshire. LETTERS. 25 These I must leave to your imagination to supply. It has powers sufficient to transport you to her side, to recall her accents, and to make them still vibrate in the ears of memory. To her I am indebted for getting the inclosed notes. They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." These, how- ever, being in an unknown tongue to you, you must again have recourse to that same fertile imagination of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties of an adored mistress — why did I say unknown ? The language of love is an universal one, that seems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be understood by all nations. I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many things, persons, and places in your northern tour, because it leads me to hope you may be induced to revisit them again, That the old castle of K k, and its inhabitants, were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. I am even vain enough to admit your very flattering application of the line of Addison's ; at any rate, allow me to believe that " friend- ship will maintain the ground she has occupied" in both our hearts, in spite of absence, and that, when we do meet, it will be as acquain- tance of a score of years standing ; and on this footing, consider me as interested in the future course of your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any communications of the progress of your muse will be received with great gratitude, and the fire of your genius will have power to warm, even us, frozen sisters of the north. The friends of K k and K e unite in cordial regards to you. When you incline to figure either in your idea, suppose some of us reading your poems, and some of us singing your songs, and my little Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We remember Mr N. with as much good will as we do any body, who hurried Mr Burns from us. Farewell, sir, I can only contribute the widow's mite to the esteem and admiration ex- cited by your merits and genius, but this I give as she did, with all my heart — being sincerely yours, E. B. No. XLIV. TO DALRYMPLE, ESQ. OF ORANGEFIELD. dear sir, Edinburgh, 1787. I suppose the devil is so elated with his suc- cess 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 Ht the bottom a name that 1 shall ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit wide but nae- thing spak." I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing me- mory, 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 con- sequences, occurred to my fancy. The down- fal of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G and the protestant interest; or Saint 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 worship, ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. JVL go into their primitive nothing. At best they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble pa- tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnani- mity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds." No. XLV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, 2\st January, 17S8. After six weeks' confinement, J am beginning to walk across the room. They have been su 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 commis- sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno. rant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was \ sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this j 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 as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. As soon as I can bear the journey, which 26 BURNS' WORKS. will bo, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Bunlop-house. No. XL VI. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO THE SAME. Edinburgh, 12th February, 1788. Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : not that you say them, but that 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 proba- ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. No. XLVH. TO A LADY. madam, Mossgiel, lih March, 1788. The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was em- ployed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a great deal worse than I do the devil; at least as Milton describes him; and though J may be rascally enough to be some- times guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light, but you are sure of being respectable — you can afford to pass by an oc- casion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense; or if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem of all ; but God help us who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported ! I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr Beattie says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila: ("1'is a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, which perhaps you have never seen.) " Ye shak your head, but o' my fogs, Ye've set auld Scotia on her lc<:s : • A la'V/ was making a picture from the description in the Vision. Lang had she lien wi' huffe and flegs. Bombaz'd and dizzie, Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. Waes me, poor liizzie' No. XLVIIL TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORN. Mauchline, 31st March, 1788. Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; and your favourite air, Captain CKean, coming at length in my head, I tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated. * I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave, it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming ; at present, the world sits such a load on my mind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the in me. My very best compliments, and good wishes to Mrs Cleghorn. No. XLIX. FROM MR ROBERT CLEGHORN. Saughton Mills, 27th April, 1788. MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 31st ult. and consider myself greatly obliged to you, for your attention in sending me the song to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. The words delight me much; they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse or two more ; and if you have no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- den by the unfortunate Charles: Tenducci personates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Queen Mary's Lamentation. — Why may not J sing in the person of her great-great-great grandson ?f * Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Chera* tier's Lament. f Our poet took this advice. The whole of this beau. tiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is below :— LETTERS. 27 Any skill I have in country business you may truly command. Situation, soil, customs of countries may vary from each other, but Farmer Attention is a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear from you soon. Mrs Cleghorn joins me in best compliments. I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, your verv sincere friend, ROBERT CLEGHORN. No. L. TO MRS DUNLOP. madam, Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the excise business without solici- tation ; and as it costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple peti- tion, can be resumed; I thought five and thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and rain was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walls, &e. In con- sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a violent cold. You see, madam, the truth of the French maxim, Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vrai-sem- blable ; your last was so full of expostulation, THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild soatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sa-d bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dared could it merit their malice — A king and a father to place on his throne ? Hi3 right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your deeds proved so loyal, in hot bloody trial, Alas I can I make you no sweeter return.' and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grateful pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoy- ments of my future life. Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. No. LI. FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. dear sir, Linshart, 28th April, 1788. I received your last, with the curious present you have favoured me with, and would have made proper acknowledgments before now, but that I have been necessarily engaged in matters of a different complexion. And now that I have got a little respite, I make use of it to thank you for this valuable instance of your good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- mony of which I have herewith sent you for your amusement (and in a form which I hope you will excuse for saving postage) the two songs I wrote about to you already. Charming Nancy is the real production of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the time of its appearing, with no more education than what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- ther's fire-side, though now, by the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacy, with some turns of humour, that will please one of your taste; at least it pleased me when I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of my own sentiments, and you may make use of one or both as you shall see good.* * CHARMING NANCY. A SONG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. Tune — " Humours of Glen." Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, And some call sweet Susie tne cause of their pain : Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, Her pleasant behaviour is free from ail stain ; Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel, Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain: Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main: She's blooming in featuie, she's handsome in stature. My T.harming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain I 28 BURNS' WORKS. You will oblige me by presenting my re- spects to your host, Mr Cruikshank, who has given such high approbation to my poor Lati- nity ; you may let him know, that as I have Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning, Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene, Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain ? The whole of her face is with maidenly graces Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen, She's well shaped and slender, true hearted and tender, My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! I'll seek through the nation for some habitation, To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain, With songs to ray deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; Thoti shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. I'll make true affection the constant direction Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain : Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, To favour another be forward and fain, I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, Begone thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. Tone — " Dumbarton's Drums." BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. O! why should old age so much wound us ? O There is nothing in't all to confound us, O ; For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns, and our oes all around us, OJ We began in the world wi' naething, O, And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae' thing, O ; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad. When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O. We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, Since the day we became first acquainted, O : It's true we've been but poor, And we are so to this hour, Yet we never pined nor lamented, O. We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, But we always had the bliss, And what farther could we wiss, To be pleased wi 1 ourselves, and be healthy, O. What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, We have plenty of Jockies, and Jeanies, O, And these, I am certain, are More desirable by far, Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. We have seen many a wonder and ferly, O. Of changes that almost are yearly, O, Among rich folk, up and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply, and barely, O. Then why should people bra? of prosperity, O ? A Btraiten'd life we see is no rarity, O ; Indeed we"ve been ill want, And our living been but scant, Vet we never were reduced to need charity, O. In this house we first came together, (), Where we've long been a Father and Mither, O. Ami tho' Dot Of stone and lime, It will last us a' our time, And I hope we shall never need anither, O. likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two things that I would, if he desires it, sub- mit not to his judgment, but to his amusement : the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other Batrackomyomachia Homeri Latinis versibus cum additamentis, given in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr C. will know Seria non semper delectant, nonjoca sem- per. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. I have just room to repeat compliments and good wishes from, Sir, your humble servant, JOHN SKINNER. No. LIT. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. SIR, Mauchline, 3d May, 1 787. I enclose you one or two more of my baga- telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- tude have any influence with that great, un- known Being, who frames the chain of causes and events ; prosperity and happiness wilL attend jour visit to the Continent, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever J am, allow me, sir, to claim it as my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my late success in life. No. MIL EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Mauchline fah May, 1788. Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas ! when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland — i li ■ n And when we leave this habitation, O, We'll depart with a good commendation, O, We'll go hand in hand, 1 wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation, O. Then why should old age so much wound us, O '( There is nothing in it all to confound us, O; For how hapny now am I, With my anld wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oes all around us, O. LETTERS. 29 poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am disappointed in the jEneid. Faultless correct- ness may please, and does highly please the lettered critic; but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my preten- sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where Vir- gil has evidently copied, but by no means im- proved Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of this owing to the translators ; for, from every thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion : in some future letter, you shall have my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. No. LIV. TO THE SAME. madam, 27th May, 1788. I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for that kind partiality of yours, which, unlike , has followed me in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that "here I had no continuing city;" and but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary ac- quaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn com- panions of my road through life, insignificance and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good things of this life, that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the con- tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that composed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis now about term- day, and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who, though in appearance partakers, and equally noble partakers of the eame nature with madame ; are from time to time, their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold for months and years, , not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the im- portant few.* We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We looked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in air in the wantonness of his pride. No. LV. TO THE SAME. AT MR DUNLOPS, HADDINGTON. FJlisland, 1 3th June, 1788. " Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend ic turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthen 'd chain." GOLDSMITH. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperi- ence. There is a foggy atmosphere native tc my soul in the hour of care, consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Ex- treme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my existence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the princi- pal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. '•' The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. Your surmise, madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved and still much- loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter; and there is no * Servants in Scotland ar« hired from term to term, » e. iroin Whitsunday to Martinmas, &c. 30 BURNS' WORKS. sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition : a warm heart, gratefully de- voted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage, by a more than common hand- some figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page, but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny pay-wedding. No. LVI. TO MR P. HILL. MY DEAR HILL, I shall say nothing at all to your mad present — you have so long and often been of impor- tant service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up my face before you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it happened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourning, so, because I have been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the puluilis'd, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your good things among your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our friend Smellie, a man positively of the first abilities and great- est strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with : when you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful circumstan- ces, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will see bis sorrows vanish like the morn- ing mist before the summer sun. C h, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that evei <• ny man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help f o rid him of some of his supera- bundant modesty, you would qo well to give it him. David* with his Covrant comes, too, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to ena* ble him to digest those bedaubing para- graphs with which he is eternally larding the lean characters of certain great men in a certain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good thing ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory it does not at all improve his figure, not ttf mention the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend, D r, I woulrl wish also to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the Ciochallan corps. f Among our common friends I must not for get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to any thing that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest J S e, he is such a contented happy man that I know not what can annoy bim, except perhaps he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- dotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. Though I have mentioned so many men ol law, I shall have nothing to do with them professedly — the Faculty are beyond my pre- scription. As to their clients, that is another thing ; God knows they have much to digest ! The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarrcch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- milk cheese en the table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queensberry's late political con- duct. I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage. * Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant t A club of choice spirits. r w i 31 No. LVII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Mauchline, 2d August, 1788. HONOURED MADAM, Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire. I an: 'ndeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apo- logy for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay my head." There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- eth its own sor-ows, and a stranger intermed- dleth not therewith." The repository of these 11 sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum sanctorum; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them. u Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords That nature finest strung." You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muse bus conferred on me in that country. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd 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 ev'ry hour ; Fear not clouds will ever lour. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor-gleam : Fame, an idle restless dream: Peace, the tend'rest flow'r 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 prepared, Guard wherever tnou 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 wond'rous work thou art; Keep his goodness still in view, Thy trust and thy example too. Stranger go ! heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadesman of Nithside. Since I am in the way of transcribing, fan following were the production of yesterday xs I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intended inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fintry ; one of the worthiest and most accomplishe-d gentle- men, not only of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unan- ointed, unanell'd." Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : The world were blest, did bless on them depend ; Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" The little fate bestows they share as soon ; Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! Who make poor will do wait upon I should ; We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date» I have just room for an old Roman farewell ! No. LVIII. TO THE SAME. Mauchline, }Qth August, 1788. MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you, madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful com- mons of Great Britain in parliament assem- bled, answering a speech from the best, of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my 32 BURNS' WORKS. heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not from J rear very odd reason that I do not read your etters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of vene- ration. Mrs Burns, madam, is the identical woman When she first found herself " as women wish to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her company and their house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of for- tune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? le compa- I can easily fancy a more agreei nion for my journey of life, but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual in- Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. without probably en- tailing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affecta- tion, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, which (pardonnez moi, madamej are sometimes to be found among females of »he upper ranks, but almost universally per- vade the misses of the would-be-gentry. I like your way in your church-yard lucu- brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respect- ing health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied paragraphs. Tor me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now 1 talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocia ' narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide itj and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. No. LIX. TO THE SAME. Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstoniaa " Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- lorn ? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?" My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — 1 could indulge these reflections, till my hu- mour should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr 's to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind ; from the lady of the house quite flat- tering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a professional man was expected : I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, Independence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul! In the course of conversation, Johnson's Mu- sical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, " Raving winds around her blowing." The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were the words — " Mine, madam — they are indeed my very best verses :" she took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says, well, " king's caff is better than ither folks- 1 corn." I was going to make a New Testa- ment quotation about " casting pearls ;" but that would be too virulent, for the lady is ac- tually a woman of sense and taste. After all that has been said on the other side of the qm LETTER 33 le of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the select- ed few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, be- ginning thus, " 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings tesliiie." I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man. It is this way of thinking — it is those me- lancholy truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm, " What truth on earth so precious as the lie !" My idle reasonings sometimes make me n little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? No : to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear madam, you are now more than pleased with the length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and it quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest. No. LX. O R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, ESQ. When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, m Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he answers, " Because you have that in your face which I could like to call master." For some such reason, sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare 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 supervisor, 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. Pro- priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late ap pearance on the stage of life, in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable man- ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued 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 appointed 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 too often so distant from my situation. When nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind* Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandie's whole genus take their birth ■ Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net : The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material, for mere knights and squires i The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- signs, Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuits matter ; Such as the" slightest 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. !4 BURNS' WORKS. Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When bfess'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, Admired and praised — and there the homage ends : A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find ; And to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great. A title, and the only one J claim, To lay stronghold for help on bounteous Graham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives — tho* humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- pend, Ah, that " the 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 / should — We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 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? 1 know my need, 1 know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit, Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all l lie clam'rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, The) persecute you all your future days! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny list assume the plough again ; The pie-Qall'd jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen pence a-week I've lived before. Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that last shift, I trust meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That placed by thee, upon the wish 'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp Iter wing for some sublimer flight.* No. LXI. TO MR P. HILL. Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. I have been here in this country about three days, and all that time my chief reading has been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you were so obliging as to send to me. Were I impannelled one of the author's jury, to de- termine his criminality respecting the sin ol poesy, my verdict should be "guilty! A poet of Nature's making !" It is an excellent me- thod for improvement, and what I believe every poet does, to place some favourite classic author, in his own walks of study and compo- sition, before him, as a model. Though your author had not mentioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother poet for- give me, if I venture to hint, that his imitation of that immortal bard, is in two or three places rather more servile than such a genius as his required. — e. g. To soothe the madding passions all to peace, ADOKES8. To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, THOMSON. I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description. One particular criti- cism I made at first reading : in no one in- stance has he said too much. He never flags in his progress, but like a true poet of Nature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altoge- ther like « Truth, The soul of every song that's nobly great," Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vul- garized by every-day language, for so sublime a poem ? * This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin try. It is not equal to the second, but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author to he suppress, ed. A little more knowledge of natural history or ii chemistry was wanted to enable hiiu to execute ll»a origiuul conception correctly LETTERS. 35 « Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,' is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with other lakes, is at once harmonious and poetic. E very reader's ideas must sweep the " Winding margin of an hundred miles." The perspective that follows mountains blue — the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the wooded isles — the digression on the yew tree — " Ben Lomond's lofty cloud-enveloped head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a sub- ject which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his grand picture, has interjected a circum- stance, so far as I know, entirely original : " The gloom Doep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." In his preface to the storm, " the glens how dark between," is noble highland landscape ! The " rain plowing the red mould," too, is beautifully 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 a little of that passion wnich 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 enrertain her "partial listen- ing ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the most beautiful passages in the whole poem, are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and the glorious description of the sportsman. This last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. The idea of "the floating tribes distant seem, tar glistering to the moon," pro- voking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howl- ing 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 com- pliinents I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the two last para- graphs, 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 irrateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me.* A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, Letters on the Religion es- sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; and, The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truiy elegant; I only wish it had been in two vol- umes. No. LXII. TO MRS DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. madam, Mauchline, 13th November, 1788. I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to nat-tei women because they are weak; if it is so, poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K. with their flattering attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron . but they so intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and delicate inu- endos of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how much additional weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- ship must give me in that circle, I had cet tainly looked upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one worn how much I was charmed with the major's friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of applause over against the finest queyf in .Ayrshire, which he made 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 I know of your arrival at Dun- lop, I will take the first conveniency to dedi- cate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend, ship, under the guarantee of the major'; hospitality. There will soon be threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that your friendship a id friend! correspondence is en twisted with the heart strings of my enjoyment of life, I must mdulgt myself in a happy day of " The feast of reason and the flow of soul." * The poem entitled An Address to Look Lomond, is said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the mas- ters of the High School at Edinburgh, and Uie same who translated the beautiful story of the Puna, as published in the Bee of Dr Anderson f Heifer C2 3'A BURNS* "WORKS. No. LXIII. TO sm, November, 8, 1 788. Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of our philosophers and gloomy sectaries have branded our nature — the princi- ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given us; still, the detes- tation in which inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held by all man- kind, shows that they are not natives of the human heart. — Even the unhappy partner of our kind, who is undone— the bitter conse- quence of his follies or his crimes — who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? we forget the injuries, and feel for the man. I went last Wednesday to my parish church, most cordially to join m grateful acknowledg- ments 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 Fami- ly, 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 ol the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deli- verance 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 same time, cursing a few ruined, power- iess 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 propriety and jus- tice when compared with the present Royal Family, and the sentiments of our days ; but is there no allowance to be made for the man- ners of the times ? Were the royal contempo- raries 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 govern- ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- tween king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerg- ing 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 en joying ; but these prerogatives were inimical to "the happiness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. In this contest between prince and people, the continuence of that light of science, which had lately dawned 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 unwarran- table pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- ling 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 the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing in- consistent 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 1715 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 particu- lar accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- men, just as they are for or against us ? Man, Mr Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- consistent being. Who would 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 ani- mated, with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them — that a certain people, under our na- tional 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 cause, but I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will be al- lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English 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 humani- ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Eu- rope, and unfortunate beyond historic prece- dent; and let every Briton (and particularly every Scotsman), who ever looked with reve- rential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. * • This letter was sent to the publisher of some news, oaper, probably the publisher of the Edinburgh Even. ing Uourant, LETTERS. 37 No. LXIV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Ylth December, 1788. MY DEAR HONOURED FRIEND, Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. Almost " blind and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of hu- man 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 and strongly entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my bosom j and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing habits and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- ters 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 considerations for which I live : if miry ridges, and dirty dung- hills are to engross the best part of the func- tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then _I should not have been plagued with any ideas 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 again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, madam, for I will make my threaten- ing^ 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 schoolfellow and friend, was truly interesting. 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, " Auld lang syne," exceedingly expres- sive. There is an old song and tune 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 I suppose Mr Ker will save you the postage.* Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There is more of the fire of native genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern English Bacchanalians. Now I am on my * Here follows the song of Auld long sytie. hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please me mightily. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie : The boat rocks at the pier o 1 Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready : The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody: But it's not the roar o' sea or shore, Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. No. LXV. TO A YOUNG LADY. WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKING A BALLAD ON HER, INCLOSING THAT BALLAD. madam, December, 1788. 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 burden of a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of pa- tience 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 re- duced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished production of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, who had some genius, much eccentricity, and very consider- able dexterity with his pencil. In the acci- dental groups of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character in a 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 gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse 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, that 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 or- the im- 38 BURNS' WORKS. pulse, than an iEolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, by heavens ! though I had lived threescore years a married man, and threescore years be- fore I was a married man, my imagination would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. No. LXVL TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. sir, December, 1788. Mr M'Kenzie, 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 have, sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of 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 inter- ested him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to in- quire, whether formal duty bade, or cold pro- priety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I 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 a needy, sharping author, fasten- ing on those in upper life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. In- deed the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodi- gality is, by any means, a necessary concomi- tant of a poetic turn, but believe a careless, indolent inattention to economy, is almost in- separable from it ; then there must be in the neart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind ■){ pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, which fre- quently light on hardy impudence and foot- Ik-king 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 preten- sions to the polittsse of life — yet is as poor as I am. 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 inde- pendent fortune at the plough-tail I was surprised to hear that any one, who pretended in the hast 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 inter- posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to make you for your goodness but one — a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unaccepta- ble — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela- tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ' No. LXVIL FROM MR G. BURNS. dear brother, Mossgiel, 1st January, 1789. I have just finished my new-year's- day break fast in the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look at our family vicissitudes, " through the dark postern of time long elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of Seasons is to us ; and that however some clouds may seem to lower over the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that ali will tilrn out well. Your mother and sisters, with Robert the second, join me in the compliments of the season to you and Mrs Burns, and beg you will remember us in the same manner to Wil- liam, the first time you see him. I am, dear brother, yours, GILBERT BURNS. No. L XVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, New -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 availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings ; every thing that obstructs or d* turbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, should removed, and every pleasure that frail huma- nity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve or set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of is- M LETTERS. 39 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-skyed noon some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end, of autumn ; these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of 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 capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : " On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefa- thers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, 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, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordi- nary impression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the moun- tain daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the I wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and bang 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 plover, 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 ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the J^olian harp, passive, takes the impression of the pas- sing 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 im- mortal nature — and a world of weal ov woe beyond death and the grave. No. LXIX. TO DR MOORE. ElUsland, near Dumfries, 4>ih Jat:. 1789. SIR, 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 man- sion 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 eclat was owing to the singularity of my situation, and the honest prejudice of Scots- men ; 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 as I firmly believe, that excellence in the profession is the fruit of in- dustry, 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, th talents of shining in every species of composi- tion. I shall try (for until trial it is impossi- ble 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 a 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. G. Esq. or Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un- common 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 one, I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of I believe I shall, in whole, £100 copy-right included, clear about £4.00 some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did me the honour to interest yourself much in my wel- fare. 40 BURNS' WORKS. To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married " my Jean," and taken a farm ; 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 «£18Q 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 j 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 su- pervisor, surveyor-general, &c. Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my future days. No. LXX. TO BISHOP GEDDES. Kllisland, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. VENERABLE FATHER, As I am conscious that wherever I am you do me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- ness 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 pointed 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 incumbrances, 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 sophis- tical infidelity would, to me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made another choice. In the affair of a livelihood, 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 me bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession •, and though the salary be comparatively small, it is great to any thing 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 ripen- ing and corrections of years can enable me to produce 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 larger 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 un- concern I give up my transient connection with the merely great, I cannot lose the pa- tronizing notice of the learned and the good, without the bitterest regret. No. LXXI. FROM THE REV. P. C- SIR, 2d January, 1789. If you have lately seen Mrs Dunlop, of Dun- lop, you have certainly heard of the author of the verses which accompany this letter. He was a man highly respectable for every accom- plishment and virtue which adorns the charac- ter of a man or a Christian. To a great degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, was added an invincible modesty of temper, which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of his character and talents to the small circle of his chosen friends. He was untimely taken from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory LETTERS. 41 fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all, who have any regard for virtue or genius. There is a woe pronounced in Scripture against the person whom all men speak well of; if ever that woe fell upon the head of mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left behind him a considerable number of compositions, chiefly poetical ; sufficient, I imagine, to make a large octavo volume. In particular, two complete and regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some smaller poems on differ- ent subjects. It falls to my share, who have lived in the most intimate and uninterrupted friendship with him from my youth upwards, to transmit to you the verses he wrote on the publication of your incomparable poems. It is probable they were his last, as they were found in his scrutoire, folded up with the form of a letter addressed to you, and I imagine, were only prevented from being sent by him- self, by that melancholy dispensation which we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will not pretend to criticise when writing to a gentleman whom I consider as entirely quali- fied to judge of their merit. They are the only verses he seems to have attempted in the Scottish style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish muse ; — and allow me to add, that if it is your opinion they are not unworthy of the author, and will be no discredit to you, it is the inclination of Mr Mylne's friends that they should be immediately published in some periodical work, to give the world a specimen of what may be expected from his performances in the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards published for the advantage of his family. I must beg the favour of a letter from you, acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be allowed to subscribe myself with great regard, Sir, your most obedient servant, p. C . No. LXXII TO MRS BUNLOP. Ellisland, Uh 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 com- fort — 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 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 astro- nomy, that he said, had he been of the Crea- tor's council, he could have saved him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not de- fend this blasphemous speech; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's 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 reve- rence, or an inch of the particular point of respectful distance, which the important crea- ture 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. Be- sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr C , I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi- ously 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 meantime 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 improvement. Like the 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, BURNS' WORKS. 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.* No. L XXIII. TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. REVEREND 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 Mylae'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 publica- tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid that, in the present case, it would be an im- proper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- tion 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 M.'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, and take no measure that, be- fore the world knows any thing about him, would risk his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; aiid the way in which I would proceed with Mr Mylne's poems, is this : — I would 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 nu- merous 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 effectual manner, to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of these merits. No. LXXIV. TO DR MOORE. sir, miisland, 23d March, 1789. The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- bourhood, 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 be much needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve him : — Mr Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of 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. * These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, nre the production of the lady to whom this letter is addressed. The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs , of . You probably knew her personally, an honour of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, 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 Wigham'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 , and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes- tuous night, and jade my horse, my young I favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy l and prose sink under me, when I would de- scribe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire, at New Cumnock, had so far re- LETTERS. sat down and 43 covered my frozen sinews, I wrote the enclosed ode. J 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. Ts T o. LXXV. TO MR HILL. Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. I will make no excuses, 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 mv most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally in- tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- ciseman, 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 Parnassian craggs, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame are, breathless, clamber- ing, hanging between heaven and hell ; but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and na- tives of paradise ! — Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — The power, splendid and ftotent as he now is, was once the puling nurs- ing 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 un- deserving and the worthless — assure him, that 1 bring ample documents of meritorious de- merits ! Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, be any thing — but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! But to descend from heroics, I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an Eng lish dictionary — Johnson'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 any thing you have to sell, and place it to my account. The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already b: gun, under the direction of 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. R. 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 Monkl-and 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 faitliful, poor, but honest friend, R. B. No. LXXVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, 2d 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 at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 44 BURNS' WORKS. first lines I have just rough-sketched, as fol- lows : — SKETCH. 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 contradic- tion — J sing : If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. But now for a patron, whose naJE£ ind ahose At once may illustrate wd honour my story. Thou first ci arar orators, first of our wits ; iTet 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 Avent 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. Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develope 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 ruling passion Sir Pope hugerj? labours, That like the 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 its 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 that 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. No. LXXVII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. MY dear SIR, Ellisland, kth May, 1789. Your duty free favour of the 26th April 1 received two days ago : I will not say I peru- sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold com- pliment 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 super-eminent 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 plan- tation, and presently a potir 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 they all of them have young ones. Indeed there is some- thing in that business of destroying, for our sport, individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. On the 20th current I hope to have the Donour of assuring you, in person, how sincere- y I am, On Seeing a Fellow Wound a Hare with a Shot, April 1789. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye, May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains ; No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide That life a mother only can bestow? 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 ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hapless fate. LETTERS. 45 Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would not be an im- provement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. C is a glorious production of the author of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the C F are, to me, " Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune of " three good fellows ayont the glen." No. LXXVIIL [The poem, in the preceding letter, had also been sent by our bard to Dr Gregory for his criticism. The following is that gentleman's reply.] FROM DR GREGORY. dear sir, Edinburgh, 2d June, 17S9. I take the first leisure hour I could command, to thank you for your letter, and the copy of verses inclosed in it. As there is real poetic merit, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and some happy expressions, in them, I think they well deserve that you should revise them care- fully and polish them to the utmost. This I am sure you can do if you please, for you have great command both of expression and of rhymes : and you may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much correctness and high polish enhance the value of such compositions. As you de- sire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you my most rigorous criticisms on your verses. I wish you would give me another edition of them, much amended, and I will send it to Mrs Hunter, who, I am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me like- wise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much amended as you please) of the Water Fowl on Loch Turit. The Wounded Hare is a pretty good sub- ject ; but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for it, is not a good one ; it does not flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost by its distance from the first ; and the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would put it into a different stanza yet. Stanza 1. — The execrations in the first two lines are strong or coarse ; but they may pass. " Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epithet, and not very intelligible. " Blood- stained," in stanza iii. line 4, has the same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely better. You have accustomed yourself to such epithets, and have no notion how stiff and quaint they appear to others, and how incongruous with poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, " Why that blood-stained bosom gored," how would you have liked it ? Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, not a plain, common word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetry. " Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both may pass. Stanza 4. — " Who will now provide that life a mother only can bestow," will not do at all : it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do you mean " provide for that life which the mother had bestowed and used to provide for ?" There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, a Feeling " (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. " Shot" is improper too. — On seeing a person (or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it is needless to add with what weapon ; but if you think otherwise, you should say, with a fowling-piece. Let me see you when you come to town, and I will show you some more of Mrs Hun- ter's poems. * No. LXXIX. TO MR M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON. dear sir, 4th June, 1789. Though I am not without my fears respect- ing 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 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 acquaint- ance, Mr Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, " Hale and weel, and liv- ing ;" 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 ' * It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more distinguished by its good sense, than by its free- dom from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the manner in which the poet may be supposed to have received it In fact it appears, as the sailors say, to have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he wrote soon after, he says, " Dr G is a good mail, but he crucifies me." — And again, " I believe in the iron justice of Dr G ; but like the devils, I be- lieve and tremble." However, he profited by these criticisms, as the reader will find, by comparing this first edition of the poem, with that published after- wards, 46 BURNS' WORKS. which you once warmly and effectively inter- ested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- ing 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 vhumble domicile, praying for seasonable wea- ther, or holding an intrigue with the Muses •, the only gipseys with whom I have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned completely Zion ward; and as it is a rule with sll honest fellows, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences of former days, will of course fall under the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute of celes- tial proscription. In my family devotion, which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to my household folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the errors of my youth," &c. and that other, " Lo, .children are God's heritage," &c. in which last Mrs Burns, who, by the bye, has a glorious "wood-note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. No. LXXX. TO MRS DUNLOP. dear madam, Ellisland, 2\st June, 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 parti- cular cause for this worst of all my foes beset- ting me, but for some time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations and gloomy presages. Monday Evening. T have just heard give 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 incomprehensibly great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and that he must be inti- mately acquainted with the operations and progress of the internal machinery, and conse- quent outward deportment of this creature which he has made ; these are, I think, self- evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and consequently that I am an accountable crea- ture ; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident im- perfection, nay, positive injustice, in the admi- nistration 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, un- paralleled 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 j 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 mea- sure 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. No. LXXXI. FROM DR MOORE. dear SIR, Clifford Street, 10th June, 1789. I thank you for the different communications you have made me of your occasional produc- tions in manuscript, all of which have merit, and some of them merit of a different kind from what appears in the poems you have published. You ought carefully to preserve all your occasional productions, to correct and improve them at your leisure : and when you can select as many of these as will make a volume, publish it either at Edinburgh or London, by subscription : On such an occa- sion, it may be in my power, as it is very much in my inclination, to be of service to you. If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that in your future productions you should abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure and language of modern English poetry. The stanza which you use in imitation of Christ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome repetition of "that day," is fatiguing to Eng- lish ears, and I should think not very agreeable to Scottish. All the fine satire and humour of your Holy Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed the whole to them. The same is true of some of your other poems. In your Epistle to J. S , the stanzas from that beginning with this line, " This life, so far's I understand," to that which ends with, " Short while it grieves," are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian elegance — the language is English, with a few Scottish words, and some LETTERS. *Y of those so harmonious, as to add to the beamy : for what poet would not prefer gloam- ing to twilight. I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and occasionally polishing and correcting those verses, which the muse dictates, you will, within a year or two, have another volume as large as the first, ready for the press ; and this, without diverting you from every proper atten- tion to the study and practice of husbandry, in which I understand you are very learned, and which I fancy you will choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry amuses you from time to time as a mistress. The former, like a pru- dent wife, must not show ill humour, although you retain a sneaking kindness to this agreea- ble gipsey, and pay her occasional visits, which in no manner alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but tends on the contrary to promote her interest. I desired Mr Cadell to write to Mr Creech to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- ance has had great success here, but I shall be glad to have your opinion of it, because J know you are above saying what you do not think. I beg you wall offer my best wishes to my very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who I under- stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy as I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my compliments also to Mrs Burns, and believe me to be, with sincere esteem, Dear Sir, yours, &c. No. LXXXII. FROM MISS J. L- SiR, Loudon-House, 12th July, 1789. Though I have not the happiness of being personally acquainted with you, yet amongst the number of those who have read and ad- mired your publications, may I be permitted to trouble you with this. You must know, sir, I am somewhat in love with the Muses, though 1 cannot boast of any favours they have deigned to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life has been very much against me as to that. I have spent some years in and about Eeclefechan (where my parents reside), in the station of a servant, and am now come to Loudon-House, at present possessed by Mrs H : she is daughter to Mrs Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I understand you are particularly acquainted with. As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, I felt a partiality for the author, which I should not have experienced had you been in more dignified station. I wrote a few verses of address to you, which I did not then think of ever presenting : but as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, by bringing me into a family by whom you are well known and much esteemed, and where perhaps I may nave an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, in hopes of your future friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them. Fair fa' the honest ruslic swain, The pride o' a' our Scottish plain : Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, And notes sae sweet : Old Ramsay's shade revived again In thee we greet. Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muse, Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; To all she did her aid refuse, Since Allan's day ; 'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse To grace his lay. To hear thy sang all ranks desire, Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre % Apollo with poetic fire Thy breast does warm , And critics silently admire Thy art to charm. Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, But into human nature keek, And knots unravel : To hear their lectures once a- week, Nine miles I'd travel. Thy dedication to G. H. An unco bonnie hamespun speech, Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach A better lesson, Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech Like beggar's messon. When slighted love becomes your theme, And women's faithless vows you blame j With so much pathos you exclaim, In your lament ; But glanced by the most frigid dame, She would relent. The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; And weel ye praise the whisky gill; In vain 1 blunt my feckless quill, Your fame to raise; While echo sounds from ilka hill, To Burns's praise. Did Addison or Pope but hear, Or Sam, that critic most severe, A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear, They in a rage, Their works would a' in pieces tear, And curse your page. Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, The beauties of your verse to paint, My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint Their brilliancy ; Th' attempt would doubtless vex a sain*.. And weel may me. The task I'll drop with heart sincere, To heaven present my humble pray'r, That all the blessings mortals share. May be by turns, 48 BURNS' WORKS. Dispensed by an indulgent care To Robert Burns. Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in this ; my hand trembles while I write to you, conscious of my unworthiness of what I would most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and friendship ; yet hoping you will show yourself possessed of as much generosity and good- nature as will prevent your exposing what may justly be found liable to censure in this mea- sure,' I shall take the liberty to subscribe my- self, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J . P. S If you would condescend to honour me with a few lines from your hand, I would take it as a particular favour, and direct to me at Loudon- House, near Galslock. No. LXXXIII. FROM MR . MY dear SIR, London, 5th August, 1789. Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon abilities which you possess, must render your correspondence very acceptable to any one. I can assure you, I am particularly proud of your partiality, and shall endeavour, by every me- thod in my power, to merit a continuance of your politeness. When you can spare a few moments I should De proud of a letter from you, directed for me, Gerrard Street, Soho. I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the instance of your attachment to my late inestimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was particularly intimate with myself and relations. * While I recollect with pleasure his extraordi- nary talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords me the greatest consolation, that I am honoured with the correspondence of his suc- cessor in national simplicity and genius. That Mr Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding many favourable representations, I am yet to learn that he inherits his convivial powers. There was such a richness of conversation, such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, that when I call the happy period of our intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in a state of delirium. I was then younger than him by eight or ten years ; but his manner was so felicitous, that he enraptured every person around him, and infused into the hearts of the young and old, the spirit and animation which operated on his own mind. I am, dear Sir, yours, &c. # The erection of a monument to hiin, No. LXXXIV TO MR , IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. MY DEAR SIR, The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for neglecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the fifth of August. That you have done well in quitting your laborious concern in I do not doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and your health is a matter of the last importance ; but whether the remaining proprietors of the paper have also done well, is what I much doubt. The so far as I was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, that I can hardly con- ceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the same degree of excellence ; but if there was a man who had abilities equal to the task, that man's assistance the proprietors have lost. When I received your letter I was transcrib- ing, for , my letter to the Magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in consequence 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 ne- gative consequence of steady dulness, and those thoughtless, though often destructive 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 are concentred in an aim, I shall be glad be hear from you; as your welfare and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to Yours, &c. LETTERS. 49 No. LXXXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, 6th September, 1789. DEAR MADAM, I have mentioned in my last, my appointment to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, 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 likewise 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. L -j a very ingenious, but modest compo- sition. I should have written her as she re- quested, 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 daub at fine drawn letter-writing ; and except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or which happens ex- tremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I 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 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 much pleasure, as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition, that should equal the Iliad. Re- ligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- tence ; 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, and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all hu- man 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 favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, ii> 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 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 his dart: Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." I have been very 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 per- formance. Farewell! A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commends ! No. LXXXVI. FROM DR BLACKLOCK. Edinburgh, 2kth August, 1789. Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, Both for thy virtues and thy art : If art it may be call'd in thee, Which nature's bounty, large and free, With pleasure on thy breast diffuses, And warms thy soul with all the Muses. Whether to laugh with easy grace, Thy numbers move the sage's face, Or bid the softer passions rise, And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt, Through thee her organ, thus to melt. Most anxiously I wish to know, With thee of late Iioav matters go ; How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? What promises thy farm of wealth ? Whether the Muse persists to smile, And all thy anxious cares beguile? Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? And how thy darling infants thrive t * For me, with grief and sickness spent, Since I my journey homeward bent, Spirits depress'd no more I mourn, But vigour, life, and health return. No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 1 sleep all night, and live all day; By turns my book and friend enjoy, And thus my circling hours employ ; Happy while yet these hours remain, If Burns could join the cheerful train, With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, Salute once more his humble servant, THO. BLACKLOCK. D 50 BURNS' WORKS. No. LXXXVIL TO DR BLACKLOCK. Ellisland, 2\st October, 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! A.nd are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? I ken'd it still your wee bit jauntie, Wad bring ye to : Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do. 1 he ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! And never drink be near his drouth ! He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter ; I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study ; And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, E'en tried the body.* But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! Parnassian queens, 1 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 limbics, Ye ken, ye ken, That Strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men. I hae a wife aud twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' dud dies : Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, I needna vaunt, But 111 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 1 hae a richer share Than mony ithers ; But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers ! Come Firm Resolvk 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. * Mr Heron, author of the History of Scotland, lately published | and among- various other works, of ft respectable life of our poet himself. My compliments to sister Beckie ; And eke the same to honest Lucky ;— 1 wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay ! And gratefully my gude auld cockie, I'm yours for aye. ROBERT BURNS, No. LXXXVIII. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. sir, 9th 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 con- cerns, you ought by every thing 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 j and though my being under your patronage 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 princi- pally 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 Mitchell, 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 an- gels, are short and far between; but I meet them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the productions 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-cove- nant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet 1 think you must have heard of Dr M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretic.** book. God help, him poor man ! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk ot 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 inclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, LETTERS. Ol too local, but I laughed myself at some con- ceits in it, though I am convinced in my con- science, 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. Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. No. LXXXIX TO MRS DUNLOP. EUisland, 13th December, 1789. Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 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 productive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged to give up, for a time, 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 enjoyment 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 anguish, and refusing or de- nied 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 a some- thing at which he recoils. " Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity Disclose the secret — What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! ■ 'tis no matter : A. little time will make us leam'd as you are." Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in * This alludes to the contest for the borough of Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensberry's interest and that of Sir James Johnstone. conscious existence ! When the last gasp of agony has 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 yet be 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 the world to come? Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely strug- gled. 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 weaknesser 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 recognize 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? Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- velation 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 trust 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 en- dearing. I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what are called ner- vous 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 sympathize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse thi9 distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarce- ly read, and which he would throw into the fire, were he able to write any thing better, or indeed any thing at all. Rumour told me something of a son of yours who was returned from the East or D2 52 BURNS' WORKS. West Indies. If you have gotten news of James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as I promise you, on the since- rity of a man, who is weary of one world and anxious about another, that scarce any thing 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 pauvre miserable R. B. No. XC. TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the statistical account, trans- mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, be- cause it is new and may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic pub- lication, you are the best judge. To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge, is certainly 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 amusement ; 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 pian so simple as to be practicable 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 artisan, 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 removal to a distance, or of 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 tole- rable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase, was always decided by the majority. At every meeting, all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- duced ; 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 volume he pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his choice after the Hist : 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 whole three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves : and 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 Riddel's patron- age, 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, were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's His tory of Scotland, Hume's History of the Sluarts % the Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Man of Feelin-g, Man of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- drews, fyc. A peasant who can read, and enjoy such books, is certainly a much superior being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very little removed, except in shape, from the brute he drives. Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, I am, Sir, Your humble servant, A PEASANT.* No. XCI. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Ellisland, 11th January, 1790. DEAR BROTHER, 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 are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid * The above is extracted from the third yolume of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598.— It was inclosed to Sir John by Mr Riddel himself in the following letter, also printed there. 'Sir John, ' I inclose you a letter, written by Mr Burns as an addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It contains an account of a small library which he was so good, (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the barony of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its utility has been felt, particularly among the younger class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were established, in the different parishes of Scotland, it would tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the tenantry, trades people, and work people. Mr Burns was so good as to take the whole charge of this small concern. He was trea- surer, librarian, and censor to this little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his public spirit and exertions for their improvement and information. ' I have the honour to be, Sir John, ' Yours most sincerely, « ROBERT RIDDEL.' To Sir John Sinclair, of Ulbster, Bart. LETTERS. 53 nypochondria 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 . . . ! I'll fight it out and be off with it. We have gotten a set of very decent players 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 fol- lowing prologue, which he spouted to his audi- ence with applause. No song nor dance 1 bring from yon great city, That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? Good sense and taste are natives here at home ; But not for panegyric I appear, 1 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 ques- tion ; 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 though 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, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 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, though 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. I can no more, — If once I was clear of this . . . farm, I should respire more at ease. No. XCII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not written to you, ma- dam, 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 tha.*£s, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters ; but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and merce- nary 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 friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of 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 ac- quaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no more. After weathering the dreadful catas- trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of for- tune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune.* He? was one of those daring adventurous spirits, which Scotland beyond any other country is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little 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, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart :— " Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, What land I was to travel in, Or what death I should die." * Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a word of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which capa- city he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of the satire on Dr Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, and delighted iu giving him instruction; and when Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him as his scholar. The editor had this information from .a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished soon after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr An- derson to his works, in the complete edition of the Poets of Great Britain, it is said, " Of the family, birth- place, and education of William Falconer, there are no memorials." On the authority already given, it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of the towns on the coast of Fife, and that his parents, who had suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of England, where they both died, soon after, of an epide- mic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. These last circumstance* are however less certain 54 BURNS' WORKS. Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favour- ite 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 I am sure will 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 smiled ; O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 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 any thing more truly 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. 1 am every day expecting the doctor to give your little god-son* 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 glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gal- lantry of an independent mind. 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 hon- our of assuring you how truly I am, &c. No. XCIII. FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 28th January, 1790. In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable to quote any one's own words ; but the value I have for your friendship, nothing can more truly or more elegantly express, than " Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear." Having written to you twice without having heard from you, I am apt to think my letters have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed upon the chapter of accidents turning up against me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I may with truth add, the more important affairs of life : but I shall continue occasionally to inform you what is going on among the circle of your friends in these parts. In these days of merriment, I have frequently heard your name proclaimed at the jovial board — under the roof of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there were no "Lingering moments number'd with care." I saw your Address to the New-year in the Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I shall say nothing, but my acquaintances allege that when your name is mentioned, which every man of' celebrity must know often hap- pens, I am the champion, the Mendoza, against all snarling critics, and narrow minded reptiles, of whom a few on this planet do crawl. With best compliments to your wife, and her black-eyed sister, I remain, yours, &c. • The bard's second son, Francis. No. XCIV. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, 13th February, 1790. I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you on this very un- fashionable, 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 widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite scoun- drel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scan- dal-bearing help-mate of a village priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I make a vow to inclose this sheet-full of epis- tolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt- paper. I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought to have written to you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke of to the powers of , 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 in- tended for you some time ago, and be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvo- lute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology. my dear Cunningham, December, 17S9. 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 LETTERS. 55 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 enjoyment ; 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 competency, respectable friends, are real sub- stantial blessings j and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be as un- happy 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 view- ing an extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive, in humble stations, &c. &c. Sunday, ]&th February, 1790. 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 past redemption, and what is worse, — to all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold State, Marshall on Sanctification, Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, 8fc. 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, 16th. 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 cares are of this world : if there is another, an hon- est man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fair, unprejudiced 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 electricity, phlogiston, &c. the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing frightens me much j 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 cer- tain ! 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. — I think we should be 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 ROBERT BURNS. No. XCV. TO MR HILL. Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was resolved to augment their library by the following books, which you are to send us as soon as possible: — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, (these for my own sake I wish to have by the first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformation; Rae's History of the Rebellion in 1715; any good History of the Rebellion in 1745 ; A Dis- play of the Session Act and Testimony, by Mr GiBB; Hervey's Meditations,- Beveridge's Thoughts; and another copy of Watson's Body of Divinity. I wrote to Mr A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay some money he owed me into your hands, and lately I wrote to you to the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- ther one nor other of you. 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 Sta- tutes 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 he 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 Otways Dramatic Works, Ben Johnson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, VanbrugUs, Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works cf the more modern — Machlin, Garrick, Fooln, Gohnan, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Maker?, in 56 BURNS' WORKS. French, I much want. Any other good dra- matic authors in that language I want also ; but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire 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 bene- volent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly instances, I 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 study- ing 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 even 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 disposition and character. God knows I am no saint ; I 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 ! No. XCVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. EUisland, \0lh 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 pre- judices. I had often read and admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; but still with a certain regret, that they were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! nave 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 of native liberty possest, Though very poor, may yet be very blest." Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, " English ambassador, English 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 believe in my conscience tuch 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 states- men 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 truth of this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of men, and himself one of the ablest men that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with his interest, and who could completely put on the appearance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead nations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of human excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of the world; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud ne- gative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an exist- ence beyond the grave, then-, the true measure of human conduct is proper and improper : Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are in that case, of scarcely the import and value to the world at large, as harmony and discord in the modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give the pos- sessor an ecstasy 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 individual would 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 should be glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than any thing I have read of a long time. M'Kenzie 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 Feeling (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 books, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more congenial to LETTERS. 57 humanity and kindness, generosity and bene- volence ; 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 ray admiration of M'Kenzie's writings, I 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 Keaven 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 de- gree, 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 fe- males of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminently happy — or peculiarly miserable ! J 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 any thing that may show how much I have the honour to be, madam, yours, &c. No. XCVII. FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. Edinburgh, 25th May, 1790. MY DEAR BURNS, 1 am much indebted to you for your last friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a part of the vanity of my composition, to retain your correspondence through life. It was remarkable your introducing the name of Miss Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill healch ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- tle heart, to hear of her being in the last stage of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the bud. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness — of sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance of manners corresponded with the purity and elevation of her mind. How does your friendly muse ? I am sure she still retains her affection for you, and that you have many of her favours in your posses- sion, which I have not seen. I weary much to hear from you. I beseech you do not forget me. I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys the blessing of good health. All your friends here are well, among whom, and not the least, is your acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for my- self, I am well, as far as will let a man be ; but with these I am happy. When you meet with my very agreeable friend J. Syme, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and bid, God bless him. Is there any probability of your being soon in Edinburgh? No. XCVIII. TO DR MOORE. Dumfries, Excise- Office, Uth July, 1790. SIR, 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 news-paper, as short as a hungry grace-before- 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 Bj^re- mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 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 my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for my opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my over-weening fancy, than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollet, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring the business to bear ; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of Job — " And I said, I will also declare my opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take it up without at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, parentheses, &c. wherever I meet with an ori- ginal thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or a character sketched with uncommon precision. 58 BURNS' WORKS. Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- ing out my " Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you with my rem irks, such as they are. I have just received from my gentleman, that horrid summons in the book of Revelations — •• That time shall be no " more !" The little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- debted to the fair author for the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other sex, I should certainly have writ- - ten to the lady, with my grateful acknowledg- ments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my re- marks could be of much consequence to Mrs Smith, but .merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. No. XCIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. dear madam, 8th August, 1790. After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so long? It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; in short, to any thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; as I pay it from sincere convic- tion of its truth — a quality rather rare in com- pliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping times. Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! No. C. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannam at a family christening : a bride on the market-day before her marriage j n tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c. — but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, search- ing whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) to bind down with the crampets of at- tention, the brazen foundation of integrity, 1 may rear up the superstructure of Indepen- dence, and from its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. And is not this a *' consummation devoutly to be wished ?" »' Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky !" Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduction of SmolleVs Ode to Independence If you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great. To shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach ol a lordly piece of self-consequence, w 7 ho, amid all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well formed as thou art — came into the world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as all men must, a naked corse.* No. CI. FROM DR BLACKLOCK. Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. How does my dear friend ? — much I languish to hear, His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, I meant tills epistle in verse to have written; But from age and infirmity, indolence flows, And this, much I «8|r, will restore me to prose. Anon to my business I wish to proceed, Dr Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, A man of integrity, genius and worth, Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, Which will weekly appear, by the name of the Bee. Of this from himself I inclose you a plan, And hope you will give what assistance you can. Entangled with business, and haunted with care, In which more or less human nature must share, Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay bloom, With some rays of your genius her work may illume, * The preceding letter explains the feelings under which tins was written. The strain of indignant in- vective pocs on some time longer in the style which our bard was too apt to indulge and of which the reader has already seen so much. LETTERS. 59 Whilst the flower whence her honey sponta- neously flows, As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- clude, And add, your promotion is here understood ; Thus free from the servile employ of excise, sir, We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor ; You then more at leisure, and free from control, May indulge the strong passion that reigns in your soul. But I, feeble I, must to nature give way; Devoted cold death's and longevity's prey. From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- bend, Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, THO. BLACKLOCK. No. CII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. Edinburgh, 14 ' , and the eight lines which begin with " By this time he was cross the ford ;"• LETTERS. 65 so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious impressions of the country. And the twenty- two lines from " Coffins stood round like open presses," which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- dients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- sists in the very graphical description of the objects belonging to the country in which the poet writes, and which none but a Scottish poet could have described, and none but a real poet, and a close observer of Nature could lave so described. There is something original, and to me won- derfully pleasing, in the Epitaph. I remember you once hinted before, what you repeat in your last, that you had made some remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I should be very glad to see them, and regret you did not send them before the last edition, which is just published. Pray transcribe them for me, I sincerely value your opinion very highly, and pray do not suppress one of those in which you censure the sentiment or expres- sion. Trust me it will break no squares be- tween us — I am not akin to the Bishop of Grenada. I must now mention what has been on my mind for some time : I cannot help thinking you imprudent in scattering abroad so many copies of your verses. It is most natural to give a few to confidential friends, particularly to those who are connected with the subject, or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but this ought to be done under promise not to give other copies. Of the poem you sent me on Queen Mary, I refused every solicitation for copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My motive for cautioning you on this subject is, that I wish to engage you to collect all your fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after they have been re-considered, and polished to the utmost of your power, I would have you publish them by another subscription ; in pro- moting of which 1 will exert myself with plea- sure. In your future compositions, I wish you would use the modern English. You have shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. Although in certain subjects it gives additional Eest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- lish ; and why should you write only for a part of the island, when you can command the ad- miration of the whole. If you chance to write to my friend Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately remembered to her. She must not judge of the warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line but on business : and I do not know that I should have scribbled all this to you, but for the business part, that is, to insti- gate you to a new publication ; and to tell you that when you think you have a sufficient number to make a volume, you should set your friends on getting subscriptions. I wish I could have a few hours conversation with you — I have many things to say which I can- not write. If I ever go to Scotland, I will let you know, that you may meet me at your own house, or my friend Mrs Hamilton's, or both. Adieu, my dear Sir, &c No. CXV. TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. Ellisland, near Dumfries, l^th Feb. 1791. SIR, You must, by this time, have set me down as one of the most ungrateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book which does honour to science and the intellec- tual powers of man, and I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- tered as I was by your telling me that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles. I own, sir, that at first glance, several of your propositions star- tled me as paradoxical. That the martial clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle twangle of a Jew r s' harp ; that the deli- cate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock; and that from something innate and independent of all asso- ciation of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith. — In short, sir, ex- cept Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season I held the plough, I never read a book which gave me such a quantum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas as your ''Essays on the Principles of Taste." One thing, sir, you must forgive my mentioning as an uncom- mon merit in the work, I mean the language. To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; but you have convinced me that thty are quite compatible. I inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my E (36 BURNS' WORKS. tete composition. The one in print is my Qrst essay in the way of telling a tale. I am, Sir, &c. No. CXVI. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MR CUNNINGHAM 12th March, 1791. Ii- the foregoing piece he worth your strictures, let me have them. For my own part, a thing that I have just composed, always appears through a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced, in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacri- legiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my late compo- sition, which will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well as the former. You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. Bv yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though 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 gieet round their green beds in the yerd: I I brack the sweet heart o' my faithfu 1 auld dame — There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin' 1 tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; I >nt 'lill my last moment my words are the same— There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit vour fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by the charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the clock has intimated the near approach of " That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane." — So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on the tapis ? I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be: For far in the west is he I lo'e best— The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! Good night, once more, and God bless you ! No. CXVII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, llth April, 1791. I am once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and parti- cularly for your kind anxiety in this last dis- aster that my evil genius had in store for me. However, life is chequered— joy and sorrow — for on Saturday morning last, Mrs Burns made me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter but not so handsome as your god-son was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to be my chefd'eeuvrem that species of manufacture, as I look on Tarn o' Shanter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other discover a spice of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as well spared ; but then they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs Burns is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn -ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for that highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far the most be- witching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that where it can be had in its native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species of ca- price, I declare to Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other earthly good ! But as this angelic crea- LETTERS. 67 ture is, 1 am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally denied to such an humble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must put up with the next rank of female excellence —as fine a figure and face we can produce as any rank of life whatever; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, and unsullied pu- rity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; —and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- ing sweetness of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing with a more than equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitution, which your high ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. May Almighty Goodness pre- serve and restore him ! No. C XVIII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. llth June, 179J. Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you with this. He is a Mr Clarke, of Moffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the of one or two powerful individuals of his em- ployers. He is accused of harshness to . . . . . that were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend 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 impervious 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 mi- nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- ourgh, and as the business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every thing- 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 re- verend gentleman to whom you have the hon- our of being very nearly related, and whom tins country and age have had the honour to produce. * 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, and . . . . . God help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, re- ceived by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. O to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his in- dependence, amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every man 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 apportioning 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 virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last whl give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less 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 myself, to bear the consequences of those errors. I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. To return in this rambling letter to Hie 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. No. CXIX. FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. Dryburgh Abbey, 17 th June, 1791. Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the22dof Sep- tember; for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Sup- pose Mr Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm — and, wander- ing along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the com- * Dr Robertson was uncle to Mr Cunningham. E2 68 BURNS' WORKS. mendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame ^ of na- tive genius, upon the altar of Caledonian vir- tue. This poetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, followed out by his accomplished grandson, the present Sir Gilbert, who, having been with Lord Buchan lately, the project was renewed, and will, they hope, be executed in the manner proposed. No. CXX. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. MY LOKD, Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- ings, when 1 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 enthusiasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I overlooked 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. Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- sion : but who would write after Collins ? I read over his verses to the memory of Thom- son, 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 sub- joined 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. No. CXXI. FROM THE SAME. Dryburgh Abbey, 18th September, 1791. si a, Your address to the shade of Thomson has been well received by the public ; and though I should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to ride with you off the field of your honourable and use- ful profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse which J feel at this moment to suggest to your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent subject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar as- pect and manners of our country might furnish un excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, for the employment of happy moments of lei- sure and recess, from your more important occupations. Your Halloween, and Saturdaij Night, will remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- tures of rural innocence and happiness in your native country, and were happily written in the dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home being suited to descriptive poetry, except where colloquial, may escape disguise of a dialect which admits of no elegance or dignity of expression. Without the assistance of any god or goddess, and without the invocation of any foreign muse, you may convey in episto- lary form the description of a scene so gladden- ing and picturesque, with all the concomitant local position, landscape and costume ; con. trasting the peace, improvement, and happi- ness of the borders of the once hostile nations of Britain, with their former oppression and misery, and showing, in lively and beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is naturally dis- posed to overflow in gratitude in the moment of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the names of Glencairn, Miller, and your other eminent benefactors ; which from what I know of your spirit, and have seen of your poems and letters, will not deviate from the chastity of praise, that is so uniformly united to true taste and genius. I am, Sir, &c. No. CXXII. TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. MY LADY, I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your goodness has allowed me, of sending you any thing I compose in my poeti- cal 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 deter- mined 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 inclosed 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 Glen- cairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remembrance 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 have a son that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a family honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glen- cairn ! I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, LETTERS. f>9 I would, in some way or other, give it to the world. * No. CXXIII. TO MR AINSLIE. MY DEAR AINSLIE, Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- morse, head-ache, nausea, and all the 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 ? Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every thing 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 neighbour's backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head — and there is 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 Elibmiks and Elibraes, but the stanza fell unenjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ; at last I luckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, and I felt something for the first time since I opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write you. How are you, and what are you doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connection's sake do not address to me supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out bye and bye to act one ; but at pre- sent, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to an excise division of c£"2o per ann. better than the rest. My pre- sent income, down money, is £70 per ann. I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know. « The poem inclosed, is The Lament for James, Earl tj Gtencairn, No. CXXIV. FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. sir, Near Maybole, 16th October, 1791. Accept of my thanks for your favour with the Lament on the death of my much esteemed friend, and your woithy patron, the perusal of which pleased and affected me much. The lines addressed to me are very flattering. I have always thought it most natural to suppose, (and a strong argument in favour of a future existence) that when we see an hon- ourable and virtuous man labouring under bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns of fortune in this world, that there was a hap- pier state beyond the grave ; where that worth and honour which were neglected here, would meet with their just reward, and where tem- poral misfortunes would receive an eternal recompense. Let us cherish this hope for our departed friend ; and moderate our grief for that loss we have sustained ; knowing that he cannot return to us, but we may go to him. Remember me to your wife, and with every good wish for the prosperity of you and your family, believe me at all times, Your most sincere friend, JOHN WHITEFOORD. No. CXXV. FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. Edinburgh, 21th Nov. 1791. You have much reason to blame me for ne- glecting till now to acknowledge the receipt of a most agreeable packet, containing The Whis- tle, a ballad j and The Lament ; which reached me about six weeks ago in London, from whence I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I observed by the date, it had lain for some days. This was an additional reason for me to have answered it immediately on receiving it ; but the truth was, the bustle of business, engagements and confusion of one kind or another, in which I found myself immersed all the time I was in London, absolutely put it out of my power. But to have done with apologies, let me now endeavour to prove my- self in some degree deserving of the very flat- tering compliment you pay me, by giving you at least a frank and candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism on the poems you sent me. The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, truly excellent. The old tradition which you have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- nalian composition of any I have ever met with, and you have done it full justice. In the first place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For examule, — 70 BURNS' WORKS, M The bands grew the tighter the more they were wet " Cynthia hinted she'd find them next morn.'' ** Though Fate said a hero should perish in light, So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the Knight" In the next place, you are singularly happy in the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving each the sentiments and language suitable to his character. And, lastly, you have much merit in the delicacy of the panegyric which you have contrived to throw on each of the dramatis persona, perfectly appropriate to his character. The compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. In short, this composition, in my opinion, does you great honour, and I see not a line or a word in it which I could wish to be altered. As to The Lament, I suspect, from some expressions in your letter to me, that you are more doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece than of the other, and I own I think you have reason j for although it contains some beautiful stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew hollow," &c. the fifth, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. Yet it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior to several of those you have already published in the same strain. My principal objection lies against the plan of the piece. I think it was unnecessary and impro- per to put the lamentation in the mouth of a fictitious character, an aged bard — It had been much better to have lamented your patron in your own person, to have expressed your genuine feelings for his loss, and to have spoken the language of nature rather than that of fiction on the subject. Compare this with your poem of the same title in your printed volume, which begins, O thou pale Orb ! and observe what it is that forms the charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks the language of truth and of nature. The change is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, that an aged bard has much less need of a patron and protector than a young one. I have thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion of both the pieces. I should have made a very ill re- turn to the compliment you paid me, if I had given you any other than my genuine senti- ments. It will give me great pleasure to hear from you when you find leisure, and I beg you will believe rne ever, dear Sir, yours, &e. No. CXXVI. TO MISS DA VIES. It is impossible, madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity of your youthful nrui>d, can have any idea of that moral disease under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the moral powers that may be called, a lethargy of conscience — In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, madam, could have made me so long ueglec- your obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology — the bagatelle was not worth, present- ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its chances and changes ; that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- tween our wishes and our powers? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest, impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy ! I know that your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But there ! ascend that rock, Independence, and look justly down on their littleness of soul. Make the worthless trem- ble under your indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt ; and largely impart that happiness to others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow !" Why, dear madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort to the friend Hove ! — Out upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are ad- ministered so ill ? They talk of reform ; — good Heaven ! what a reform would I make among the sons, and even the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places where misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should they skulk, ever haunted by their native insig- nificance, as the body marches accompanied by its shadow — As for a much more formidable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : Had I a world, there should not be a knave in it. But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill ; and I would pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and generously love. Still the inequalities of his life are, among men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated aw* shocked at the rude, capri- LETTERS. 71 cious distinctions of fortune. "Women is the blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an original component feature of my mind. No. CXXVII. TO MRS DUNLOF. EUisland, Vtth December, 1791. Many thanks to you, madam, for your good news respecting the little floweret and the mo- ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have been heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and then Mrs Henri will find her little darling the representative of his late parent, in every thing but his abridged existence. I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. Scene, — A field of battle — time of the day, even- ing — the wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following SONG OF DEATH. 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 know, No terrors hast thou to the brave ! Thou strik'st the poor 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 f alls 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 ebbing sands — O, who would not die with the brave ! The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was, looking over, with a musical friend, M'Donald's collection of High- laud airs ; I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or, Thi Song of Death., to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. I have of late com- posed two or three other little pieces, which ere yon full orbed moon, whose broad impu- dent face now stares at old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for you. ADieuje vous comrnende / No. CXXVIH. TO MRS DUNLOP. 5th January, 1792. You see my hurried life, madam : I can only command starts of time ; however, I am glad of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. I have corresponded with Com- missioner Graham, for the Board had made me the subject of their animadversions ; and now I have the pleasure of informing you, that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to but hold ! I was praying most fervently in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fail a swearing in this. Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what mischief they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevo- lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charities and all the virtues, between one class of human beings and another. For instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of D , their generous hearts — their uncontaminated dignified minds — their inform- ed and polished understandings — what a con- trast, when compared — if such comparing were not downright sacrilege — with the soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the de- struction of an honest man that never offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prat- tling innocents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fellows dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality, pro- duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece among the de- scendants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never did your great ancestor lay a Southron more completely to rest than for a time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the season of wishing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me the humblest and smcerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns of the season ! May iiil good 72 BURNS' WORKS. things attend you and yours wherever they are scattered over the earth ! No. CXXIX. TO MR WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. Dumfries, 22d January t 1792. I sit down, my dear sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care no more for the herd of animals called young ladies, than you do for the herd of animals called young gentlemen. To you — who despise and detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus- trious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs Riddel, who will take this letter to town with her and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the common run of the lady-poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of your book, and hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, she begged to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was to desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while she was there ; and lest you might think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing, a failing which you will easily discover, as she seems rather pleased with indulging in it; and a failing that you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that fortune may never throw your subsist- ence to the mercy of a knave, or set your character on the judgment of a fool, but that, upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say, here lies a man who did honour to science ; and men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did honour to human nature ' No. CXXX. TO MR W. NICOL. 2Gth February, 1792. O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- eminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right lined rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an eriing wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple copulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! Yea, so be it ! For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quotation of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills ?* As for him, his works are perfect ; never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred ily at his dwelling. Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. — As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound de- sires ; never did the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagina- tion. O that like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then should I lie down and rise up, and none to make mt afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be ex ercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted slave, f * Mr Nicol. f This strain of irony was excited by a etter of Mi Nicol's containing good advice. LETTERS. 73 Nc. CXXXI. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 3d March, 1792. Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, J have not had time to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means, that the three demons, indolence, busi- ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes fragment to take up a pen in. Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much ad- mired old Highland air called The Sutor's Dochter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and J have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashion- able circles by Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. There is one commission that I must trou- ble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your High- land pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent one •, and I want to cut my armo- rial bearing on it ; will you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business ? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to sup- porters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier- wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two mottoes, round the top of the crest, Wood-notes wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee bush than nae bield. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock and Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edi- tion of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius. — Why is he not more known ? — Has he no patrons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world, and dear as it was, I mean dear as lo my pocket, I would have bought it ; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart so? I think that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth im- parts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea of such merit as Mr Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or governor-con- tractor possesses, and why they do not form 2 mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherisl unprotected merit, and the gratitude and cele- brity of that merit will richly repay it. No. CXXX TO MRS DUNLOP. Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. Do not blame me for it, madam — my own con- science, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame and pu- nish me sufficiently. Do you think it possible, my dear and hon- oured friend, that I could be so lost to gr^ti tude for many favours ; to esteem for much worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of progressive increasing friendship — as, for a single day, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what they are doing and about to do with my much loved friend and her wide-scat- tered connexions, and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can. Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have not leisure to explain), do you know that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours? — Almost! said I — lam in love, souse! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, Love, owing to the intermingledoms of the good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred purity of my at- tachment. Know then, that the heart-struck awe ; the distant humble approach ; the delight we should have in gazing upon and listening to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of' men, to deliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and their im;u. inationssoar 74 BURNS' WORKS. in transport— such, so delighting, and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss L— B— , your neighbour at M Mr B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr H. of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, did me the honour of calling on me ; on which I took my horse (though God knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when I left them ; and riding home, I composed the following ballad, of which you will probably think you have a dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of postage. You must know that there is an old ballad be- ginning with " My bonnie Lizzie Baillie I'll row thee in my plaidie," &c. So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, " unanointed unannealed," as Hamlet says. — See the poem. So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three people who would be the happier the oftener they met together, are, almost without exception, always so placed as never to meet but once or twice a-year, which, considering the few years of a man's life, is a very great " evil under the sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, that " we meet to part no more." " Tell us, ye dead, Will none of you in pity disclose the secret What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !" A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the ques- tion. " O that some courteous ghost would blab it out !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves and for ourselves. However, I am so con- vinced that an unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also by making us happier men, that I shall take every care that your little god-son, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught them. So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua. No. CXXXIII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Dumfries, 10th September, 1 792. No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all my hurry of business, grinding the face of the publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then drinking, and singing them; and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two different publications ; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my friends and fellow- creatures. I might have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour near " witching time of night" — and scrawled a page or two. I might have con- gratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour they have done me (though to do myself justice, I intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere now.) Well, then, here is to your good health ! for you must know, I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly rounds. But what shall I write to you ?— " The voice said cry," and I said, " what shall I cry ?" — O, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wher- ever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary glen through which the herd callan maun bicker in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn where the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou per- formest the work of twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose — Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of the storm, and the roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy noctur nal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gran- deur ; or performing thy mystic rites in the shadow of thy time-worn church, while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy inspirations, which thou breathest round the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the light-horse gallop of clishmaclaver for ever and ever — come and assist a poor devil who ia quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea LETTERS. 75 *rrw)ng half a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not got one single sentence of recollection, information, or remark worth putting pen to paper for. I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil on her three-footed stool, and like her too, labours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- ings of school divinity, who, leaving Com- mon Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, and Truth creeping back into the bot- tom of her well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theologic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. " On earth Discord ! a gloomy Hea- ven above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth part of the tithe of man- kind ! and below, an inescapable and inexora- ble hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !" — O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauores miser ables, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen hun- dred thousand that your situation will mend in this world ;" so, alas ! the experience of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dog- mas of , that you will be damned eter- nally in the world to come ! But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart? They are orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known them merciful : buc still your children of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and a toot spurning filth, in short, with a conceited dig- nity that your titled ... . . . . . . . .or any other of your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, display when they accidentally mix among the many- aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave. — How ignorant are plough-boys !— Nay, I have since discoverd that a godly woman may be a ! — But hold —Here's t'ye again — this rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like the married life ! Ah, my friend ! matri- mony is quite a different thing from what your love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of his institutions. I am a husband of older standing than you, and shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state — {en passant, you know I am no Latinist, is not conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke ?) Well, then, the scale of good-wifeship I divide into ten parts — Good-nature, four; Good Sense, two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, (I would add a fine waist too. but that is so soon spoilt, you know) all these, one ; as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, Education, (I mean education ex- traordinary) Family Blood, &c. divide the two remaining degrees among them as you please ; only, remember that all these minor properties must be expressed by fractions, for there is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an integer. As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — how I lately met with Miss L B , the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world — how I accompanied her and her father's family fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God, in such an unequalled display of them — how, in galloping home at night, I made a ballad on her, of which these two stan- zas make a part — Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, Thy subjects we before thee ; Thou, bonnie L , art divine, The hearts o' men adore thee. The very Deil he could na scaith Whatever wad belang thee ! He'd look into thy bonnie face And say, " I canna wrang thee." — behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- venient season. Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed oosowi-companion, be given the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things brought forth by the moon, and the benignest influence of the stars, and the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for ever and ever » Amen ! No. CXXXIV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, 24/A September, 1792. I have this moment, my dear madam, yours of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head when I read and think on Mrs H 's situ- ation. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless young woman — in a strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed with every horror, that can 76 BURNS' WORKS. harrow the human feelings— sick — looking, longing for a comforter, but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he who wounded (he only can) may He heal !* I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- quisition to his family . . I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- conscionable rent, a cursed life I As to a laird farming his own property ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can say unto him, "what dost thou ?"— fattening his herds ; shearing his Hocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but Devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs B , until her nine months' race is run, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. She, too, seems deter- mined to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if Heaven wall be so obliging as let me have them on the proportion of three boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set of boys that will do honour to my cares and name ; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, has completely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. You know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to our heart : you can ex- cuse it. God bless you and yours I No. CXXXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MRS H , HER DAUGHTER, I had been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much- ralued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with you ; consolation I have none to offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of affliction — children of affliction I — how just the expression ! and like every other * This much-lamented iady was gone to the south of France with her infant son, where she died soon after. family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-impor- tant manner, of which the world has not, not cares to have, any idea. The world looks in- differently on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. Alas, madam ! who would wish for many years ! What is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire and leave us in a night of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the stars one by one, from the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howling waste ! I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me again. No. CXXXVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, 6tk December, 1792. I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop-house. Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncer- tainty, and shudder with apprehensions for our own fate. But of how different an importance are the lives of different individuals ? Nay, of what importance is one period of the same life, more than another ? A few years ago, I could have lain down in the dust, " careless of the voice of the morning;" and now not a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, lose both their " staff and shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately got an addition, Mrs B. hav- ing given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's Edward and Kleanora. " The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer — Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &e. As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from the same piece peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear madam, to your present frame of mind : " Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him, With his fair-weather virtue, that exults Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes, The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the helm This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, LETTERS. 77 Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, How cheap a thing were virtue !" I do not remember tt) have heard you men- tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from his Alfred, " Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life; to life itself, With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." Probably I have quoted some of these to you formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the former are extremely apt to run into one another ; but in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you another quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot resist the temptation. The subject is religion — speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says, ' 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning blight," &c. as in p. 49. I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the reforming, or rather the republican spirit of your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter. 1 have taken up the subject in another view ; and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- night, I wrote an address, which I will give you on the other page, called The Eights of Woman. THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. Au Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fonte- nellk on her benefit-night. 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 plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man 1 Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights oj Woman merit some attention. First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— Our second Right's — but needless here is cau- tion, 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 ! these 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, oui dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostn*. tion Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; There taste that life of life — immortal love — Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, 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 ? But truce with kings, and truce with constitu- tions, With bloody armaments and revolutions, Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah ! ca ira / the Majesty of Woman ! I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person at Dunlop. No. CXXXVII. TO MISS B- -, OF YORK. madam, 21 st March, 1793. Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with any body after their own heart, they bad a charm- ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- ings with them in after- life. Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- able being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom * Ironical allusion to the saturnalia rflhe Caledonian Hunt. 78 BURNS' WORKS. you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turn- ings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take those to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- ing Miss B ; how much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. Miss H tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the inclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. No. CXXXVIII. TO MISS C- madam, August, 1793. Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- vented my doing myself the honour of a second visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably invited, and so positively meant to have done. — However, I still hope to have that pleasure before the busy months of harvest begin. I inclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind return for the pleasure I have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, madam, I know will not allow. What is said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry; none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be melan- choly. There is not, among all the martyro- logies that ever were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting aftei the intrigues of butterflies — in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the path of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living, for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, madam, I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wis- dom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own that all happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, rising over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of Man ! No. CXXXIX. TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. sir, December > 1793. It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to man — or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's ear'd little pages,* I had done my- self the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against ; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. I think I once mentioned something of a collection of Scotch songs I have for some years been making : I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not con- veniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. A very few of them are my own. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the col- lection in the world ; and I shall be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains. * Scottish bank-notes. LETTERS. 79 No. CXL. TO MRS R- WUO WAS TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE EVENING AT THE DUMFRIES THEATEE. I am thinking to send my Address to some periodical publication, but it has not got your sanction, so pray look over it. As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, let me beg of you to give us, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret; to which please add, The Spoiled Child— you will highly oblige me by so doing. Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits— '♦ To play the shapes Of frolic fancy, and incessant form Those rapid pictures, that assembled train Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; Or lolly, painting humour, grave himself, Calls laughter forth, tfcep -shaking every nerve.'' But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. No. CXL I. TO A LADY. IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday first : the pby a most interesting one ! The way to keep Rim. I have the pleasure to know Mr G. well. His merit as an actor is gener- ally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage : he is a poor and modest man ; claims which, from their very silence, have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity! that, from the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble, want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of Nature, by far the most envia- ble is — to be able " To wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy ! But I crave your pardon, madam ; I came to beg, not to preach. No. CXLII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MR 1794. I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr S showed me. At present, my situation in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The statement is t his — I am on the supervisor's list ; and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be appointed of course — then a Friend might be of service to me in getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about a hun- dred and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am ap- pointed supervisor in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list ; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A collectorship varies much, from better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- sand. They also come forward by precedency on the list, and have, besides a handsome in- come, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me, to say that I do not need or would not be indebted to a political friend ; at the same time, sir, I by no means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situation on your benevo- lence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices of a gen- tleman of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I will petition your goodness with the same frankness and sincerity as I now do myself the honour to subscribe myself, &c. No. CXLIII. TO MRS DEAR MADAM, I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those lob- ster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the condi- tions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of the visit. 80 BURNS' WORKS. Among the profusion of idle compliments which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly inces- santly offers at your shrine — a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration — permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart, and an independent mind ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable, and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c No. CXLIV. TO THE SAME. I will wait on you, my ever- valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure. Sun- day closes a period of our curst revenue busi- ness, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are. Round, and round, and round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives his cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without an idea or a wish beyond their cir- cle : fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- tented ; while here I sit, altogether Novem- berish, a d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set bis heart, it shall not prosper !" If my resentment is awakened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and if — Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B. No. CXLV. TO THE SAME. I have this moment got the song from S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him any thing again. I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 'Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I was at W ; and that once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on him, could only have envied my feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it. One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs . a higher tribute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her. No. CXLVI. TO THE SAME. I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it, even per- haps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could any thing es- trange me from a friend such as you ? — No ! To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting on you. Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women ; even with all thy little caprices ! No. CXLVII. TO THE SAME. MADAM, I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value. If it is true that " offences come only from the heart," before you 1 am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you, as the most accomplished of women, and the first of friends —if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing alive. In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confidence, now to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck •, that while de-haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. With the profoundest respect for your abili- ties; the most sincere esteem, and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable man- ners ; and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, madam, your most devoted bum- ble servant. LETTERS. 81 No. CXLVIII. TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. you know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to be my supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. I inclose you a song which I com- posed since I saw you, and I am going to give you the history of it. Do you know that among much that I admire in the characters and manners of those great folks whom I have now the honour to call my acquaintances, the O family, there is nothing charms me more than Mr O's unconcealable attachment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr O. ? A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright mind, and that informed too, much beyond the usual run of young fel- lows of his rank and fortune ; and to all this, such a woman ! — but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying any thing adequate : in my song, J have endeavoured to do justice to what would be his feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my perform- ance, I in my first fervour thought of sending it to Mrs O , but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of that servility which my soul abhors.* No. CXLIX. TO MISS MADAM, Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me trouble you with this let- ter. Except my ardent and just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have past with the friend of my soul, and his amiable con- nexions ! The wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and the cu'ting reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most unde- servedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight ! These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. — However, you, also, may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine j sen- * The song inclosed was the one beginning with " O wat ye wha's in you town." sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, is not the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to wage. The powers of positive vice I car. in some degree calculate, and against direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off" the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly 9 I have a favour to request of you, madam, and of your sister Mrs , through your means. You know, that, at the wish of my late friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. They are many of them local, some of them puerile, and silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live, when the hate of those who " watch for my halting," and the contume- lious sneer of those whom accident has made my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me ? As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed ; and that circumstance, indeed, was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs 's goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in soma degree of estimation. With the sincerest esteem. I have the hon- our to be, madam, &c. No. Cl^r TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 25th February, 1794. Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a sou! tossed on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame^ tremblingly alive to the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, 82 BURNS' WORKS. that my feelings at times could only be envied j by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consola- tion ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reason- ings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Isca- riot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept ; ts native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifi- cations of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, forti- tude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, how- ever the sceptic may deny them, or the enthu- siast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul ; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities— an all-powerful and equally beneficent God ; and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the nndiscerning many; or at most as. an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wan- dering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in the bloom- ing youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is wrapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glori- ous enthusiasm of Thomson. — ■These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. — The rolling year Is lull of thee." And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights, and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them ? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- ing, and approving God. No. CLI. TO SUPPOSES HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE DEAD TO THE LIVING. MADAM, I dare say this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know ; a9 I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine, for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days ; and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- low of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, is Recollection, with a whip oi scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom m) conduct last night so much injured, I think il would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apo- logy. — Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me ; and the other gentlemen were par- takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a miserable d — d wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs G , a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour ; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum ! whis- per to them that my errors, though great, were LETTERS. 83 ir; voluntary— that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me — but — Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell- hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, madam, your humble slave. No. CLII. TO MRS DUNLOP. my dear friend, 15th December , 1795. As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sym- pathize in it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less threatened to termi- nate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of hus- band and father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties fre- quently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such things happen every day— gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters indepen- dency and friends ; while I — but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject ! To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — " O that I had ne'er been married, I would never had nae care ; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, They cry, crowdie, evermair. Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; Crowdie ! three times in a day : An ye crowdie ony mair, Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." — December 2^th. We have had a brilliant theatre here, this season ; only, as all other business has, it ex- periences a stagnation of trade from the epide- mical complaint of the country, want of cash. I mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- casional Address, which I wrote for the benefit- night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows : — ADDRESS. Spoken by Miss Fontenelee on her benefit-night, Dec. 4, 1795, 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' Can you — but Miss, 1 own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- ance ; 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, j'Our servant — gloomy Master Poet. Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my Hx'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief: 1 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, though you can't be rich. Thou oiher man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; Measur'-t in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap : Would'st thou be cured, 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. — 25th, Christmas Morning. This, my much-loved friend, is a morning ot wishes : accept mine — so Heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not ! lu F2 84 BURKS 1 WORKS. the charming words of my favourite author, The Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and blunt the arrow that brings them rest !" Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? is not the Task a glorious poem ? The religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature : the religion that exalts, that en- nobles man. Were not you to send me your Zeluco in return for mine ? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters ; I mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which from time to time I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which yet, at the same time, I bid not care to destroy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. As 1 wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. No. CLIII. TO MRS DUNLOP, IN LONDON. Dumfries, 20lh December, 1795. I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this route ; and now I know not what is become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in pros- pering health and good spirits. Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this last article, I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publi- cation of Scottish songs which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where 1 have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pin- dar does over the English. I wrote the fol- lowing for a favourite air. December, 29. Since I began this letter I have been appointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and dur- ing the illness of the present incumbent ; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form : a consummation devoutly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. This is the season (New-year's-day is now my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fervently offered up for you ! May life to you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends ! What a transient business is life ! 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 stiffen- ing joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had, in early days, religion strongly impressed on my mind. 1 have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes ; but I look on the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot — I felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- tion for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave. January, 12. You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and Manners ; and still I read it with delight. His humour is perfectly original — it is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco ; remember that, when you are disposed to rake, up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of laziness. lie has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last publication.* * Udvvard. LETTERS. 85 No. CLIV. TO MRS 20th January, 1796. I cannot express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer perusal of Anucharsis. In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable de- sideratum to a son of the muses. The health you wished me in your morning's card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. ' The muses have not quite torsaken me. The following detached stanzas I intend to in- ter weave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. No. CLV. TO MRS DUNLOP. 3\st January, 1796. These many months you have been two pack- ets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, ill can I afford at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- gun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before my own door in the street. When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, Affliction purifies the visual ray, Religion hails the drear, the untried night, That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day. No. CLV I. TO MRS R , WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH- DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHOW HIS LOYALTY. ±th June, 1796. I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and\ come defy me Israel!" So say I — Come curse me that east wind ; and come, defy me the north » Would you have me, in such circumstances, to copy you out a love song ? I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. — Why should I? "man delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you supply me with the song, Let us all be unhappy together t — do if you can, and oblige le pauvre miserable R- B. No. CLVII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 1th July, 1796. MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention ; a literary cir- cle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair — my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the subject — only the medical folks tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and country quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead of .£50— What way, in the name of thrifi, shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters— with a wife and five children at home, on .£35 ? I men- tion this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to grant me the full salary. I dare say you know them all personally. If they do not 88 BURNS' WORKS, grant it me, 1 must lay my account with an exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger. I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, when I will send it you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs Burns threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable de- signation of Alexander Cunningham Burns: My last was James Glencairn ; so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell. No. CLVIIL TO MRS BURNS. my dearest love, Brow, Thursday. I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are the only thing I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are well. My very best and kindest compli- ments to her and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday. Your affectionate hus- band, R. B. No. CLIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. madam, ]2th July, 1796. I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has -long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly en- tertaining and instructive. With what plea- sure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! R. B. The above is supposed to be the last produc- tion of Robert Bukns, who died on the 21st of the month, nine days afterwards. He had, how- ever, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of his friend's silence, and an assur- ance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children ; an assurance that has been amply fulfilled. It is probable that the greater part of her let- ters to him were destroyed by our bard about the time that this last was written. He did not foresee that his own letters to her were to appear in print, nor conceive the disappointment that will be felt, that a few of this excellent lady's have not served to enrich and adorn the collec- tion. THE POEMS ROBERT BURNS. NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN CALEDONIAN HUNT. My Lords and Gentlemen, A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native Land ; those who bear the hon- ours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue ; I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She whispered me to come to this ancient Me- tropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- ing for a continuation of those favours : I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Hon- our, the Mxiar2h of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your return : When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native Seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- come, meet you at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe ! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. ROBERT BURNS POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS: A TALE. Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Avid King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name they ca'd him Casar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass ? collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : But tho' he was o' high degree, The fient a pride na pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressin*, Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his towzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. Cuchullin's dog in Ossiau's Fingul. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; Wi' social nose whyles snufPd and snowkit; Whyles mice and modieworts they hovvkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' vvorry'd ither in diversion ; Until wi' daffln weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression, About the lords o' the creation. 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 lived ava. Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : He rises when he likes himsel'; His flunkies answer at the bell ; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draws a bonnie silken purse, As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boilir-g; An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our W r hipper-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 its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fash't enengh , A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like, Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his ban' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thaek an' rape. 90 BURNS' WORKS. An' when they meet \vi' sair disasters, Like loss o' heath, or want of masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; An' buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huffd, and cufF'd, and disrespeckit ! L — d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd on our Laird's court day An* mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snasli ; He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an* swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an* tremble ! I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches ; They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, The view o't gi'es them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided ; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; The prattlin things are just their pride That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy ; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs : They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,, They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, When rural life, o' every station. Unite in common recreation : Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's Care upo* the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds ; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the house. My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himself the faster In favours wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', For Britain's guid his saul in dentin' — Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : For Britain's guid I — guid faith, I doubt it Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' saying ayeox no's they bid him ; At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, To learn bon ton and see the worl\ There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails ! Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtles s Then bouses drumly German water, To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain 1 s guid I — for her destruction | Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate ! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last ! O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sporto, It wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin* billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows j Except for breakin' o' their timmer, Or speakin' 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 or hunger e'er can steer them, The very thought o't need na fear them. POEMS. 91 C^SAR. L — d, man, were ye but whyles where 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 gripes an' granes : But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges an' schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themselves to vex them, An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them •, A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races, Their gallopin' through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches : A.e night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters ; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore ovvre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman ; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this the sun was out o' sight : An' darker gloaming brought the night : The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : When up they gat an shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; And each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. There let him bouse, and deep carouse Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. SCOTCH DRINK, Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair ; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care ; Let other poets raise a fracas, 'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus. An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O Thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drim Whether thro' vvimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. And Aits set up their awnie horn> Au' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, Pertume the plain, heeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In 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 t There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' j Tho' life's a gift no worth receiving When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' j But oil'd by thee, The wheels 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 silver 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 morning In cog or bicker, 92 BURNS' WORKS. 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 the fizz an' freath I' the lugget caup ! Then Burncwin* comes on like death At ev'ry chaup. Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forebammer, Till block an' studdie ring and 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 neebours anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the burhy bree Cement the quarrel; It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason \ But mony 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, Fe!l source o' monie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, O' half his days ; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wlia wish auld Scotland well ! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like myseP ! It sets you ill, Wi* bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 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. O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! * Biirnewin — Burn-the-wind — the blacksmith — an propria t« title. Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a — s ! Thee, Ferintosh I O sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic grips, an barkin hoast, May kill us a' ; For loyal Forbes' chartered 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 1 bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d — n'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, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. the author's EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* TO 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, And doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce To see her sittin' on her a — Low i' the dust, An' screichin' out prosaic verse, . An' like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On Aquavitce ; An* rouse them up to strong conviction An' move their pity. • This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786 .; for which Scotland andlhff Author return their most grateful thanks. POEMS. 93 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 ! Sf>eak 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 gathering votes you were na slack •, Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an' ridge your back, An* hum an' haw ; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a*. Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a vvhissle ; An' d-mn'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 Mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves ? Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark- 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 warnvly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, Ye wiuna bear it ! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' 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 ;* Sir Adam Ferguson. An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, The Laird o' Graham;* An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, JDundas his name. JErskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick, an' Hay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie An' money 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 been in cank'rous 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' L — d 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' the first she meets ! For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' 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 caddie ! An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin* lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock'sf 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 *ias a raucle tongue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung; * The presenl Duke of Montrose.— (1800.) f A worthy old H .stess of the Author's in Munch- line, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scctch j >rin/c. 91- BURNS' WORKS. An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung She'll no desert. An' nowyye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye : Then, tho' 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' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St Jamie's { Vour humble poet sings an' prays While Fab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let balf-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But blithe and frisky, She eyes her free born martial boys, Tak aff their Whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and 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 j They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; 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, taint-hearted doubtings tease him : Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's, Mis 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' whylcs ye moistify your leather, Till whare you sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam ; {Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !) Tak aff your dram ! THE HOLY FAIR * A robe of seeming- truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret hung- with poLon'd cru^t, The dirk of Defamat on : A mask that like the gorget show'd Dye- varying on the p geon ; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy, a-hu mode. I. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the callar air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin' The hares were hirplin' down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin' Fu* sweet that day. II. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad To see a scene say gay, Three hizzies, 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. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes : Their visage wither'd, lang, am thin, An' sour as ony slaes ; The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, As light as ony lammie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. IV. Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, But yet I carina name ye.' Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' tak's me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. * Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west :>f Scot- land lor a sacramental occasion. POEMS. 95 V. " My name is Fun — your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye ha'e ; An' this is Superstition here, ' An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Holy Fair, To spend an hour in damn' j Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day. " VI. Quoth 1, ' With a' my heart I'll do't ; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot ; Faith we'se hae fine rem ark in' !' Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, An* soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi* monie a weary body, In droves that day. VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin* barefoot, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, An farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glovvr Black Bonnet throws, An we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show, On ev'ry side they're gatherin', Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stoo.s An' some are busy bletherin', Right loud that day. IX. Here stands a shed to fend the show 'is, An' screen our countra Gentry, There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, An' there a batch of wabster lads,^ Blackguardin' frae K ck, For fun this day. X. Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An* some upo' their claes ; Ane curses 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. XI. O happy is the man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin* down beside him i Wi' arm repos'd on the chair- back, He sweetly does compose him ! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loot upon her bosom Unkenn'd that day. XII. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation ; For speels the holy door Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' 's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. XIII, Hear how he clears the points o* faith Wi* rattlin' an thumpin' ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day ' XIV. But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; There's peace and rest nae Ian ger : For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. opens out his cauld harangues On practice and on morals An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. XV. What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs and 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 lie does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day. XVJ. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum : For , 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, 96 BURNS' WORKS. While Common-sense, has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast, that day. Wee XVII. neist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, And thinks it auld wives' fables : But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse So cannily he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit and sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day. XVIII. Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills, And there the pint stoup 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. XIX. 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 drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. XX. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul and 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' forming assignations To meet some day. XXI. But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts : Black is na spairin' : His piercing words, like Highland swords Divide the joints an' marrow ; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our very sauls does harrow {• Wi' fright that day. XXII. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin' heat. Wad melt the hardest whun-stanej * A street so called, which faces the tent in—. f Shalcspeure's Hamlet. The half asleep start up wi' fear, And think they hear it roarin% When presently it does appear, •Twas but some neighbour snorin' Asleep that day. XXIII. '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' cuips, Amang the furms an' benches j An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. XXIV. 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, And gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething I Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing J O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel' How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck-heei, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day. XXVI. Now Clinhumbell, wi' rattlin' 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. XXVII. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses ! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gan« As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy ; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. POEMS. 97 DEATH AND DOCTOR BOOK: HORN- A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies f'rae 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 \vi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, Is just as true's the De'il's in hell Or Dublin city : That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was nae fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches ; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, I set mysel' ; But whether she had three or four, I couldna tell. I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Wille'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 put 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' sraa' 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, where 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 : * This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1733. I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See there's a gulty !* ' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up youi whittle. I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out owre my beard.' ' Weel, weel P says I, < a bargain be't ; Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come gie's your news ; This while * ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house.' ' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, ' Its een a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath : Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death. 1 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 scar me ; Till ane Hornbook 's f taen up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me. ' Ye ken Jock Hornbook, V the Clachan, Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan \ An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin* An' 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 fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. ' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, * An epidemical fever was then raging in that country t This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, professional. a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; bu( by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. i Buchau's Do -n*Miic Medicine. (i vs BURNS' WORKS. I nearhand coupit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauid Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. ' Ev'n them he carina get attended, Alt ho' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just 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, ' An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. ' Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; True 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, Ui'inus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; Distil I'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, An' mony mae.' ' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole * now ;' Quo' I, [ If that the news be true ! His Draw calf-ward where gowans grew, Sae white an' bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; They'll ruin Johnnie !' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the plough, Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year. ' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, Tliis night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. < An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair j 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, * The grave-digger. His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well ; The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel'. ' A bonnie laste, ye ken her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her waine ; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care j Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. ' That's just a swatch o 1 Hornbook's way ; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay. An's weel paid for't ; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt. ' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin' ; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his iairin' ! 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 ; I took the way that pleased myseh, And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR: Inscribed to J. B- -, Esq. Ayr. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough , The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greer thorn bush : The soaring lark, the perching red breast shrill. Or deep-toned 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^ 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 string*, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward, Still if some Patron's generous care he trace-., Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; When B befriends his humble name And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, POEMS 99 With heart-felt throbs 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 Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, CJnnumber'd buds an' flowers' 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 thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : ( What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs: Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze. While thick the gossam«ur waves wanton in the rays. *Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care ; He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about ; ( Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), The drowsy Dung eon- clock, \ hadnumber'd two, And Wallace towerf had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd in Nature's closed e'e ; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting,o'er the glittering stream. When, lo ! on either hand the listening bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings he heard ; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the Gos$ drives on the wheeling hare ; • A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. f The two steeples. 4 The gos-hawk, or f,i .Icon. Ane on th Auld Erig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside* (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them. Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 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 London frae ane Adams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en— AULD ERTG. I doubt na', frien', ye'li think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'li never see ; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel -barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk, o* stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o 1 taste would tak' the Ducat- streamy* Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair foriairn, Til be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi 1 deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawl i g Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Oi where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpalj draws his feeble source, " A noted ford, just above the Auld ling. t The tanks of Garpal Water is one of the few places G 2 LefG. 100 BURNS' WORKS. Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted thovves, In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, arr 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 teacmng, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW ERIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; O'er arching, mouldy, gloom -inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited Monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuif's 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 re- surrection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- ings Ye worthy Proveses, an' rnony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smilers ; 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 vex- ation. To see each melancholy alteration ; hi the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- ings, known by ihe name of Ghuists, tstill continue pertinaciously to inhabit * The source of the river Ayr. t A small landing-place above the large key. And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, In 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 parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wha waste your -well-hain'd gear on d d new Brigs and Harbours J NEW ERIG. Now baud you there ! for 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 : But, under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared; To liken them to your auld warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down tho 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 shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense, for once be- trayed them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M'Lauchlin,* thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! * A well know n performer of Scottish music on the violin. POEMS 101 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 advanced 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 band with Spring ; _ [Joy, Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn ; [show, Then "Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary By Hospitality with cloudless brow; Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, From where the Peal wild-woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. THE ORDINATION For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n- To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. I. Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, An' pour your creeshie nations j An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations. Swith to the Laiyh 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. II. Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;# But O aft made her yell, An' R sair misca'd her ; This day, M< takes the flail, An' he's the boy will blaud her ! * Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr L. to the Lai^h Kirk He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An* set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. III. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; O' double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. For heresy is in her power, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham* leugh at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or Phineus\ drove the murdering biade, Wi* whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah,\ the scaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger I' the inn that day. V. There, try his mettle on the creed, An' bind him down wi' caution, That Stipend is a carnal weed, He taks but for the fashion ; Am gie him o'er the flock to feed, An' punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin', Spare them nae day. VI. Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An* toss thy horns fir canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowt 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 and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day. VII. Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion ; An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep, An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, An' a like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day . VIII. Lang Patronage, wi' rod o* aim, Has shored the Kirk's undoin', * Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. f Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. t Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 102 BURNS' WORKS. As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewing ; An' like a godly elect bairn He's waled us out a true ane, An' sound this day. Now R- IX. - harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever ; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Nether ton repair, An' turn a carpet weaver Aff hand this day. X. M — and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kvh watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons : An' aye he catelvd the tither wretch. To fry them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, Wi v a* his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast, this day, XI. See, see auld Orthodoxy^ faes, She's swingein' through the city ; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There Learning, wi' his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty : An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. XII. But there's Morality himsel', Embracing a' 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 afFto hell, An' banish'd our dominions, Henceforth this day. XIII. O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter : M* , R , are the boys, That heresy can torture : They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, An' cowe her measure shorter By the head some day. XIV. Come bring the tither mutchkin in, An' 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, an' ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR On his Text, Mai.achi, ch. iv. ver. 2 '« And they slial; go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall." Right Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yourseP just now, God knows, an unco Calf! An' should some Patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lovers raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, every heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Stot t Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rovvte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the noivte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head— < Here lies a famous Bullock V ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led the embattled Seraphim to war. — Milton, O thou ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' scotie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be ; * New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland . for those religio us opinions which Dr Taylor ol Ni»r. wich lias defended so strer uously. POEMS. 103 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E : eu to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel ! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; Far kend and noted is thy name ; An' tho' yon iovvin' heugh's thy name, Thou travels far ; An' faith ! thou's neither lag nar lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'. Tiriing the kirks ; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lankly glens you like to stray ; Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, WV eldritch croon. When twilight did my Grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' Wi' eerie drone ; Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries com in', Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, A yont the lough ; Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings. Let Warlocks grim, an' witber'd hays, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, Wi> wicked speed ; And in kirk- yards renew their leagues, Owre hovvkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; For oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en By witching skill; Am dawtit, twal-pint Hawkivs gaen As yell's the Bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse ; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, xVn' float the jinglin' icy-boord, Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, Am nighted Travelers are allured To their destruction. An» aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Masons' mystic ivordan' grip, In storms an' tempests raise }'ou up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell ; The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell ! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When you thru' lowers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the frgrant flowery swaird In shady bower ; Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' played on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa' !) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruined a D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, Ye did present your emoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke ? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, "While scabs and blotches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linking To your black pit ; * Vide Milton, book vi. 104 BURNS' WORKS. But faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin', And cheat you yet. But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! O wad ye tak a thought arid men' ! Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PETYOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFff' TALE. As Mailic, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she cocst a hitch, An' owre she warsled in the ditch ; There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc* he came doytin by. Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted ban's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : He saw her days were near-hand ended, But. wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! He gaped wide, but naething spak ! At length poor Mailie silence brak. « O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my Master dear. ' Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! But ca* them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will : So may his flock increase, an' grow To scores o' lambs, an 1 packs o' woo' ' * Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine : An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. ' O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an* butchers' knives But gie them guid cow milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an* rips o' corn. # A ueebor herd-callaa. * An' may they never learn the gaets, Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For mony 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-lamo, my son an' heir, bid him breed him up wi' care I An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast, An' warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi* yowes at hame ; An* no to rin an* wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. ' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string I O' may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit moorland toop : But aye keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' I ' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anitber. ' Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him bum this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amang the dead. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; Poor Maine's dead I It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed ; He's lost a friend and ueebor dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave herscl' wi' mense : I'll say't r she never brack a fence, Thro' thievish greed. POEMS. 105 Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Maine's dead. Or, if lie wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread ; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips : For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed ! A bonnier fieesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape 1 It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' ehckin' dread ; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed ! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. TO J. S- Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul , Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! I owe thee much! ■ — Blair, Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts ; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And every star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, Just gaun to see you : And every ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. TKat auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrim pit stature, She's turn'd you afT, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on every feature, She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy 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 1 cash, Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din ; For me an aim I never fash ; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An' damned my fortune to the groat : But in requit, Has bJ 'd me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This wnile my notion's taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid black prent ; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries ' Hoolie I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Ye'll shaw your folly. ' There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, A' future ages ; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages. Then fareweel hopes c 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, with 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 o' death begin a tale ? Just now we're living, sound an' hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side ! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak' the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu* light. The magic-wand then let us wield For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, Wi' creepin* pace. 106 BURNS' WORKS When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards f'oamin', An» social noise j An' fareweel dear deluding woman, The joy of joys I Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swa«- They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; Keen hope does every sinew brace : Thro' fair, thro* foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey : Then cannie in some cozie place, They close the day. An' others, like your humble servan', Poor wights ! nae rules or roads observin'; To right or left, eternal swervin', They zig-zag on ; Tiil curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin', They aften groan. Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — But truce with peevish poor complaining ! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? E'en let 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 warm implore, Tho' I should wander terra o'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o' rhymes. * Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds. Till icicles hing frae their beards : Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, An' maids of honour An' yill an* whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner 1 A title, Dempster merits it ; A yarter gie to Willie Pitt • Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent, per cent. But give me real, sterling wit, Arn I'm content. ' While ye are pleased to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scauty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face, As king's the muses dinna fail To say the grace.' An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose ; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows, As weel's I may : Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' 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 ! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces In your unletter'd nameless faces ; In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin' squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road. — Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason ; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. [On reading, in the 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 iu his dream, ing fancy, made the following Address.] I. Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! May heaven augment your blisses On every new birth day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My hardship here at your levee, On sic a day as this is, POEMS. 107 Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang the birth-day dresses Sae fine this day. II. 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 aye ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day, III. For me ! before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter ; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor : So nae reflection on tjour grace, Your kingship to bespatter ; There's monie waur been o' the race, An' aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. 'Tis very true, my sovereign king, My skill may well be doubted : But facts are chiels that winna ding An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, An' now the third part o' the string, An less, will gang about it Than did ae day, V. 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. VI. An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister j Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' WiWs a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges j But God sake ! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII Adieu, my Liege! may fr'.edom geek Beneath your high protection ; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, An' gie her for dissection I But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. IX. Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! While nobles strive to please ye y Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies ye ? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye, In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. X. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day XI. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver: So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver : There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; And yet wi' funny queer Sir John,] He was an unco shaver For monie a day. XII. For you, right rev'rend Osnabrug, Nane sets the laion-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her ; • King Henry V. f Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspeare. 108 BURNS' WORKS. A glorious galley* stem an' stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An', large upo' her quarter, Come full that day XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnic blossoms a>, Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n make you guid as weel as hraw, An' gie you lads a-plenty : But sneer nae British boys awa', For kings are unco scant aye ; An' German gentles are but sma\ They're better just than want aye On onie day. XV. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro' It may be bitter sautet ; An' I hae seen their coygie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST, f The sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The thresher's weary Jlingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me : And whan the day had closed his e'e, Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fill'd wi' hoast- provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin' ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin*. All in this mottie, misty clime, T backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youth fu' prime, An* done nae-thing, * Alluding- to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. t Dunn, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson'a translation. But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account : While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkir, 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 sneck did draw j An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; An J by my ingle- lo we I saw, Now bleezin' bright, A tight outlandish Hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ! The infant aith half-form'd was crush't ; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen ; When sweet like modest worth, she blush't, 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 ; An' come to stop those 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 harf a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only pear it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else cam near it Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw A lustre grand ; And seem'd to my astonish'd view, A well known land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost : There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam ; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. POEMS. 109 Here Dcon pour'd down his far- fetch' d floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore ■, And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient borough rear'd her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race, To every nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace. I3y 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 Richardtons \ heroic swell ; The chief on Sark S who glorious fell, In high command ; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptred Pic'ish shade Stalk' d round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray'd In colours strong} Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along. Thro' many a w T ild, romantic grove, % Near many a hermit- fancy 'd cove, (Fit haunts for friendship or for love In musing mood,) An aged Judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good. With deep-struck reverential awe,** The learned sire and son I saw, To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, * The Wallaces. f AVilliam Wallace. t Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- mortal preserver of Scottish independence. $ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- mand, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. f, Cnilus, King of the Ficts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to taka its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- field, where his burial-place is still shown. % Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk. ** Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart. This, all its source and end to draw, That to adore. Brydon's brave ward * I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on. Where many a patriot-name on high, And hero shone. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heav'nly seemingyai'r ; A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet. ' All hail ! my own inspired bard ! In me thy native muse regard ! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low, I come to give thee such reward As we bestow. ' Know, the great genius of this land 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 j Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart : Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art. ' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand. 1 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, c Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue j Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His " Minstrel lays ;" Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic's bays, 1 To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of human -kind, Colonel I-'ullartoo. no BURNS' WORKS. The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, The Artisan ; AH choose, as various they're inclin'd, The various man. « When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; Sume teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage skill ; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blithe o'er the hill. * Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Some bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic Bard ; And careful note each op'ning grace, A guide and guard. ' Of these am I — Coila my name ; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling pow'r, I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. 1 With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond on thy little early ways, Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lays Of other times. ' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, / saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ' Or when the deep-green mantled earth Warm chefish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. 1 When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, CalTd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. ' When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen- shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. ' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, By Passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from heave: ' 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. 1 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, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. ' Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; And trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor kings' 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 j And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUIS RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these mnxims make a rule, And lump tliem aye thegither ; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither : POExAlS u The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in ; Sae ne'er a fellow- creature slight For random tits o' daffin. — Solomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. I. 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. II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass deuce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. III. Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks an unco lee-way. V. See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmogrified, 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 I VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye 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. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human ; One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pops Has auld K seen the Deil ! Or great M' — f thrawn his heel ? Or R \ again grown weel To preach an' read ? ' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, i Tam Samsons dead !' K- — lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and' wean, In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead ! The brethren of the 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 lochs 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, * When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfow' season, he supposed it \va3 to be, in Ossian'g phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an arden* wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. f A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil, lion. Vide the Ordination, Stanza II. t Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time liling. Fur him see a! Jo tne Or- dination, Stanza )X. 112 BURNS' WORKS. Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, In time o' need ; But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tarn Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, Tarn 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', Tarn Samson's dead ! That waefu' 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 ! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns came down like waters An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wile greetin', clatters, Tam Samson's dead ! Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit Wi deadly feide ; Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson'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 ; « L — d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger Tam Samson's dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead I There low he lies, in lasting rest: Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' 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 volleys let his mem'ry crave O pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! Is th* wish o' mony mae than me : He had twa fauts, or may be 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, spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye won near him. PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, and canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,* Tell every social, honest billie, To cease his grievin For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's twin' HALLOWEEN.f [The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and 6pells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea- santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of pry- ing 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 h philosophic mind, if any such should honour tno author with a perusal, to see the remains of it amoijg the more unenlightened in our own.Q Yes ! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Goldsmith, I. Upon that night, when fairies light, On Cassilis Downans j dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Colean the route is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams ! * KilJie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use for Kilmarnock. f 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 said on that night to hold x grand anniversary. t Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. POEMS. 113 There up the cove,* to stray an' rove Amang the rocks and streams, To sport that night. II. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, Where BitucEf 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' baud their Halloween Fu' blithe that night. III. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when their fine ; Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whyles fast at night. IV. Then first and foremost, thro' the kail. Their stocks \ maun a' be sought ai.ee ; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes and 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 V. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; The vera wee things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An' gif the customs sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them To lie that night. * A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. t The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. t 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 pnll 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 yird, or earth stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of nlm-ing the runts, the names in question. VI. The lasses staw frae' mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn ;* But Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn ; He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiuttliu' in the fause-housef Wi' him that night. VII. The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits \ Are round an' round divided, And monie lads and lasses' fates, Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthy side by side, An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, An' jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night. VIII. Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel' : He bleez'd owre her, and 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. IX. Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, 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, and swoor by jing, 'Tvvas just the way he wanted To be that night. X. 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 look for't : * They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the tjp of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an open- ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind ; this he calls afaicse-house. t Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly to- gether, or start from beside one another, the cours>e and / issm of the courtship will bo. 11 114 BURKS' WORKS. Rob, stowlins prie'd her bonnie mou, Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night. XI. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel' : She thro' the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins graipit for the banks, And in the blue clue* throws then, Right fear't that night. XII. Air aye she win't, an' ay she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin ; Till something held within the pat, Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 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. XIII. Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, " Will ye go wi' me graunie? I'll eat the applef at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnie :" She fufFt her pipe wi' sic a hint, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night. XIV. " Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An" liv'd an' di'd deleeret On sic a night. XV. u Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fyfteen : * Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must ■trii'ily observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yam ; wind it in a new clue off' the old one : and, to- wards the latter end, something will hold the thread demand Wha /tawis r i. e. who holds ? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and Birnnmc of your future spouse. + Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; cat an apple before it, and sonic traditions say, you should Comb your hair all the time ; the lace of your conjugal companion, ta be, will be seen in the glass, as if pi epi g over your shoulder i The simmer had been cauld an' wat, j An' stuff was unco green : An' aye a rantin kirn we gat, An just on Halloween. It fell that night XVI. " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graer;, A clever, sturdy fallow ; He's 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 mony a day was by Jiimsrt, He was sae saitly flighted That vera night.'' XVII. Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swoor by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; P'or it was a' but nonsense ! The auld guid-man raught down the pock, An' ont a handfu' gied him ; Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see'd him, An' try't that night. XVIII. He marches thro' amang the stacks. Tho' he was something sturtin, The graip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin -. An' ev'ry now an' then he says, " Hemp seed I saw thee, An' her that is to be my lass, Come after me, and draw thee, As fast this night." XIX. He vvhistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery; Altho' his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie : Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle ; He by his shoulder gae a keek, An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night. XX. He roar'd a horrid murder shout, In dreadfu' desperation : An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, To hear the sad narration : * Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp- seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently draw alter you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp- eed I saw thee ; hemp-seed 1 saw thee* and him (or her) that is to tie my true-love, come after me and pou thee.' Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the ap- pearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, ' come after me, and sliaw thee,' that is, show thyself: in which case it simply ap- pears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, " come after me and harrow thee. ' POEMS. 115 Me swoor *twas hilebin Jean M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a'; An* wha was it but Grurnphie Asteer that night ! XXL Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, To win 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, An' tvva red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tarn Kipples That vera night. XXII. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, An' owre the threshold ventures ; But first on Sawnie gies a ca,' Syne bauldly in she enters ; A rattan rattled up the wa' An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night. XXIII. They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice •, Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd ihrice,\ Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin ; An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' AfF's nieves that night. XXIV. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlen ; But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin' ! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', Whare thrae lairds lands' met at a burn,\ To dip her left sark sleeve in, Was bent that night. * This charm must likewise be performed unperceiv- ed> and alone. You go to the bam, and open both doors, taking them oft' the hinges, if possible ; for there is danger, that the behig about to appear, may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that in- Btrunient used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a tveckt, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Re- peat 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 appearance or retinue, marking the employ- ment, or station in life. t 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 appear- ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 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 sijjht of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to XXV. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. XXVI. Amang the brackens, on the brae, Between her an' the moor., The deil, or else an outJer quey, Gat up an' gae a croon ; Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; Ne'er lavrock height she jumpet, But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi* a plunge that nighu XXVII. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three* are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 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 nighL XXVIII. Wi merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary ; An' unco tales, and funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery : Till butter 7 d so'nf ,f wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin' Fu' blithe that night. dry. Lie awake ; and some time 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 of it. * Take three dishes, put clean water in one, fou water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold t person, and lead him to the hearth where tlu dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if bj chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. t Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is al ways i he Halloween Supper. ' 116 BURNS' WORKS. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie J Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : Tho' thou's howe-backit, now an' knaggie, I've seen the day, Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho* now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an glaizie, A bonnie gray : He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, AJilly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, An' set weei down a shapely shank As e'er tred yird ; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like onie bird. It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid father's meere He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark ; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride: An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, An' wintle like a samount-coble, That day ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win' ! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin\ When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow : At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed ; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle : Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble JiUie-lan\ As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't an' fetch't, an' flit-kit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep. An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied my cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer : I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, Then stood to blaw ; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Tho'j snoov't awa. My phugh is now thy bairn-time a' : Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, That thou hast nuist . They drew me thretteen pund an' tvva, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. And think na, my auld, trusty servan'. That now perhaps thou's less deservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin', For my lastybw, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither j We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; PC EMS. J17 (W tentie care I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion An' fellow -mortal ! ^ doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; ye rantin' core, Wha dearly like a random splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key ; For now he's ta'en anither shore, An' owre the sea. The bonnie lassies weel may miss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! Hadst thou ta'en afF some drowsy bummel, 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, can tie 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 laureate monie a year, That's owre the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nore-wast Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak' his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummotk, On scarce a bellyfu' o* drummock, Wi' his proud independent stomach Could ill agree •, So row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel ; Yell find him aye a dainty chiel, And fu o' glee : He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billic '• Your native soil was right ill-Willie ; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie ; I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race . POEMS. 129 Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distill Like amber bead. His knife see rustin labour dight, An' cut you up \vi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums ; Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew, Vv'i' 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 ; Thrc bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle j 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 na skinking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because ye're surnamed like his grace, Perhaps related to the race j Then when I'm tired — 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 Maun please the great folk for a wamefu' j For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, / can plough And when I dinna yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid 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 man forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me) On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want ; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, Till aft his goodness is abused ; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either. But then, na 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, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! No — stretch a point to catch a plack j Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro a winnock frae a wh-re, 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. Learn 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 ; 130 BURNS' WORKS. I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 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 ! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When ruin with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me, My leaders 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 patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said ever pray, But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; But I'se repeat each poor man's prai/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 K — 's'f'ar honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flume, Till H s at least a dizen, Are frae her nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To sene 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 miir shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 1 will not mind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 1 am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! While recollection's power is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear, Should recognize my master dear, If friendless low we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHU11CH. Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, In shoals and nations: Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now baud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it, The vera tapmost tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose oy As plump and grey as onie grozet; for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your drodduir ' 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat $ But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie, How dare ye O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An 1 set your beauties a' abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's niakin', POEMS. 131 Thae winks and. finger ends, I dread, Are notice takin' ! O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us I It wad frae nionie a blunder free us, And foolish notion : What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev*n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! From marking wildly scatter'd flowers. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 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. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine ! V. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold veteran grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Famed heroes, had their royal home Alas ! bow changed the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ; Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! VII. 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 : E'en / who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led ! VIII. 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 flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1st, J 785. While briers an' woodbines budding green, An* paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin' To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin' ; And there was muckle fun and jokin', Ye need na doubt: At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased 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 described saeweel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattics wark ?' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spiert, 12 [32 BURNS' WORKS. Then a' that ken't him, round declared He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' gnu'th, 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 1 could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am na poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter ? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic folk may cock their nose, A nd say, < How can you e'er propose, Yuu wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools j If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars ? Ye'd better taen 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. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Vergiisorts, the bauld and sice, Or bright LapraVis, my friend to be If I can hit it • That would be bar 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. I winna blaw about mysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me,' Tho' I maun own, as rnonie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, T like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me At dance or fair; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Maucldine race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware WT ane an ither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An* kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart ; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better \ Before we part. Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship should give place To catch the plack ! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, ' Each aid the others, Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers •» But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle : Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am most fervent, While I can either sing, or whissle, Your friend and servant. POEMS. 133 TO THE SAME. april 2], 1785. .While new ca'd kye rout at the stake, An' povvnies reek in pleugk or brake, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten hours bite, My awkart-muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless ramfeel'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, * Ye ken ye've been sae busy This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right 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 winna mak' it clink, By Jove I'll prose it !' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether Jn rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch ! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ,- She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow, 111 laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, A s lang's I dow ! Now comes the sax and 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, /, Hob, am here. Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A Bailie's name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks ; ' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, Then turn me if Thou please adiift Thro' Scotland wide : Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift, In a' their pride !' Were this the charter of our state, ' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead ; But thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 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, An' none but he ! O mandate glorious and divine ! The followers o' the ragged Nine, Poor glorious devils ! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, ar growl, Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright j 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, and joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year 134 BURNS' WORKS. TO W. S N, OCHTLTREE. May 1785. I gat your letter, winsome Willie : Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Tho' I maun sayt I wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, Your flat term' strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire sidelins sklented On my poor musie ; The in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilberifield, The braes of fame ; Or Fergusson the writer chiel, A deathless name. ( O Fergusson / thy glorious parts Iil suited law's dry must/ arts, My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry !) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles 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 all resound again Her weel sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style ; She lay like some unkenned of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, ai' Doon, Nae body sings. Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunef'u line ! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We' gar our streams and burnies sbine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila' 1 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 southren 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 died. O sweet are Coila's baughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant among the buds, An' jinking hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree , Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey ; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day . O Nature 1 a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls in, gusty storms, The lang, dark night ! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander An' no think lang. O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder A heartfelt sang ! The warly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum o'er their treasure. Fareweel, < my rhyme-composing brither ." We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither, Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal : May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal * While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith and practice, In Robert Burns. POEMS. 135 POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I bud amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this new-light,* Bout which our herds sae aft hae been •% Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but calians At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gi'e, But spak their thoughts in plain braid 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 viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new ane. 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, Baith loud and 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 and hissels were alarm'd ; The rev'rend grey- beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' 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" auldlight caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd ; See Note p. 102. Am some, theif new-light fair avow, Just quite barefae'd, Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin' Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin'j 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-light herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak' a flight, An' stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gi'e them • An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' therrL, Just i' their pouch, An* when the new- light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter fs naething but a ' moonshine matter :* But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thinking Your dreams* an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', Straight to auld Nick's. Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them foil ; 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're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, *A certain humorous dream of his vv«u hefi making a noise in the country-side. 136 BURNS' WORKS. 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'll sen't wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen and sair'd tlie king At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight 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 t\\efee. 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 meikle 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. * A song he had promised the Author JOHN BARLEYCORN.! A BALLAD. I. There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. II. 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. III. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. IV. 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. V. The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale ; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. VI. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. VII. They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee ; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. VIII. 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. IX. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. X. 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. XI. They wasted o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones ; f Thi8 is parti v composed on the plan of an old song * known by the same name. POEMS. 1ST But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. XII. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood And drank it round and round ; And-^jtill the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. XIII. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, ' Twill make your courage rise. XIV. 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. XV. Then let us toast. John Barleycorn Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! A FRAGMENT. Time—" Gillicrankie." When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our helm thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. II. 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 enemies a', man. III. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, Was kept at Boston ha', man ; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man : Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man ; But at New-York, wi' knife and fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. IV. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man i Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dough t, An* did the buckskins claw, man ; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save He hung it to the wa', man. Then Montague, an' Guildford too, Began to fear a* fa', man ; And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, The German chief to thraw, man : For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An* lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. VI. 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, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North and Fox united stocks, And bore him to the wa', man. VII. 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 suit faux pas, man : The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, " Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" VIII. 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, in heavenly graitn, (Inspired bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" IX. But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. Gowffd Willie like a ba', man, Till Suthrons raise, and 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 and blood To make it guid in law, man. SONG. " Corn Rigs are Bonnie." I. It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie. 138 BURNS' WORKS. 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. II. 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 kent her heart was a' my ain ; I lov'd her most sincerely ; I kiss'd her owre and owre again Amang the rigs o' barley. III. 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 aye shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. IV. I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; I hae been merry drinkin'; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; I hae been happy thinkin* : But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a% Amang the rigs o' barley. Corn rigs ait' barley rigs, An' corn ngs are bonnie ; 111 ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie. SONG, COMPOSED IN AUGUST. Tune — " 1 had a Horse, I had nae mair." Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring guns, Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather : Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer. II. Tho partridge loves the fruitful fells : The plover loves the mountains : The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains : Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erbangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet. III. Thus evry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander ; Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion : The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! IV. But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow : Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature : The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And ev'ry happy creature. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly : Not vernal show'rs to budding flow're, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer ! SONG. Tune — " My Dannie, O." I. 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 Nannie, O. II. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. III. My Nannie's charming, sweet, an* young Nae arttu' wiles to win ye, O ; May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O IV. Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O : The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O. POEMS. 139 V. A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O ; But what care I how few they be, Pm-^eleome aye to Nannie, O. VI. My riches a' 's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a* my Nannie, O. VII. Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; But I'm a*s blithe that bauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, O. VIII. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, 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 ! I. There's nought but care on every ban', In every hour that passes, O j What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. II. The warly race may riches cnase, An' riches still may fly them, O ; An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O Green grow, &c III. But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a gae tapsalteerie, O. Green grow, &c. IV. For you so douse, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O j The wisest man the warld e'er saw, He dearlv loved the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. V. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. SONG. Tuae — " Jockie's Grey Breelrs." I. 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 t doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be ! II. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. And maun I still, &c. III. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, &c. IV. 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. V. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistle shill, Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. VI. And when the larK, 'tween light and dark, Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c. * This chorus is part of a song composed by a srentto man in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. * Menie is a common abbreviation of Mariamne 140 BURNS' WORKS. VII. " ome, 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 ! CHORUS. And maun I still on Wienie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a haw/t, An' it winna let a body be* SONG. Tune— " Roelin Castle." I. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander prest wi' care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. II. The Autumn mourns her ripening com 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, J think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. III. Tis not the surging billow's roar, Tis not that fatal deadly shore : Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear : But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierced with many a wound These bleed afresh, those ties I tear To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. IV. Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those — The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! SONG. Tune—" Gilderoy." 1. From thee, Eliza, 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. II. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore I 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 ! * We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of our hard, and more especially those printed under his own direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, which is not his own composition, should be attached to tr-ese fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the train of sentiment which they excite. THE FAREWELL, TO THE BRETHREN OF ST JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. Tune— " Good night and Joy be wi' you a' I" I. Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu Dear brothers of the mystic tie I Ye favour' d, ye enlightened few, Companions of my social joy j Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. II. 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 I Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'. III. May freedom, harmony, and love, Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' omniscient eye above, The glorious architect divine 1 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'. IV. And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, Justly that highest badge to wear 1 POEMS. HI Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear 1 A last request, permit me here, W%en yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear. To him, the bard that's far awd I SONG Tune— " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly." I. 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-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. II. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow j I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; But a club of good fellows like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. III. Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you the croivn, how it waves in the air. There, a" big-belly' d bottle still eases my care. IV. 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 a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. WRITTEN IN VI. -a maxim * Life's cares they are comforts 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 heaven of care. [A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflovv, 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. Young's Night Thougrus. FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE ON NITH SIDE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lower. As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day 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 -pinion 'd, 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-neuk 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 the 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 the 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 ;iever break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown befure. 142 BURNS' WORKS. Stranger, go . Heav'n be thy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nitb-side. ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS Of Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation ! mark Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured 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 ? Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erfiows, 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 lealms of everlasting rest ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? No fallen angel, huil'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 drivn ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, a gentleman who held the patent for his honours immediately from almighty god! But 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 \vi' 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 sel shall mourn By wood and wild, Where haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers j Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers I Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies wimplin down your glens, Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses 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 maukina 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, vvha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, POEMS. 143 Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrif'e morn ! O^rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ; An' frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead ! Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The 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 cross'd that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! But by the honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief; And truth I shall relate man : I tell nae common tale o' grief, For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 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. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man ; Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca', Wad life itself resign, man ; Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a 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 guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN Qtf SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o* daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland, May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been ; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, As blithe lay down at e'en : And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign bands And never ending care. m BURNS' WORKS 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 di aps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine : And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That neer wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me ! O ! 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 ; &nd the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FHs'TRA. Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a, pass for leave to beg ; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : [shell, Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug. [snug, The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy 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 opening dun ; Ko 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 olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness* comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th' unbroken blast from every side Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ; Bloody dissector?, 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 the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on through life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injured page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage ! So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- ceased, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch-s son. O dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve, Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- They only wonder, * some folks' do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's care.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ex. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-strurk brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. I dread the 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 appeals, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ] POEMS. 145 Thro' along life his hopes and wishes crown, A 11% bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life ; and sooth 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 ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white m 1 time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The relics of the vernal quire ! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year ! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. " I've seen sae mony 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 bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrow share. " And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) My noble master lies in clay ; The rlow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his country's stay ; In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, , And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harp . The voice of woe and wild despair Awake, resound thy latest lay, Then sleep in silence evemmir ! And thou my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. " In poverty's low barren vale ; Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song, Became alike thy fostering care. " O ! Why has worth so short a date? While villains ripen grey with time ! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 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 WHITEFORD, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earth. ly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, " The tearful tribute of a broken heart.'' The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. TAM O'SHANTER: A TALE. Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Biike. Gawin Douglas, When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, K 146 BURNS' WORKS. As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' S harder, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 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 L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi* Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'u in Ducn , Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Allowatfs auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, 7am 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 •, Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tarn 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, Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the llow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-fails in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever: Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their placo ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. — Nae man can tether time or tide t The hour approaches Tarn 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 taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; That night a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg — A better never lifted leg — Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glo«v'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him anawares ; Kirk- Allow ay was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists andhoulets nightly cry — < By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn : And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mwtgo'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 Tammies noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillon 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 his pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — POEMS. H7 Coffins stood round like open presses, That sbaw'd the dead in their last dresses j And by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns : A thief new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape : Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; A garter which a babe had strangle ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfti'. 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 ; They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queens A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flanrien, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! 1 or ae blink o' the bonnie burdies 1 But wither'd beldams auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear,) Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie,— Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she cooft lor 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 rlang, (A souple jade she was and Strang) And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty sark !" And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd, When " Catch the thief !" resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn I Ah, Tarn ! thou'll get tny fairin, In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ' Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane * of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tale she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at 7am wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought aff her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o* truth shall read, Ilk man and 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 Tarn o' Shanter's mare. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, w And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye: "May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains ; * It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. — It may be proper likewise to mention to tlie benighted travel- ler, that when he falls in witii bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. K 2 148 BURNS' WORKS. 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 ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH- SHIRE, WITH BAYS. Whtle virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between : While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade : While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed : While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 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. EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter John in death does sleep ; To hell, if he's gane. thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll baud it weel th either. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : O Death, its my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch Into thy dark dominion ! ON WEE JOHNNY. Hicjacet wee Johnny. Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnny, An' here his body lies fu' low — For saul, he ne'er had ony. FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and 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 ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; " For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's side.*" FOR R. A. Esq. Know thou, O stranger 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. FOR G. H. Esq. The poor man weeps — nere Q n sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd : But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be saved or d d ! A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near j And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 1 Goldsmith- POEMS. U9 That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater- feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below, Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer Jlame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name J Reader, attend— whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, Is wisdom's root. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's j If there's a hole in a' your coat?, 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 vow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its riggin, It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' At some black art. 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, Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; Vide Iris Antiquities of Scotland But now he's quat the sportle blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the— Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : Rusty aim caps and jinghn' jackets,* Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid : And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder : Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o* the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' 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 gullie. — But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he, Then sit him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him ; And port, O port / shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him ! Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! — Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER B> THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'rj 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 ever Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew : May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem ; * Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapon! 150 BURNS' WORKS. Till some ev'ning, sober, caim, Dropping dews, and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings j Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, -And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 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 forgiv'n ; For sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heav'n. ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms : Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deck'd with pearl dew The morning rose may blow ; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. 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: So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was rung. Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound he gave ; Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. 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, wa>-te my foaming 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 king, 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 B 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, although I say't mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes; Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir: The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis wild and mellow •, The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow ; This too, a covert shall insure, To shield them from the storm ; * Bruar Falls, in Athole. are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful j but their effect is much impaired by tiia want of trees and bhrubs. POEMS. And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form ; Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flowers ; Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, From prone descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain, grey ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes coo 1 , My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' watery bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band, Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land • So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social flowing glasses, The grace be — " Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses!'' 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 watery haunt forsake ? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties? — Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy food, 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, Glorious in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays; Far from human haunts and ways ; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful 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. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OP THE INN AT KENMOKE. 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 di- vides, The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides, Ah' outstretching lake, embcsom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills*, The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant sides, [taste ; The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; The village, glittering in the moontide beam- Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative lire; 152 BURNS' WORKS. Here, to the wrongs of fate half reeoncil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wandei wild ; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 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 shoot de- scends, And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless showers, The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid caldron boils — ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a prayer, What heart o' stane wad thou na move. Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form ; And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower, The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer morn : Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! And from thee many a parent stern Arise to deck our land ! THE WHISTLE A BALLAD. As the authentic prose liistor y of the Whistle is curi- ous, I shall here give it. — lu the train of Anne of Den- mark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gi. gantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless cham. pion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whittle as a trophy of victory. The Dane pro- duced credentials of his victories without a single de- feat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alterna- tive of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights, hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af- terwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried otf the hard- won honours of the field. 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, to 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 his requiem shrill. • See Ossian's Caric-thura. POEMS. 153 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 ot 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 pre- tend, 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 or he'd yield. 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'dthat 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, * See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. And vowed 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 con- tend? Though fate said— a hero should perish in light ; So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. Next uprose 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 sub- lime ! "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 !" SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET, f AULD NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld farrent, frien'ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak so 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, Tae cheer you through the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs. But Davie, lad, I'll red ye'er glaikit ; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub. lished at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared in our author's printed poems 154 BURNS' WORKS. An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke ; Sic Iians as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, Rivin' the words tae 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, Commen' 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 of livin'; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin': But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' While ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! its 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 tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : The waiT may play you mony a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll ne'er leave ye, Tho' e'er sae poor, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door tae door. ON MY EARLY DAYS. I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blatp, An' first could thresh the barn ; Or haud a yokin o' 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 mora Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa. II. E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr- thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spared the symbol dear : No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. III. But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' rang. Wild floated in my brain : 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky e'en That gait my heart-strings tingle : I tired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I feared aye to speak.* SONG. Tune — " Bounie Dundee." In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, The pride of the place and its neighbour- hood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' Miss Miller is fine, Miss Maryland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour' sf the jewel for me o' them a' ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darken- ing air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. * The reader will find some explanation of this poem in p. xxix t This is one of our Bard's early productions. Armour is now Mrs Burns. POEMS. 155 Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, I Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal j train ; * Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, well,f Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. { 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 disclosed a stately form, 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. Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And braved 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 I " A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts around 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 the guardian low. — a 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, Thatdistant years may boast of other Blairs" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. * The King's Park at HolvroocLhouse. tSt Anthony's Well. $St Authony's Chapel. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COIY OF THE POEMS, 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 JOLLY BEGGARS : A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,f Bedim cauld Boreas' blast • When hailstanes drive wi' biu.er skyle, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted and they sang ; Wi' jumping and thumping, The vera girdle rang. First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brae'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae'an' blankets warm — She blinket on her sodger : An' aye he gies the tousie drab The tither skelpin' kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Ilk smack did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip. Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — Tune—" Soldier's Joy." I. I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come j * The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr Moore, t The old Scotch name for the Bat. 156 BURNS' WORKS. 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. II. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c IIL I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there Heft for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV. 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. V. What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans 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, A.nd still my delight is in proper young men ; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my ddddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &e. II. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was nis trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. III. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoon to the life I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. V. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; His rag regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. VI. 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. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling, For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked, Her dove had been a Highland laddie. But weary fa' the waefu' wcodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman. AIR. Tune — " O an ye were dead Gudeman.*' I. A highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithf'u' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! There's not a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. POEMS. 15' II. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. III. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman Sing, hey, &c. V. But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast : My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. VI. And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gausy middle He reach'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key, The wee Apollo Set off wi* Allegretto glee His giga solo. Tune—" "Whistle owre the lave o't." I. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, An' go wi' me to be my dear, An' then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle owre the lave o't. II. At kirns and weddings we'se be there, An' O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. I am, &c. III. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, An' sun oursels about the dyke, An' at our leisure, when we like, We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. But bless me wi' your heaven o charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, an' a' sick harms, May whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, As weel as poor Gutscraper ; He tcks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a rusty rapier — He swoor by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he would from that time forth, Relinquish her for ever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, And sae the quarrel ended. But though his little heart did grieve, When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the caird address'd her. AIR. Tune—" Clout the Cauldron." I. My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station ; I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off I marcb'd To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, &c. II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise an' caprin', An' tak' a share wi' those that bear The budget an' the apron. An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Keilbagie,* * A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour te with Poosie-NaDsie's clubs. 158 BURNS' WORKS. If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stowp, &c. RECITATTVO. The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie, The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, Tho' limping with the spavie, He hirpi'd up, and lap like daft, An' shor'd them Daintie Davie O boot that night. He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, Though Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had no wish but — to be glad, Nor want but — when he thirsted ; He hated nought but — to De sad, And thus the Muse suggested, His sang that night. AIR. Tune— "For a' that, an' a' that." I. I am a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. For a' that, an' a' that ; An' twice as rneikle's a' that ; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that, II. I never drank the Muse's stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; But there it streams, and richly rer.ms, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c III. Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that ; • Homer is allowed to be the oldest balled-singer on record. But lordly will, I hold it still A moral sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. IV. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; But for how lang the Jlie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, They've ta'en me in, an' a' that : But clear your decks, and here's the sex I I like the jads for a' that. " For a' that, an' a' that, An* twice as rneikle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Reecho'd from each mouth ; They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best : He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus. Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses.' I. See ! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. A fig for those by law protected ! Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts lor cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. II. What is title ? what is treasure ? What is reputation's care? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where ! A fig, &c. their TOEMS. 159 III. With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c, IV. Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove ? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ? A fig, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes ; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c. VI. Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ! Here's to all the wandering train! Here's our ragged brats and callels \ One and all cry out, Amen ! &. fig for those by law protected ! Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. THE KIRK'S ALARM.* A SATIRE. Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense. Dr Mac.f Dr Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare, To meddle wi' mischief a- brewing ; Provost John is still deaf to the church's re- lief, And orator Bobf is its ruin. D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, * This poem was written a short time after the pub- leatiim of Mr M'Gill's Essay. f Mr. M' 11. % R 1 A n. \ Dr D e. Yet that winna save ye, auld Satar ; must have ye, For preaching that three's ane an' 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 brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the damn'd. Simpei James, f Simper James, leave the fair Killiedames, There's a holier chace in your view j I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,{ Singet Sawney, are ye herd- ing the penny, Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld,§ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye may bark. Davie Bluster, [j 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. Jamie Goose, f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the Doctor's your mark, for the L— d's haly ark ; He has cooper'd and cawd 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-i. Andro Gouk,f f Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. Ban* Steenie,|| Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what mean ye ! If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, • Mr R II. f Mr M' v. t Mr M y. § Mr A — d. || Mr G , O e. II Mr Y er, C k. ** Mr P~ s, A-r. +t Dr A. M 1L J+ Mr S Y , B-r. 160 BURNS' WORKS. Ye may ha'e some pretence to bavins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye riae better. Irvine side,* Irvine side, wi' your turkey cock pride, Of manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, ' And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock,f Muirland Jock, when the L — d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will,! Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; The thinner is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint, Wha should swing in a rape for an houi. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ri- tual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi* your priest- skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire ; Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. THE TWA HERDS.§ O a' ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel. O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, How could you raise so vile a bustle, # Mr S h, t All -r in M- tMrS- — d. This piece was amon# the first of our Author's pro- ductions which he submitted to the public ; and was oc- casioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near Kilmarnock. Yell see how new-light herds will whistle, And think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I ha'e min'. O, Sirs ! whae»er wad ha'e expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide. What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, sic a feast ! The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like R 11 teli'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height, And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club, And new-light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin, Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; Or heave them in. Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en, While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein' I A* ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle A — d We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, There's scarce a new herd that we get, But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 1 winna name, I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame. D e has been lang our fae. M' 11 has wraught us meilde wae, And that curs'd rascal ca'd M< e, And baith the S — — -s, POEMS. 161 That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel, There S — h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey -nick quill, And that ye'll fin'. O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, JBy mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come join your counsel and your skills, To cow the lairds, And get the brutes the power themsels, To choose their 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 o'er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M : ll's close nervous excellence, M< Q — e's pathetic manly sense, And guid M< h, Wi' S — th, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aif. 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 bell. Were such tbe 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 sw r itch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. For lords or kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die — for that they're born ! But, oh, prodigious to reflect, A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O Eighty -eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou has left us ! The Spanish empire's tint ahead, An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our guid wife's wee birdy cocks ; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil ; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden 1 Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty- eight he wish'd you weel An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, For some o' you hae tint a frien* ; In Eighty -eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. Observe the very nowt an» sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep j Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beardless boy, I pray taV care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd Regent But, like himsel', a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As meikle better as you can. January 1, 1789. VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CAR- RON. We cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise : But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come Your billy Satan sair us ! LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J — N R — K — N AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME. DIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DEATH. He who of R— k— n sang, lies stiff and dead. And a green grassy hillock hides his head i Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! L 162 BURNS' WORKS. At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines :— Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found, For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betrayhim on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonny lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- feldy ? Now summer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. The braes ascend like lofty wa»s, The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love and thee In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. * ■ This was written in the same measure as the Birks of Ahergekh/, an old Scottish song, from which nothing is borrowed but the chorus. STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME? Tune An Gille dubh ciar 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 ! STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling! Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave ! Chrystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend !* 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 bonnie 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. * Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying con- cealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battia of Culloden. Tlus song was written before the year 17S8. ' POEMS. ir,s Sae Pll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by his mighty warden My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle- Gordon.* RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. Tin M'Grijror of Ruaro's Lament." Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring. M 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 !"f MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Tune — " Druimion 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- troubled, 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 ! * The young Highland rover is supposed to be the young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward. t The occasion on which this poem was written is unknown the Editor. It is an early composition. L 2 BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben j Blythe by the banks of Ern, And blythe in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, &c. Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn ; She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Blythe, &e. Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lee ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. Blythe, &c. The Highland hills I've wander d wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blythe, &c. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A rose-bud by my txirly walk, Adown a corn-inclosed 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 bedewed, Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay Shalt beauteous blaze upon the dav, 104 BURNS' WORKS. And bless the parent's evening ray That watched thy early morning.' WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN- TER'S STORMS. Tune — " N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 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, Astonished doubly marks its beam, With art's most polished blaze. Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, When 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. TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune— " Invercauld's Reel." O Tibbie, I hae seen the day Ye would na been sae shy ; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But troth, 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 try. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. But sorrow rak 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'll cast your head anitber airt, And answer him fu' dry. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. But if he hae the name o' gear, Yell fasten to him like a brier, * This sons was written during the winter of 1767 Miss J. 0. dauyhier of a friend of the Bard, is the he roint;. Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie'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 lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her under sark, For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; Ye need na look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 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 ; JDepriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of ail his joy. We part, — but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune— " Seventh of November." 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 ought of pleasure give ! While joys above, my mind can move, pMjr thee, and thee alone, I live ! When that grim foe of life below, Come6 in between to make us part ; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. THE LAZY MIST. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; POExlIS. 165 How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- pear, 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 pur- sues ; How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain ! How little of life's scanty span may remain j 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. O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL, Tune—" My love is lost to me." 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 bonnie sel' ; On Corsincon I'll glower and spell. And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! For a' the lee-long simmer's day, 1 couldna sing, I couldna 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 lips, thy roguish e'en — 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 love thee. Tune- I LOVE MY JEAN. : Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.' Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild woods grow, and rive.» aw, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,* Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Tbro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild wood echoes rang, Fareweei the braes o' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'li flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas ! for me nae mair, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; Fareweei the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweei, fareweei ! sweet Ballochmyle ! WILLJE BREW'D A MAUT. PECK O' O Willie brew'd a peck o* maut, And Rob and Allan cam to pree ; Three blyther hearts, that lee lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie. " We are na fou, we're nae that foil, But just a drappie in our e'e ; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we*ll taste the barley bree. " 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 ! " We are na fou," &c. * Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq (1S00.1 1GG BURNS' WORKS. It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to vvyle us hame, But by my troth she'll wait a wee ! We are nae 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 amang us three ! We are nae fou, &c* THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 'Twa lov.ely e'en o' bonnie blue. Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white — It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, She charmed my soul I wist na how ; And aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie 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 e'en sae bonny blue.t THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune- Robie Donna Gorach. The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stand ; But sweeter flows the Nith to me, Where Cummins ance had high command When shall I see that honoured 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 Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! * Willie, who " brew'd a peck o* maut," was Mr William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, were our poet, and his friend, Allan Masterton. These three honest fel- lows—nil men of uncommon talents, are now all under tho turf. —(1799) f The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochma- ben. This lady, now Mrs R. after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled with her husband iu New York, North America. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony 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.* * In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetty Original and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid of Glasgow, this song is given as follows : JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED, BY ROBERT BURNS. John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en, Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should you do so, Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first beyan To try her canny hand, John, her master- work was ?nmt; And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to t>ie. She proved to be nae journey-work, John Andersoi/, my jo. John Anderson, n^ jo, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and neat; Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ave the same to me, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, weve seen our bairns' bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms, And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, John Ander- son, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquaint, Your locks were, like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent, But now your head's turned bald, John, your locks art like the snaw, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last : But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, re j jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' ane anither} POEMS. ir>7 TAM GLEN. My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen : What care I in riches to wallow, If 1 mamma marry Tam Glen. v There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, " Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben : He brags and he blavvs 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 gude hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written Tam Glen. The last Hallowe'en I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; 111 gie you my bonnie black hen, Gin ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in had we'll g°> And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my Jo. The stanza with which this song-, inserted hy Messrs Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title ; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of dis- cernment will see they are by an inferior hand ; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor sutFered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a eingle instance cannot be produced, in which, to pre- serve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought, in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not however without merit, and they may serve to prolong the plea- sure which every person of taste must feel, from listen- Ingto a most happy union of beautiful mus'i with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting. 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 hinney 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 arle 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 norma THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LA WIN. 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. Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the la win, Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair. There's wealth an' 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. WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE WI' AN AULD MAN. 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 pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! Bad luck on the pennie, &c. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day Jang, He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man , 168 BURNS' WORKS. He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers ; I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fel- lows, O, dool on the day, I met vvi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me fakes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. THE BONNIE WEE THING. Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, was thou mine ; I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wistfully I look and languish, In that bonnie face of 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 ! Bonnie wee, &c. O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY TAM. Tune — "The Moudiewort." An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam ! I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and haud me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ; But three short years will soon wheel roun', And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 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 ; Bur hear'st thou laddie, there's my loof, I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An' O, for ane, &c. BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL O leeze me on my spinning 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 spinning wheel. On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below thy theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest -. The sun blinks kindly in the biel', Where, blythe I turn my spinning wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And echo cons the doolf'u' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the claver hay, The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinking round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flairing, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel, Of Bessy at her spinning wheel. COUNTRY LASSIE. 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' gude advisement comes nae ill. Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routhie ben : There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire. For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie ; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me s POEMS. 169 But blythe's the bliiik o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : Ae blink o' him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, A hungry care's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare. And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. O gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sleep and kye ; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy : We may be poor, Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and love brings peace and joy, What mair hae queens upon a throne ? FAIR ELIZA. A GAELIC AIR. Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rew on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' 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 I 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 on his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture That thy presence gies to me. THE POSIE. O Luve will venture in, where it daur na well be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been : But I will down yon river rove, among the w r ood 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 pear : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose when Phebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- ing blue : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest within the bush Ivvinna tak away : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine! will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond- draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shal) ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause lover stole my rose, But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 170 BURNS' WORKS. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Willie Wastle dwalt on TweeG, The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; Willie was a wabster gude, Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony 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 e'e, she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour ; Five rusty teetn, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; A whiskin beard ahout 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's 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 baudrans by the ingle sits, And wi' her loof her face a-washin ; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; He* 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. GLOOMY DECEi\fBER. Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Ance mair I hail thee, wi' 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 re- member, Farting wi' Nancy, Ob, ne'er to meet mair. EVAN BANKS. Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, The sun from India's shore retires ; To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray, Home of my youth, it leads the day. Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear! All, all my hopes of bliss reside, Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. And she, in simple beauty drest, Whose image lives w r ithin my breast ; Who trembling heard my piercing sigh, And long pursu'd me with her eye ! Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? Or where yon grot cerhangs the tide, Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde, Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! Ye lavish woods that wave around, And o'er the stream your shadows throw, Which sweetly winds so far below ; What secret charm to mem'ry brings, All that on Evan's border springs? Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. Can all the wealth of India's coast Atone for years in absence lost? Return, ye moments of delight, With richer treasures bless my sight ! Swift from this desert let me part, And fly to meet a kindred heart ! Nor more may aught my steps divide From that dear stream which flows to CI yd a. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE Wilt thou be my dearie ; When sorrow wrings thy gentle hen:!, O wilt thou let me cheer thee ; By the treasure of my soul, And that's the love I bear thee : I swear and vow, that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es me : Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, Sae na thou'lt refuse me ; If it winna, canna be, Thou, for thine, may choose me : Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me, Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. POEMS. 171 SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. Sue's fair and fause that 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. A coof cam in with routb o' gear, And I bae tint my dearest dear, But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang, Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie '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. 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 rnark'd with 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 be- low, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow : There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 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 flowerets 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, Fiow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. BONNIE BELL. The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies ; Now crystal clear are the falling waters , And bonnie blue are the sunny skies *, Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth morning, The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flowry 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 bonnie Bell. the THE GALLANT WEAVER. Where Cart rins rovvin to the sea, By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 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 give it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in opening flowers ; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver.* LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean j Dyvor beggar louns 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 ! * In some editions sailor is substituted for weaver. 172 BURNS' WORKS. FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair, I dare nae tell, My heart is sair for somebody ; I could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake of somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keej> 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 of somebody i THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER- NESS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! And aye the saut tear blins her e'e -. Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me ; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three. Their winding sheet the bloody clay, Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e ! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. A MOTHERS LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tune—" Finlayston House." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierced my darling's heart : And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age's future shade. The mother linnet in the brake Bewails her ravished young ; So I for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live-day long. Peath, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now fond I bare my breast, O do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest! O MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy mom was ne'er sae sweet, As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she I darna name, But I will aye remember And dear, &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 gude watch o'er them ; And here's to them, we darna tell, The dearest o' the quorum, And here's to, &c. O WHAT YE WHAS TOWN. IN YON O what ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'ening sun is shining on. Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree ; How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blavv, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear. The sun blinks blythe on yon town, And on yon bonnie 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 ok; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. O 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 has sworn my foe, And suffering I amdoom'd to bear; POEMS. 173 I careless quit aught 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 RED, RED ROSE. O my love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. my love's like the melody That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I ; And I will love thee still, my dear, ' Till a' the seas gang dry. 'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 1 will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my love, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. The stream adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,f Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. * The heroine of this song, Mrs O. (formerly Miss L. J.) died lately in Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman, was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, winch will convey some impress'on of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr Syme inclosing this song. + Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,* And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie — Liberty ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow. Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear I He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhymes, f COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 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 despised and neglected : Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; * Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-far ed Cynthia rear'dj When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. \ This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely de- scribed is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, and by the ruins of Lincluden- Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our poet's pru- dence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortu nately for his reputation. It may be questioned whe- ther, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solerauity of this preparation. 174 BURNS' WORKS. Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heart- ily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine j Their title's avow'd by the country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter, The doctrine, to day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter. 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 on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night: But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- ner on me, and I have not got again into her ^ood graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be, Revered Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, R, BURNS Edinburgh, 1787. 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 di- vine ?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : Iler grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — " Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue ! With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :* Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land : Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, The daiing invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;t The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore :\ O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- vail'd, No arts could appease them, nor 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; Provoked 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 sil- ver flood ; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 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.^ • The Romans. f The Saxons. t The Danes- 5 Two famous battles, in which the Danes or Norwe- gians were defeated. || The Highlanders of the Isles. IT This singular figure of poetry, taken from tho mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides. POEMS. 175 THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CON- TINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. Kind sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really knew ! How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony 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 Russian and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were ningin' ; How libbet Italy was singki ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin or takin ought amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game : How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; The news o' princes, 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 growin oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser. — A' this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair'd of. So gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! ELLiSLAND,Monday Morning, 1790. POEM. ON PASTORAL POETR*. Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, '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 j Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage ? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives j Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinlin 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-famed Grecian share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel so clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever. Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae govvden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. " O cam ye here the fight to shun, Oi herd the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man ? I saw the battle sair and teugh, And reekin-red ran monie a she ugh, 176 BURNS' WORKS. 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 bluid outgustrd, And mony a bouk did fa', man : The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles ! They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smaslvd, Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When iii the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hastened to the charge, Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man. " O how deil Tarn can that be true ? The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, 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 winged their flight ; But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; And mony a hunted poor red coat For fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate came up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man : She swoor she saw some rebels run, Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebor's 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 mony bade the world gude-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets, knell, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man.* * This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787 SKETCH NEW YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS DUNLOP. This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonths* length again : I see the old bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine. The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf as my friend he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ; From housewife 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 is 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 woeful night — Since then, my honour'd first of friends, On this poor being all depends : Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die. Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight life's sorrows to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse) Others now claim your chief regard Yourself, you wait your bright reward. * This young lady was drawing a picture of C«i!a from the Vision, see page 108. POEMS. 177 EXTEMPORE, ON THE LATE MB WILLIAM SMELLIE, * AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OFNATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. To Crochallan came The old cotj&'d hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Tvvas four long nights and days to shaving night, His uncombed grizzly locks wild-staring, thatch 'd, A head for thought profound and clear, un- match'd ; Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent and good. POETICAL INSCRIPTION, AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OE MR HERON-— WRITTEN IN SUMMER 1795. Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; Prepared power's proudest frown to brave, Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here. SONNET, THE DEATH OF MR RIDDEL. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant grating on my ear ; Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can- not bear ; More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies ? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : * Mr Smellie, and our poet, were both members of a club in Edinburgh, under the name of Crochallan Fen- ciules. How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. * Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier; The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. MONODY A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd : How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection re- moved ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thoulivedst unloved. Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: B^fc come, all ye offspring of folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. Well search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued 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. * Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom our bard thought him^ciJI under many obligations. M 178 BURNS' WORKS. ANSWER TO A MANDATE SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CARRIAGES, &c« TO EACH FARMER, ORDERING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL -CARRIAGES, &C AND WHE- THER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHE- LOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithful' list, My horses, servants, carts, and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew before a pettle. My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; My hand-a-hin,\ a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; \ And your auld borough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime : My fur-a-hin,\\ a guid, grey beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced : The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, As ever ran before a tail ; An' he be spared to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel carriages I hae but few, Three carts, and tvva are feckly new, An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; I made a poker o' the spindle, And my auld mither brunt the trundle. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise j A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, And often labour them completely, And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 1 on the questions tairge them tightly, 'Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, ( Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) He'll screed you off effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station, Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 1 hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; For weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddie in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace. But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, I've said enough for her already, * The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough. + The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough 1 Kilmarnock. U'i he hindmost on the right hand, in the plough. And if ye tax her or her mither, By the L—& ye'se get them a' thegither ! And now, remember, Mr Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm taking. Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. This list vvi' my ain hand I've wrote it, The day and date as under notet ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscrivsi huic, ROBERT BURNS S SONG. 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. were yon hills and valleys mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c. But fickle fortune frowns on me, And 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 iustre throw, Around my highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c She has my heart, she has my hand, By sacred truth and honour's band ! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine my highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O Farewell the plain sae rushy, O * Gentle is used here in opposition to simpie, in the Scottish and old English sense oi the ivord. ^ae gemle dames — No luVh-blooded. POEMS. 179 To other lands I now must go To sing my highland lassie, O.* IMPROMPTU, BIRTH DAY. 4th November, 1793. Old Winter with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd; *' What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil j To counterbalance ail this evil j 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 14 'Tis done !'' says Jove ; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory. ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidi'3 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 hould be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thcu wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L- , OF DUMFRIES: WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 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 * This is an early production, and seems to hays been Written on Highland Mary. 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 i 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. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25th JANUARY 1793, THU BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day I Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon ori- ent 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 bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE, TO MR S— E, ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER. HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, A7tll DECEMBER, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first in the nation : Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. To Mr S-E, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PO iTKR. O had the malt thy strength of mind. Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; "Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S— e were tit. Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. M2 180 BURNS' WORKS. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Tune— " Push about the Jorum." April, 1795. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? Then let the loons beware, sir, There's wooden walla upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon,* And Criffel sink in Solway,f Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! " Fall de rail, &e. 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. " Fall de rail, &c. The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wba wad dare to spoil it ; By heaven the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. " Fal de rail, &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. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. Fiuend of the poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; A lake, 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 sairly want it ; If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, It would be kind; * A high hill at the source of the Nith. + A well known mountain at the mouth of the eame river. And while my heart wi* life blood dunteu 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 hail 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 j But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak a' care o't A tentier way ; Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, For ance and aye. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OF. FENDED. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Wine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! T'is thine to pity and forgive. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DR PEYSTER, DI'MFU1E9| 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty world were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, As they deserve ; (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would starve ?) Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; POEMS. iSl Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Aye wavering 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'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, First showing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, To put us daft ; Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare hell's damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damn : d elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy's eye, 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 murdering 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, 1 quat my pen ; The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen ! amen ! ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! When 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, Aye mocks our groan ! A down my beard the slavers trickle ; I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 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 num'rous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stoob, Or worthy friends raked 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' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, ' Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ; — Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel A towmond's Tooth-Ache SONG. 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' summer 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. SONG. Jockie's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountain he is gane ; 182 BURNS' WORKS. And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Flashy sleets and beating rain, Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain. When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome t.'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! He will think on her he loves, Fondly he'll repeat her name ; For where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame. SONG. 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, But 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. WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, INCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. Tune — "Sir John Malcolm." Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo, and ago, If he's among 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 A brain's bosom can* 1 !{