COMPLETE PROSE WORKS Unlinf %uri boston college ljbrary CHESTNUT HJLL, MASS. EDINBURGH: WILLIAM P. NIMMO. rTf i -B-* - in 7 CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 1781. I. To William Burness, Bee. 27 .... 1783. II. To Mr John Murdoch, Schoolmaster, London, Jan. 15 . III. To Mr James Burness, Writer, Montrose, June 21 IV. To Miss Eliza ...... V. To the Same ....... VI. To the Same ...... VII. To the Same ...... 1784. VIII. To Mr James Burness, Montrose, Feb. 17 IX. To Mr James Burness, Montrose, Aug. X. To Miss.. 7 8 10 12 13 16 16 18 1786. XI. To Mr John Richmond, Edinburgh, Feb. 17 XII. To Mr John Kennedy, March 3 . XIII. To Mr Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, March 20 XIV. To Mr Aiken, April 3 XV. To Mr M‘Whinnie, Writer, Ayr, April 17 XVI. To Mr John Kennedy, April 20 . XVII. To Mr John Kennedy, May 17 . XVIII. To John Ballantyne, of Ayr, June XIX. To Mr David Brice, June 12 XX. To Mr Robert Aiken, July . . XXI. To Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, July . XXII. To Mons. James Smith, Mauchline XXIII. To John Richmond, Edinburgh, July 9 XXIV. To Mr David Brice, Shoemaker, Glasgow, July 17 XXV. To Mr John Richmond, July 30 XXVI. To Mr John Kennedy, Aug. . XXVII. To Mr Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, Sept. XXVIII. To Mr Burness, Montrose, Sept. XXIX. To Dr Archibald Lawrie, Nov. 13 18 19 20 20 21 21 21 22 IV CONTENTS. XXX. To Miss Alexander, Nov. 18 XXXI. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, Nov. . XXXII. To Mr Robert Muir, Nov. 18 . XXXIII. In the Name of the Nine XXXIV. To Dr Mackenzie, Mauchline, Nov. . XXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, Dec. . XXXVI. To John Ballantyne, Esq., Banker, Ayr, Dec. 7 XXXVII. To Mr Robert Muir, Dec. 20 XXXVIII. To Mr Cleghorn .... XXXIX. To Mr William Chalmers, Writer, Ayr, Dec. 27 PA 30 31 1787. XIj. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, Jan. 7 XU. To the Earl of Eglinton, Jan. ...... XLII. To John Ballantyne, Esq., Jan. 14 . . . . XLIII. To the Same, Jan. ....... XLIV. To Mrs Dunlop, Jan. 15 . XLV. To Dr Moore, Jan. ....... XLVI. To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmills, near Kilmarnock, Feb. 5 XLVII. To Dr Moore, Eeb. 15 . XLVIII. To John Ballantyne, Esq., Eeb. 24 . XLIX. To the Earl of Glencairn, Eeb. ..... L. To the Earl of Buchan, Feb. ..... LI. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., March 8 .... LII. To Mr James Candlish, March 21 ..... LIII. To Mr William Dunbar, March ...... LIV. To-, March ....... LV. To Mrs Dunlop, March 22 . LVI. To the Same, April 15 ...... LVII. To Dr Moore, April 23 . LVIII. To Mrs Dunlop. April 30 ..... LIX. To James Johnson, Editor of the “Scots Musical Museum,” May 3 . LX. To the Rev. Dr Hugh Blair, May 3. LXI. To William Creech, Esq., Edinburgh, May 13 . LXII. To Mr Patison, Bookseller; Paisley, May 17 . LXIII. To Mr W. Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh, June 1 . LXIV. To Mr James Smith, at Miller and Smith’s Office, Linlithgow, June 11 LXV. To Mr William Nicol, June 18 ....... LXVI. To Mr James Candlish ....... LXVII. To William Nicol, Esq., June ..... LXVIII. To William Cruikshank, St James’s Square, Edinburgh, June . LXIX. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., June 28 .... LXX. To Mr James Smith, at Miller and Smith’s-Office, Linlithgow, June 30 LXXI. To the Same, June ....... LXXII. To Mr John Richmond, July 7 .... . LXXI II. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., July LXXIV. To Dr Moore, Aug. 2. LXXV. To Mr Robert Ainslie, Jun., BerryweH, Dunse r Aug. 23 LXXVI. To Mr Robert Muir, Aug. 26. LXXVII. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.,. Aug. 28 . LXXVIII. To Mr Walker, Blair of Athole, Sept. 5 . LXXIX. To Mr Gilbert Burns, Sept. 17 .... LXXX. To Miss Margaret Chalmers, Sept. 26 LXXXI. To the Same. LXXXII. To James Hoy, Esq., Gordon Castle, Oct. 20 . . . LXXXIII. To Rev. John Skinner, Oct. 25 LXXXIV. To James Hoy, Esq., Gordon Castle, Nov. 6 . . LXXXV. To Miss M-n, Nov. LXXXVI. To Miss Chalmers, Nov. 21. LXXXVII. To Mr Robert Ainslie, Edinburgh, Nov. 23 LXXXVIII. To Robert Ainslie. CONTENTS. LXXXTX. To James Dalrymple, Esq., Orangefield XC. To the Earl of Glencairn, Dee. XCI. To Miss Chalmers, Dec. 12 , XCII. To the Same, Dec. 19 . XCIII. To Charles Hay, Esq., Advocate, Dec. XCIV. To Sir John Whitefoord, Dec. . XCV. To Miss Williams, Dec. . XCVI. To Mr Richard Brown, Irvine, Dec. 30 XCYII. To Gavin Hamilton, Dec. XCVIII. To Miss Chalmers, Dec. XCIX. To Mrs Dunlop, Jan. 21 C. Extract from a Letter to the Same, Eeb. 12 Cl. To the Rev. John Skinner, Eeb. 14 Oil. To Richard Brown, Eeb. 15 CIII. To Miss Chalmers, Eeb. 15 . , . CIY. To the Same ... ... CV. To Mrs Rose of Kilravock, Eeb. 17 CVI. To Richard Brown, Eeb. 24 . . . CVII. To.. CVIII. To Mr William Cruikshank, March 3 . CIX. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., March 3 CX. To Richard Brown, March 7 .... CXI. To Mr Muir, Kilmarnock, March 7 CXII. To Mrs Dunlop, March 17. CX1II. To Miss Chalmers, March 14 . CXIV. To Richard Brown, March 26 . CXV. To Mr Robert Cleghorn, March 31 ... CXVI. To Mr William Dunbar, Edinburgh, April 7 . CXVII. To Miss Chalmers, April 7. CXV1II. To Mrs Dunlop, April 28 ... CXIX. To Mr James Smith, Avon Printfield, Linlithgow', April 2S CXX. To Professor Dugald Stewart, May 3 CXXI. To Mrs Dunlop, May 4. CXXII. To Mr Robert Ainslie, May 26 CXXIII. To Mrs Dunlop, May 27. CXXIV. To the Same, June 13 . CXXV. To Mr Robert Ainslie, June 14 CXXVI. To the Same, June 23. CXXVII. To the Same, June 30 ... CXXVIII. To Mr George Lockhart, Merchant, Glasgow, July 18 CXXIX. To Mr Peter Hill. CXXX. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Eintray CXXXI. To William Cruikshank, Aug. CXXXII. To Mrs Dunlop, Aug. 2 . CXXXIII. To the Same, Aug. 10 CXXXIV. To the Same, Aug. 16 .... CXXXV. To Mr Beugo, Engraver-, Edinburgh, Sept. 9 CXXXVI. To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh, Sept. 16 .. CXXXVII. To Mr Morrison, Mauchline, Sept. 22 . CXXXVIII. To Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, Sept. 27 C XXXIX. To Mr Peter Hill, Oct. 1 . ... CXL. To the Editor of the Star , Nov. 8 CXLI. To Mrs Dunlop, at Moreham Mains, Nov. 13 . CXLII. To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Nov. .15 . CXLIII. To Dr Blacklock, Nov. 15 CXLIV. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 17 CXLV. To Miss Davies, Dec. . . . . . CXLVI. To Mr John Tennant, Dec. 22 V PAGIt 78 70 80 80 81 81 83 85 86 87 88 . 89 . 89 . 90 90 . 90 . 91 92 , 93 . 94 . 95 . 95 . 96 97 ! 98 99 99 . 100 . 101 . 102 . 103 . 103 . 104 . 104 . 105 . 106 . 107 . 107 . 109 . 109 . Ill . Ill . 112 . 113 , 114 , 116 . 117 . 119 . 119 . 120 . 122 . 124 . 125 . 125 . 126 . 127 . 128 vi CONTENTS. 1789. CXLVII. To Mrs Dunlop ... CXLVIII. To Dr Moore, Jan. 4 CXLIX. To Mr Robert Ainslie, Jan. 6 ... CL. To Professor Dugald Stewart, Jan. 20 CLI. To Bishop Geddes, Feb. 3 .... CLII. To Mr James Burness, Feb. 9 . OLIII. To Mrs Dunlop, March 4 CLIV. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, March .... CLV. To Dr Moore, March 23 . OLVI. To Mr William Burns, March 25 CLVII. To Mr Hill, April 2. CLYIII. To Mrs Dunlop, April 4 CLIX. To Mrs M'Murdo, Drumlanrig, May 2 . CLX. To Mr Cunningham, May 4 CLXI. To Mr Samuel Brown, May 4 . . . . CLXII. To Richard Brown, May 21 CLXIII. To Mr James Hamilton, May 26 ! . CLXIV. To William Creech, Esq., May 30 CLXV. To Mr Macaulay, of Dumbarton June 4 CLXVI. To Mr Robert Ainslie, June 8 CLXVII. To Mr M‘Murdo, June 19 . CLXVIII. To Mrs Dunlop, June 21 CLXIX. To Miss Williams, Aug. .... CLXX. To Mr John Logan, Aug. 7 . CLXXI. To Mr-, Sept. CLXXII. To Mrs Dunlop, Sept. 6 CLXXIII. To Captain Riddel, Carse, Oct. 16 . CLXXIV. To the Same. CLXXV. To Mr Robert Ainslie, Nov. 1 . CLXXYI. To Mr Richard Brown, Nov. 4 CLXXVII. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, Dec. 9 CLXXVIII. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 13 . CLXXIX. To Lady W[inifred] Mfaxwell] Constable, Dec. 16 CLXXX. To Provost Maxwell, of Lochmaben, Dec. 20 PAGE . 129 . 130 . 132 . 132 . 133 . 134 CLXXXI. To Sir John Sinclair CLXXXII. To Charles Sharpe, Esq., of Hoddam CLXXXIII. To Mr Gilbert Burns, Jan, 11 CLXXXIV. To William Dunbar, W.S., Jan. 14 CLXXXV. To Mrs Dunlop, Jan. 25 CLXXXVI. To Mr Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edinburgh, F CLXXXVII. To Mr W. Nicol, Feb. 9 . . CLXXXVIII. To Mr Cunningham, Feb. 13 . CLXXXIX. To Mr Hill, March 2 CXC. To Mrs Dunlop, April 10 CXCI. To Collector Mitchell CXCII. To Dr Moore, July 14 . CXCIII. To Mr Murdoch, Teacher of French, London, , CXCIV. To Mr M'Murdo, Aug. 2 CXCY. To Mrs Dunlop, Aug. 8 CXCVI. To Mr Cunningham, Aug. 8 . CXCVII. To Dr Anderson .... CXCVIII. To Crawford Tait, Esq., Edinburgh, Oct. 15 CXC1X. To- . . . CC. To Mrs Dunlop, Nov. 1791. CCI. To Lady W. M. Constable, Jan. 11 . . . .184 CCII. To William Dunbar, W.S., Jan. 17 . . . .185 contents. vii PAGH CCIII. To Mrs Graham of Fintray, Jau. . . . . .185 CCIV. To Mr Peter Hill, Jan. 17.186 CCV. To Mr Alex. Cunningham, Jan. 23 .... 187 CCVI. To A. F. Tytler, Esq., Feb.188 CCVII. To Mrs Dunlop, Feb. 7.189 CCVIII. To the Rev. Arch. Alison, Feb. 14.190 CCIX. To the Rev. G. Baird, Feb.191 CCX. To Dr Moore, Feb. 28.192 CCXI. To Mr Alex. Cunningham, March 12 . . . . . 194 CCXII. To Mr Alex. Dalzel, Factor, Findlayston, March 19 . . . 195 CCXIII. To-, March.196 CCXIV. To Mrs Dunlop, April 11.196 COXY. To Sir Alex. Cunningham, June 11 . . . . . 197 CCXVI. To the Earl of Buchan, June ...... 198 CCXVII. To Mr Thomas Sloan, Sept. 1 . . . .199 CCXVIII. To Lady E. Cunningham, Sept..200 CCXIX. To Colonel Fullarton of Fullarton, Oct. 3 . . . .201 CCXX. To Mr Ainslie.202 CCXXI. To Miss Davies.202 CCXXII. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 17.204 1J92. CCXXIII. To Mr William Smellie, Printer, Jan. 22 . . . . 205 CCXXIY. To Mr Peter Hill. Bookseller, Edinburgh, Feb. 5 . . .206 CCXXV. To Mr W. Nicol, Feb. 20 . 206 CCXXYI. To Francis Grose, Esq., F.S.A. ..... 207 COXXVII. To the Same.208 CCXXYIII. To Mr J. Clarke, Edinburgh, July 16 .' . . 210 CCXXIX. To Mrs Dunlop, Aug. 22.211 CCXXX. To Mr Cunningham, Sept. 10.212 CCXXXI. To Mrs Dunlop, Sept. 24.215 CCXXXII. To the Same, Sept. . . . . . .216 CCXXXIII. To Captain Johnston, Editor of the Edinburgh Gazetteer, CCXXXIY. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 6.217 CCXXXV. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, Dec. . . . 218 CCXXXVI. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 31.219 CCXXXVII. To the Same, Jan. 5.220 CCXXXVIII. To Mr Cunningham, March 3 . . . . . 221 CCXXXIX. To Miss Benson, afterwards Mrs Basil Montagu, March 21 . 222 CCXL. To Patrick Miller, Esq., of Dalswinton, April . . .223 CCXLI. To John Francis Erskine, Esq., of Mar, April 13 . . . 223 CCXLII. To Mr Robert Ainslie, April 26 .... 226 CCXLIII. To Miss Kennedy, Edinburgh.227 CCXLIV. To Miss Craik, Aug..228 CCXLY. To Lady Glencairn . . . . . . . 229 CCXLVI. To John M‘Murdo, Esq., Dec. .230 CCXLVII. To John M‘Murdo, Esq., Drumlanrig .... 231 CCXLVIII. To Captain-, Dec. 5. .231 CCXLIX. To Mrs Riddel.232 1794. CCL. To a Lady .... CCLI. To the Earl of Buchan, Jan. 12 . CCLII. To Captain Miller, Dalswinton CCLIII. To Mrs Riddel . CCLIV. To the Same CCLV. To the Same 232 233 233 234 234 235 viii CONTENTS. CCLVI. To the Same ..... CCLVII. To the Same. COLYIII. To John Syme, Esq. CCLIX To Miss.. CCLX. To Mr Cunningham, Eeb. 26 . CCLXI. To the Earl of Glencairn, May CCLXII. To David Macc'ulloch, Esq., June 21 CCLXIII. To Mrs Dunlop, June 25 . CCLXI V. To Mr James Johnson CCLXV. To Peter Miller, Jun., Esq., of Dalswinton, Nov. CCLXVI. To Mr Samuel Clarke, Jun., Dumfries 1795. CCLXVII. To Mrs Riddel.243 CCLXVIII. To Mrs Riddel.244 CCLXIX. To Miss EonteneUe.244 CCLXX. To Mrs Dunlop, Dec. 15.245 CCLXXI. To Mr Alexander Eindlater, Supervisor of Excise, Dumfries . 246 COLXXII. To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle .... 247 CCLXXIII. To Colonel W. Dunbar.248 CCLXXIV. To Mr Heron of Heron.248 CCr.XXV, To Mrs Dunlop, in London. Dec. 20 ... 249 CCLXXYI. Address of the Scotch Distillers to the Right Hon. William Pitt 250 CCLXXVII. To the Hon. the Provost, Bailies, and Town Council of Dumfries 252 1796. CCLXXVIII. To Mrs Riddel, Jan. 20 . . . . . .253 CCLXXIX. To Mrs Dunlop, Jan. 31.253 CCLXXX. To Mrs Riddel, June 4 . . . . .254 CCLXXXI. To Mr Clarke, Schoolmaster, Eorfar, June 26 . . . 255 CCLXXXII. To Mr James Johnson, Edinburgh, July 4 . . 255 CCLXXXIII. To Mr Cunningham, July 7.256 CCLXXXIY. To Mr Gilbert Burns, July 10.257 CCLXXXV. To Mrs Burns.257 CCLXXXVI. To Mrs Dunlop, July 12.258 CCLXXXYII. To Mr James Burness, Writer, Montrose, July 12 . . 258 CCLXXXVIII. To James Gracie, Esq., July 16 . . . .260 CCLXXXIX. To James Armour, Mason, Mauchline, July 18 . . 263 Correspondence of Burns with George Thomson . . . .261 Letters to Clarinda ........ 329 Commonplace Books . . . . . . . .355 REMARKS OK SCOTTISH SONG. Absence ........ Ah! the Poor Shepherd’s Mournful Fate Allan Water . . As I Cam Down by yon Castle Wa’ .... A Southland Jenny ...... Auld Lang Syne ....... Auld Robin Gray. ■ Auld Rob Morris ....... A Waukrife Minnie ...... Bess the Gawkie .... . . Bide Ye Yet. Blink o’er the Burn, Sweet Bettie .... Bob o’Dunblane ....... 461 CONTENTS. ix Cauld Kail in Aberdeen . Cease, Cease, my Dear Friend, to Explore Clout the Caldron Corn-Rigs are Bonny Cromlet’s Lilt .... Dainty Davie . . i Donald and Flora Down the Burn, Davie . Dumbarton Drums Duncan Gray .... Fairest of the Fair Fife, and a’ the Lands about it . For Lack of Gold Fye, gae Rub her o’er wi’ Strae Galloway Tam .... Gil Morice .... Gramachree .... Here’s a Health to my True Love, &c. He Stole my Tender Heart Away Hey Tutti Taiti .... Highland Laddie Hughie Graham .... I Had a Horse, and I Had nae mair . I’ll never Leave thee I wish my Love were in a Mire Jamie Gay .... John Hay’s Bonny Lassie Johnnie’s Gray Breeks . Johnnie Faa, or the Gipsy Laddie Johnnie Cope .... John o’ Badenyon Kirk wad Let me be Laddie, Lie Near Me Leader-Haughs and Yarrow Lewie Gordon .... Lord Ronald, my Son Love is the Cause of my Mourning Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow Mary’s Dream .... May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen . Mill, Mill, 0 My Ain Kind Dearie, 0 . My Dear Jockey .... My Dearie, if thou Die . My Jo, Janet .... My Tocher’s the Jewel . Nancy’s Ghost .... O’er the Moor amang the Heather Oh Ono Chrio .... Oh, Open the Door, Lord Gregory Polwart on the Green 420 420 411 x CONTENTS. PAGB Boslin Castle 370 Sae Merry as We Twa hae been 401 Saw ye Johnnie Cummin? quo’ she 372 Saw ye Nae my Peggy ? . 373 She Bose and Let me In 406 Since Bobb’d of all that Charm’d my View 425 Strephon an(i Lydia 412 Tak your Auld Cloak about ye . 423 Tarry Woo The Banks of Forth 393 401 The Banks of the Tweed 370 The Beds of Sweet Boses 370 The Black Eagle . The Blaithrie o’t . 439 386 The Blithesome Bridal . The Bonny Bracket Lassie 400 The Bridal o’t 444 The Bush aboon Traquair 402 The Captive Bibband 444 The Collier’s Bonny Lassie 395 The Ewie wi’ the Crooked Horn 450 The Flowers of Edinburgh 375 The Gaberlunzie Man 437 The Gentle Swain 384 The Happy Marriage 381 The Highland Character 434 The Highland Queen 368 The Lass of Livingston . 378 The Lass of Patie’s Mill . 381 The Last Time I Came o’er the Moor 379 The Maid that Tends the Goats 390 Then, Guidwife, Count the Lawin’ 454 The Posie .... There’s Nae Luck about the House The Shepherd’s Preference 446 The Soger Laddie 454 The Tears I Shed must ever Fall 458 The Tears of Scotland . 417 The Turnimspike £82 The Wauking o’ the Fauld 408 The Young Man’s Dream 416 This is no my Ain House 436 To Daunton Me . 428 Todlen Hame 445 To the Bosebud . 457 Tranent Muir 411 Tullochgorum 449 Tune your Fiddles, &c. . Tweed-side 432 887 Up and Warn a’, Willie . 430 Waly, Waly 419 Werena my Heart Light I wad Die 415 When I upon thy Bosom Lean . 433 Where wad Bonny Annie Lie ? . Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion ? 454 406 Ye Gods, was Strephon’s Picture Blest ? 424 Young Damon 425 PREFACE. The letters of Robert Burns, extending as they do over the greater portion of his life, and written under the influence of the varying feelings of the moment, are most valuable in lead¬ ing us to form a true estimate of the man. Much there un¬ doubtedly is in them which is stilted and unreal; but against this there is much that illustrates his genius, his sturdy independence, his strong common sense, and vivid perceptions of men and things. From the very first he seems to have had a strong sense of his extraordinary endowments ; and as his friends about him endorsed his own opinion, and the circle of his admirers extended, we see from his letters how much his humble position and the obscurity of his life chafed his spirit,—we see how, when he had become the most famous man in his country-side, and when his wonderful talents were beginning to attract the attention of the great world of which he knew so little, his own irregularities seemed to preclude the hope that ever he would be able to take advantage of his great gifts, or the recognition which awaited them,—we see how, in the full triumph of his Edinburgh success, with all that was greatest and best in his country doing him honour, his hopes rose high;—we follow him throughout his wanderings in his dearly-loved native land, perhaps the happiest period of his life, and throughout the too brief days of his success, when a life of independence seemed to be before him—alas! never to be realised ; and almost the last letter he ever wrote leaves him dying broken in heart and broken in his fortunes, begging from a relation a ten-pound note to save him from the anticipated horrors of a jail. During his lifetime, and at his death, his character was fiercely assailed. More than sixty years afterwards, at the time of the Centenary celebrations in honour of his memory, much was said and written by certain of his countrymen as to the grossness of his life. We may, we think, venture to state here, that to the more charitable r PREFACE. among his countrymen, the wholesale condemnation of Burns as a libertine and blasphemer in certain quarters, gave rise to much surprise and astonishment. It seems to us that in the poetry and correspondence of Burns, we have the most remarkable instance in modern times, of a man of genius laying bare his whole heart and mind to his countrymen. Had he lived in some large city, where the private doings of even a celebrated man escape general notice, the occasion for alluding to the dark side of his life would never have occurred to him, and possibly there would have been fewer slips from the path of rectitude to chronicle, for there was much in Burns’s temperament which led him to defy his censors, and seems almost to have led him into sin in sheer contempt of petty censors, who were so much his inferiors in intellectual endowments. To those who know anything of the lives of literary men of our own day, where all is so fair outside, there will be no difficulty in finding parallels,—with this much in favour of the poet, that we know from his poems and corres¬ pondence, that under all his seeming contempt for the pro¬ prieties, shame and contrition were gnawing at his vitals ; and while presbyteries, kirk-sessions, and the “unco guid” who were busy with his doings, were being made the victims of his wild and daring humour, he was suffering through his own accusing conscience the punishment which awaits every true and honest man, who, knowing what is right, is tempted of the devil and his own evil passions, and is worsted in the con- ■ flict. The man who reads attentively his poems and corres¬ pondence, and all that has been written and said of him by his contemporaries, must be of a purity which will find itself sadly out of place in a sinful world, even at the present day, if he can find it in his heart to judge him by the common standards. His letters, while they add to our high estimate of the genius and ability of the poet, show us that he was the constant correspondent and intimate friend of the men and women of talent and position in his own district, where his frailties were known to all,—and this before he was known beyond his own locality, and was as yet unstamped by the approval of a general or metropolitan audience. This alone should convince the most censorious, that he was something higher and better than the dissolute and reckless man of genius many wish to consider him. Let us hear no more accusations against him, and no more apologies for him. Let us think of him with deep sympathy for his errors and mis¬ fortunes ; let us think of the manliness and uprightness which never failed him throughout many worldly cares and trials ; PREFACE. 3 and let us be proud of him, for in his works we have the highest manifestation of true “poetic genius” our country has yet known. We quote the criticisms of several of the more eminent of his countrymen as to the value of his correspondence :— Professor Wilson says, “ The letters of Burns are said to be too elaborate, the expression more studied and artificial than belongs to that species of composition. Now the truth is, Bums never considered letter writing ‘ a species of composi¬ tion,’ subject to certain rules of taste and criticism. That had never occurred to him, and so much the better. But hundreds, even of his most familiar letters, are perfectly art¬ less, though still most eloquent, compositions. Simple we may not call them, so rich are they in fancy, so overflowing in feeling, and dashed off every other paragraph with the easy boldness of a great master conscious of his strength, even at times when, of all things in the world, he was least solicitous about display ; while some there are so solemn, so sacred, so religious, that he who can read them with an unstirred heart can have no trust, no hope, in the immortality of the soul.” Lockhart observes, “Prom the time that Burns settled him¬ self in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity had engaged him; it is, however, very necessary in judging of these letters, and drawing inferences from their language as to the real sentiments and opinions of the writer, to take into consideration the rank and character of the pei'sons to whom they were severally addressed, and the measure of intimacy which really subsisted between them and the poet. In his letters, as in his conversation, Burns, in spite of all his pride, did something to accommodate himself to his company: and he who did write the series of letters addressed to Mrs Dunlop, Dr Moore, Mr Dugald Stewart, Miss Chalmers, and others, eminently distinguished as these are by purity and nobleness of feeling, and perfect propriety of language, presents himself, in other effusions of the same class, in colours which it would be rash to call his own. That he should have condescended to any such compliance must be regretted ; but, in most cases, it would probably be quite unjust to push our censure further than this. Professor Walker says, “ The prose writings of Burns consist almost solely of his correspondence, and are therefore to be considered as presenting no sufficient criterion of his powers. Epistolary effusions, being a sort of written conversation, participate in many of the advantages and defects of dis- 4 PREFACE. course. They materially vary, both in subject and manner, with the character of the person addressed, to which the mind of their author for the moment assumes an affinity. To equals they are familiar and negligent, and to superiors they can scarcely avoid that transition to careful effort and studied correctness, which the behaviour of the writer would undergo, when entering the presence of those to whom his talents were his only introduction. Burns, from the lowness of his origin, found himself inferior in rank to all his cor¬ respondents, except his father and brother; and, although the superiority of his genius should have done more than correct this disparity of condition, yet between pretensions so incommensurable it is difficult to produce a perfect equality. Burns evidently labours to reason himself into a feeling of its completeness, but the very frequency of his efforts betrays his dissatisfaction with their success, and he may therefore be considered as writing under the influence of a desire to create or to preserve the admiration of his correspondents. In this object he must certainly have succeeded ; for, if his letters are deficient in some of the charms of epistolary writ¬ ing, the deficiency is supplied by others. If they occasionally fail in colloquial ease and simplicity they abound in genius, in richness of sentiment, and strength of expression. The taste of Burns, according to the judgment of Professor Stewart, was not sufficiently correct and refined to relish chaste and artless prose, but was captivated by writers who labour their periods into a pointed and antithetical bril¬ liancy. What he preferred he would naturally be ambi¬ tious to imitate; and though he might have chosen better models, yet those which were his choice he has imitated with success. Even in poetry, if we may judge from his few at¬ tempts in English heroic measure, he was as far from attain¬ ing, and perhaps from desiring to attain, the flowing sweet¬ ness of Goldsmith, as he is in his letters from aiming at the graceful ease of Addison, or the severe simplicity of Swift. Burns in his prose seems never to have forgot that he was a poet; but, though his style may be taxed with occasional luxuriance, and with the ^admission of crowded and even of compounded epithets, few will deny that genius is displayed in their invention and application, as few will deny that there is eloquence in the harangue of an Indian sachem, although it be not in the shape to which we are accustomed, nor pruned of its flowers by the critical exactness of a British orator. “ It is to be observed, however, that Burns could diversify his style with great address to suit the taste of his various PREFACE. 5 correspondents: and that when he occasionally swells it into declamation, or stiffens it into pedantry, it is for the amuse¬ ment of an individual whom he knew it would amuse, and should not be mistaken for the style which he thought most proper for the public. The letter to his father, for whom he had a deep veneration, and of whose applause he was no doubt desirous, is written with care, but with no exuberance. It is grave, pious, and gloomy, like the mind of the person who was to receive it. In his correspondence with Dr Blair, Mr Stewart, Mr Graham, and Mr Erskine, his style has a respect¬ ful propriety and a regulated vigour, which show a just con¬ ception of what became himself and suited his relation with the persons whom he addressed. He writes to Mr Nichol in a vein of strong and ironical extravagance, which was con¬ genial to the manner, and adapted to the taste, of his friend. To his female correspondents, without excepting the venerable Mrs Dunlop, he is lively and sometimes romantic; and a skilful critic may perceive his pen under the influence of that tenderness for the feminine character which has been already noticed. In short, through the whole collection, we see various shades of gravity and care, or of sportive pomp and inten¬ tional affectation, according to the familiarity which subsisted between the writer and the person for whose exclusive peru¬ sal he wrote : and before we estimate the merit of any single letter, we should know the character of both correspondents, and the measure of their intimacy. These remarks are sug¬ gested by the objections of a distinguished critic to a letter which was communicated to 7 Mr Cromek, without its address, by the author of this critique, and which occurs in the ‘ Reliques of Burns.’ The censure would perhaps have been softened, had the critic been aware that the timidity which he blames was no serious attempt at fine writing, but merely a playful effusion in mock-heroic, to divert a friend whom he had formerly succeeded in diverting with similar sallies. Burns was sometimes happy in short complimentary addresses, of which a specimen is subjoined. It is inscribed on the blank leaf of a book presented to Mrs Graham of Fintray, from which it was copied, by that lady’s permission:— ‘TOMES GRAHAM OF FINTRAY. ‘ It is probable, Madam, that this page may be read when the hand that now writes it shall be mouldering in the dust: may it then bear witness that I present y'ou these volumes as a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, as 6 PREFACE. your and Mr Graham’s goodness to me has been generous and noble ! May every child of yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine that their father found in you. , ‘ Robert Burns.’ With the view of making this collection of the prose writ¬ ings of Burns as complete and valuable as possible, in addi¬ tion* to the “ General Correspondence,” the “ Correspondence with Thomson,” and “ Letters to Clarinda ”—the “ Common¬ place Books ” and “ Remarks on Scottish Song ” are reprinted in full, and, where needful, notes have been introduced to illustrate the text. *»* All the references occurring throughout this volume are to the Poetical Works. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. I. TO WILLIAM BURNESS * Irvine, Dec. 27,1781. Honoured Sir,—I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on new-year’s day; hut work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health 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 otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame.—Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable, employment, is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way; I am quite transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and dis¬ quietudes of thi3 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 1 am more pleased with the 15th, 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. * “One of the most striking letters in the Collection,” (Cromek’s Reliques of Burns,) says Jeffrey, “and to us one of the most interesting, is the earliest of the whole series, being addressed to his father in 1781, six or seven years before his name had been heard out of his own family. The author was then a common flax-dresser, and his father a poor peasant; yet there is not one trait of vulgarity, either in thought or expression; but, on the contrary, a dignity and elevation of sentiment which must have been considered as a good omen in a youth of much higher condition.” B 8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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, I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure 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 piety 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 day, I shall conclude.—I am, hon¬ oured sir, your dutiful son, Robert Burness.* P.S .—My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more. No. II. TO MR JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. Lochlea, Jan. 15, 1783. Dear Sir, —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 kindness 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 I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what l 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 I am most miserably defi¬ cient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a father who has figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, I might have been what the world calls a pushing, active fellow; but to tell you the truth, sir, there is hardly anything 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 anything original about him, which shows me human nature in a different light from anything 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 considera¬ tion. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustlmg, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the * At this time Burns was working as a heckler, (a dresser of flax.) A few days after, the workshop was burnt to the ground, and he had to begin the world anew. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 9 present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything 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 coun¬ try-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. However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, especially in tavern matters, I 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 everything, I abhor as hell the idea of sneaking into 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 sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his “Elegies;” 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 endea¬ vour l;o form my conduct; and ’tis incongruous, ’tis absurd, to sup¬ pose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame—the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race—he “ who can soar above this little scene of things ”—can descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terrse-filial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! Oh, how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a poor, insig¬ nificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and, “ catching the manners living as they rise,” whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle encumbrance in their way. But I daresay I have by this time tired your pa¬ tience ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs Murdoch— not my compliments, for that is a mere commonplace story, but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from, dear sir, yours, R. B.+ * The last shift alluded to here must be the condition of an itinerant beggar.— Currie. t John Murdoch kept the school of Lochlea, and was for a time the teacher of Robert Burns and his brother Gilbert. He appears to have been a man of parts, and a willing teacher of clever and promising pupils. He removed to London, where he heard of the fame of his former pupil with much surprise. He died in London in April 1824. He published several educational works of some note in their day, and taught English to several eminent personages, Talleyrand among the number. He said of Burns and his brother Gilbert:—“Gilbert always ap¬ peared to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more of a 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 remark¬ ably dull, and his voice untunable; his 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 most likely to court the Muses, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. IO No. III. TO MR JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE* Lochlia, June , 21, 1783. Dear SffR,—My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in almost everybody’s else) in a dying he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind.” The following is Mr Murdoch’s reply to the letter of Bums :— London, Oct. 20, 1787. My dear Sir, —As my friend Mr Brown is going from this place to your neigh¬ bourhood, 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 before me, I see that it was my duty to have given 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 Russell , and an unfathomed depth, and Iowan brunstane , all in the same minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable distance. 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 5l ‘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 company 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 views 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 Mrs Burness, to my dear friend Hilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the universe bless you all with those principles 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 describe. 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 per¬ son that ever I was acquainted with.—I am, my dear friend, yours sincerely, John Murdoch. * This gentleman, (the son of an elder brother of my father,) when he was very young, lost his parent, and having discovered in his repositories some of my father’s letters, he requested that the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued till the last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my bro¬ ther’s letters to his cousin are introduced in this edition for the purpose of exhibiting the poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his domestic family relations afterwards.— Gilbert Burns. He was grandfather of Sir Alexander iiurnes, author of “ Travels in Bokhara.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . condition, he has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason*, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you, sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father’s correspondence in the north die with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family. I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be got even at that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white pease from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but much re¬ duced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and our landholders, full of ideas of farming, gathered from the English and the Lothians, jmd other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods in our improve¬ ments of farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, & Co.’s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, how¬ ever destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last; and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them. My mother sends you a small present of a cheese; ’tis but a very little one, as our last year’s stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in the season. Mrs Black promises to take the cheese under her care so far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 12 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall he very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your coun¬ try, when opportunity serves. My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and the rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of, dear sir, your affectionate cousin, R. B. . No. IV. TO MISS ELIZA -* Lochlea, 1783. I verily believe, my dear Eliza, 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 hasty manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afrajd lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don’t know how it is, my dear, for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affec¬ tion be not really a part of virtue, ’tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my Eliza warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope He intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that He may bless my endeavours to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the 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 earthworm may profess love to a woman’s person, whilst in reality his affection is centred in her pocket; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say 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 J * The name of the lady to whom this and the three succeeding letters were j addressed is not known. She is supposed to have been a Superior servant in the j family of Mr Montgomery of Colisfield—hence a song addressed to her, “ Mont- | gomery’s Peggy.”—See p. 309. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 13 having so poor a notion of the sex which was designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don’t envy theui their happi¬ ness who have such notions. For my part I propose quite other 'pleasures with my dear partner. R. B. No. V. TO THE SAME * Loohlea, 1783. My dear Eliza, —I do not remember, in the course of your ac¬ quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordi¬ nary way of falling in love amongst people in our station in 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 affair 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 occa¬ sion 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 greater part of us; and I must own, my dear Eliza, 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 furthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been describing; but I hope, my dear Eliza, you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred 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 marriage 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 some¬ thing like what they describe; but sure i am the nobler faculties of the mind with kindred feelings of the heart can only be the * Bums, in these letters, moralises occasionally very happily on love and marriage. They are, in fact, the only sensible love-letters we have ever seen.— Motherwell. 14 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Provi¬ dence to spare us to the latest period of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age,—even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of these noble qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. “ Oh happy state when souls each other draw Where love is liberty and nature law I” I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous; but the language of the heart is, my dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use to you. When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship ; but I shall make no apology—I know your good-nature will excuse what your good sense may see amiss. R. B. No. VI. TO THE SAME* Lochlea, 1781 , 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 proceed¬ ing, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his in¬ tentions are honourable. I do not think that it is so difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough to practise such detestable conduct; but to a man whose heart glows with the prin¬ ciples of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment and purity of manners—to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your com¬ pany, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak or 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 dis- * Mr Chambers thinks it probable that “my dear Eliza” was the heroine of the poet’s song, “ From thee, Eliza, I must go.”—See p. 324. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 15 simulation and falsehood that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so noble, so generous a passion a£ virtuous love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable 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 unworthy of a man, and, I will add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this—that you would soon either 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 regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of'hon¬ our and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earn¬ est endeavour to promote your happiness; 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, It. B. No. VII. TO THE SAME. Lochlea, 1783. I ought, in good manners, to have acknowledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked at the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory; “ you were sorry you could not make me a re¬ turn, but you wish me,” what, without you I never can obtain, “ you wish me all kind of happiness.” It would be weak and un¬ manly to say that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste. Your uncommon personal advantages and your superior good sense do not so much strike me; these possibly may be met with in a few instances 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 beyond anything I have ever met 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. 16 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 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 admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and, as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off, and you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss (pardon me the dear expression for once)-. R. B. No. VIII. TO MR JAMES BURNESS, MONTROSE. Lochlea, Feb. 17, 1784. Dear Cousin,—I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from day to day expected. On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke ; still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn. I hope my father’s friends in your country will not let their con¬ nexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and revere. I expect, therefore, my dear sir, you will not neglect any oppor¬ tunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige, my dear cousin, yours sincerely, R. B. No. IX. TO MR JAMES BURNESS, MONTROSE. Mossgiel, Aug. 1784. We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the moral world which I daresay has happened in the course of this half-century. We have had a party of [the] Presbytery of [the] Relief, as they call themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two years ago, a Mrs Buchan from Glasgow came among them, and began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and in a short time made many converts ; and, among others, their preacher, Mr White. who 5 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 17 upon that account, has been suspended and formally deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and was supported, both he and their spiritual mother, as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, several of whom were in good circumstances; till, in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs Buchan, and put her out of the town; on which all her followers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their doors be¬ hind them : one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellow¬ ing at the crib without food, or anybody to mind her, and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon; among others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breath¬ ing on them, which she does with postures and practices that are scandalously indecent; they have likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a com¬ munity of women, as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the above-mentioned are facts. This, my dear sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving the guidance of sound reason and common sense in matters of religion. Whenever we neglect to despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the im¬ mediate influences of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdities, will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have often thought that the more out of the way and ridicu¬ lous the fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to them.* R. B. * Mr Cunningham says of the Buchanites, they “were a small community of enthusiasts, who believed the time to be at hand when there would neither be marriage nor giving in marriage—when the ground, instead of thistles and heather, would yield spontaneously the finest fruits—when all things under the sun would be in common—and ‘our lady,’ so they call Mrs Buchan, reign spiritual queen of the earth. At first they held the doctrine of immediate trans¬ lation ; but a night spent in wild prayer, wild song, and wilder sermons on the top of a cold hill rebuked this part of their belief, but strengthened them in the opinion regarding their empire on earth, and confirmed ‘our lady’ in the re¬ solution of making a tour through her imaginary dominions. She accordingly moved towards Nithsdale with all her people—some were in carts, some on horseback, and not a few on foot. She rode in front upon a white pony ; and often halted to lecture them upon the loveliness of the land, and to cheer them with food from what she called her ‘ garner of mercy,’ and with drink from a large cup called 1 the comforter.’ She addressed all people as she passed along with much mildness, and spoke tb them in the language of their callings. ‘ James Macleish,’ she said to a gardener, who went to see her, ‘quit Mr Copland’s garden, and come and work in that of the Lord.’ ‘ Thank ye,’ answered James, ‘but He was na owre kind to the last gardener He had.’ ‘ Our lady’ died at Auchengibardhill in Galloway, and her followers were dis¬ persed—a few of the more resolute believers took a farm : the women spun and 18 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. X. TO MISS-> My dear Countrywoman, —I am so impatent to show you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the uncertain time of my see¬ ing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins’s poems, which I promised to Miss Irvine. If I can find them, I will forward them by you: if not, you must apologise for me. I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will “ feelingly convince me what I am.” I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I would say. Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no formed design in all this; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me; but I wish you would not ; just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of friendship. I will not subscribe .myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the great Protector of inno¬ cence may shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. No. XI. TO MR JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH.* Mossgibl, Feb. 17, 1786. My dear Sir, —I have not time at present to upbraid you for your Bilence and neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great made large quantities of linen ; the men ploughed and sowed, and made articles of turnery—their lives were inoffensive and their manners gentle—they are now all dead and gone.” * This letter is supposed by Cromek to have been written to the Peggy men¬ tioned in the poet’s commonplace book. Chambers, however, is of opinion that it belongs to a later period, and was addressed to a lady with whom Burns be¬ came acquainted during his first Highland excursion. f John Richmond was an early companion of the poet’s, and was at this time pursuing his studies in the metropolis previous to settling in Mauchline as a country solicitor. He lived long after the poet, and gave Allan Cunningham much valuable information regarding the early life of Burns. He was present with the poet at the scene which suggested “ The Jolly Beggars.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 19 pleasure. I have enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been very busy with the Muses since I saw you, and have composed, among several others, “The Ordination,” a poem on Mr M'Kinlay’s being called to Kilmarnock; “ Scotch Drink,” a poem; “ The Cottar’s Saturday Night; ” “An Address to the Deil,” &c. I have likewise completed my poem on “ The Twa Dogs,” but have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is Mr Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my works. Be so good as to send me Fergusson, by Conn el,* and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some very important news with respect to myself, not the most agreeable—news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;f he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither good nor bad fortune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday.—I am, my dear sir, yours, Robert Burness. No. XII. TO MR JOHN KENNEDY. + Mossgiel, March 3, 1780. Sir, —I have done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in sending you my Cottager. If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad you would copy it and return me either the original or the transcript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and I have a friend who wishes to see it. Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E’er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,| Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad force A hermit’s fancy; And down the gate in faith they ’re worse, And mair unchancy. But, as I’m saying, please step to Dow’s, And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, Till some bit callan bring me news That you are there ; And if we dinna haud a bouze I ’se ne’er drink mair. * The Mauchline carrier. t James Smith, then a shopkeeper in Mauchline, was the other friend who was present on the same occasion : he went abroad, and died in the West Indies. It is to him the epistle is addressed, beginning, “Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief.” X Mr Kennedy was employed in the capacity of clerk or sub-factor to the Earl of Dumfries, at whose seat, Dumfries House, near Mauchline, he at this time resided. He subsequently became factor to the Marquis of Breadalbane. § The village market cross. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. It’s no I like to sit and swallow, Then like a swine to puke and wallow ; But gie me just a true good fallow, Wi’ right engine, And spunkie ance to make us mellow, And then we ’ll shine. Now, if ye ’re ane o’ warld’s folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak. And sklent on poverty their joke, Wi’ bitter sneer, Wi’ you no friendship will I troke, Nor cheap nor dear. But if, as I’m informed weel, Ye hate, as ill’s the verra deil, The flinty heart that canna feel, Come, sir, here’s tae youl Hae, there’s my haun’, I wiss you weel, And gude be wi’ you! R. B. Uo. XIII. TO MR ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK.* Mossoiel, March 20, 1786. Dear Sir,—I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you returned through Mauchline; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening. I here enclose you my “Scotch Drink,” and “may the-follow with a blessing for your edification.” I hope, sometime before we hear the gowk,+ to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup, which will be a great comfort and consolation to, dear sir, your humble servant, Robert Burness. No. XIV. TO MR AIKEN. Mossgiel, April 3, 1786. Dear Sir, —I received your kind letter with double pleasure, on account of the second flattering instance of Mrs C.’s notice and approbation. I assure you I “ Turn out the brunt side o’ my shin,” as the famous Ramsay of jingling memory says, at such a patroness. Present her my most grateful acknowledgments in your very best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank leaf of Miss More’s work.J * Muir was an intimate friend of the poet’s ; his name appears in the list of subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of his works for forty copies, t The cuckoo. } See “ Lines to Mrs C-.,” p. 136. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 21 My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect to hear from you by the first opportunity.—I am ever, dear sir, yours, Robert Burness.* No. XV. TO MR M'WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR. Mossgiel, April 17,1786. It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the impression of the good Creator, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of your power. I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment which stamps the die with—with—with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of, my dear sir, your humble, afflicted, tormented, Robert Burns. No. XVI. TO MR JOHN KENNEDY. Mossgiel, April 20, 1786. Sir,— By some neglect in Mr Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request for a subscription paper till this day. I will not at¬ tempt any acknowledgment for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in Mr Hamilton’s subscription list. Allow me only to say, sir, I feel the weight of the debt. I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions.f I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray says, “Melancholy has marked for her own.” Our race comes on apace; that much expected scene of revelry and mirth; but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which your last flattered the expectation of, sir, your indebted hum¬ ble servant, R, B. No. XVII. TO MR JOHN KENNEDY. Mossgiel, May 17,1786. Dear Sir, —I have sent you the above hasty copy as I promised.^ In about three or four weeks I shall probably set the press agoing. * This was the last time the poet spelt his name according to the wont of his forefathers.' The Miss More alluded to was Hannah More. f “The Mountain Daisy.” t “The Epistle to Rankine.” 22 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I am much hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my subscription, should have a more lengthened acknow¬ ledgment from, dear sir, your obliged servant, E. B. No. XVIII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, OP AYE. June 1786. Honoured Sir, —My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing that you would wish to have it in your power to do me a service as early as anybody, I enclose you half-a-sheet of them. I must consult you, first opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character as an honest man, I would do it with all my soul; but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old ,Mr Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you believe it ?—though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. Perdition seize her falsehood !* E. B. No. XIX. TO ME DAVID BEICE.+ Mossoiel, June 12, 1786. Dear Brice, —I received your message by G. Paterson, and as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rhyming reprobate as your humble servant still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention or you to hear. Poor, ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last.J You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don’t know; one thing I do know—she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her; and, to con¬ fess a truth between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I won’t tell her so if I were to see her, which I don’t want to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is not the losing her that makes me * Alluding to the destruction of the marriage-lines between the poet and Jean. t David Brice, then a shoemaker in Glasgow, one of the poet’s early friends. j From Paisley, whither she had gone to reside, to be out of the way of the poet GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 23 so unhappy, hut for her sake I feel most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as 'I from my very soul forgive her; and may His grace be with her and bless her in all her future life ! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking- matches, and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell, dear old Scotland! and farewell, dear ungrateful Jean ! for never, never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages—it is just the last foolish action I intend to do; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.— Believe me to be, dear Brice, your friend and well-wisher, R. B. No. XX. TO MR ROBERT AIKEN. Ayrshire, July 1786. Sib,—I was with Wilson, my printer, t’other day, and settled all our bygone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him ifre offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his ac- cpunt, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know, is out of my power: so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer! an epoch which, I think, will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disap¬ pointed of my second edition as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of “ The Brigs of Ayr.” I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am some¬ times pleased with myself in my grateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have veiy little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements with¬ in, respecting the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the con- c GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 24 sequences 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 neyer 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 feel¬ ings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the scale against it. You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a senti¬ ment that strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present exis¬ tence ; if so, then how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence,—how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy? 0 Thou great unknown Power!—Thou Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality !—I have fre¬ quently wandered from that order and rggularity necessary for the perfection of Thy works, yet Thou hast never left me, nor forsaken me! Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me,* perhaps it may not be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preced¬ ing 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 further misery . . . To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into tjie 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 defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast,) still, more than these passive quali¬ ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the “ hallachores ” of the human race) were * Alluding to the efforts which were being made to procure him an appoint¬ ment in the Excise. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 25 striking off with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was “ standing idle in the market¬ place,” or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see, sir, that if to know one’s errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance; but, according to the reve¬ rend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conver¬ sion, it is very far from always implying it. R. B. No. XXL TO MRS DUNLOP OF DUNLOP.* Ayrshire, July 1786. Madam,— I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incom¬ parably 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 titilations 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 * This excellent person died 24th May 1815, full of days and honour, in the 85th year of her age ; leaving a numerous offspring, many of whom have distin¬ guished themselves in various parts of the British dominions. Frances Wallace, the only daughter and ultimately the heiress of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie in Ayrshire, was born about the year 1731, and at the age of seventeen became the wife of John Dunlop, Esq. of Dunlop, in the same county. Although she brought her husband a very large fortune, together with the man¬ sion of Craigie, beautifully situated on the Ayr, she was content to spend the whole of her married and dowager life, with the exception of occasional visits, in retirement at Dunlop. While she treated Burns with uniform affability and kindness, there was an unaffected dignity in her whole character which seems to have at once exercised a salutary restraint over him, and raised his mind, when in communication with hers, to the exercise of its best powers. The mind of Mrs Dunlop, overflowing with benevolent feelings, delighted in those fine emotions of the Ayrshire poet which found expression in the Verses to a Mouse, the Stanzas on a Winter Night, and the noble poem “ The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” which first attracted her attention to the bard. Burns, on the other hand, glowed at finding in the heritrix of an ancient family and historical hon¬ ours a heart as warm and philanthropic as his own. After the death of Burns, Mrs Dunlop paid a visit to Dr Currie at Liverpool, in order to consult with him respecting the publication of the poet’s works. Dr Currie had already perused her letters to Burns, which he had found amongst the poet’s papers; and he expressed an anxious wish that she would allow of their publication, in connexion with those of Burns to herself. But Mrs Dunlop en¬ tertained an insurmountable repugnance to all public appearances, and, not¬ withstanding Dr Currie’s assurances of the value of her compositions, both on their own account, and as rendering Burns’s letters the more intelligible, she positively refused to allow them to see the light. She concluded her interview by half jestingly purchasing back her letters from him one by one, laying down a letter of Burns’s for each of her own, till she obtained the whole. She then returned satisfied to Dunlop House. These letters still exist: but her family feel that they would not be fulfilling her wishes by giving them to the world.— Chambebs. 26 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, ma¬ dam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his couutry. “ Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief!’* The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was “ The Life of Hannibal; ” the next was “ The History of Sir William Wallacefor several of my earlier years I had few other authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part of Wallace’s story where these lines occur— “ Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, l'o make a silent and a safe retreat.” I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life al¬ lowed, 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 wash to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. H. B. No. XXII. TO MOHS. JAMES SMITH, MAUCHLINE. Mossgiel, Monday Morning, 1786. Mr deae Sib,—I went to Dr Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the opportunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the doctor with a Mr and Mrs White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him, that to send me from Sa¬ vannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds; besides running the risk of throwing my¬ self into a pleuritic fever in consequence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith; but a vessel sails from Greenock on the 1st of September, right for the place of my destination. The captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr Gavin Hamilton’s, and as good a fellow as heart could wish: with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it:— “I ’ll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, As lang’s I dow.” On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o’clock, I shall see you as I ride through GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 27 to Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still happiness for me among them:— “ O woman, lovely woman! Heaven design’d you To temper man i—we had been brutes without you 1 ” R. B. No. XXIII. TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. Mossgiel, July 9, 1786. With the sincerest grief I read your letter. Y ou are truly a son of misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your health goes on; if it is any way re-establishing, or if Leith promises .well; in short, how you feel in the inner man. No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisi¬ tion yesterday, and half the countryside as witnesses against him. He still stands out steady and denying : but proof was led yester¬ night of circumstances highly suspicious; almost de facto; one of the servant-girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered into the house, to speak, in your cant, “ in the hour of cause.” I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from the least view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and to you I will confess it, from a foolish hankering fondness, very ill placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show that penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the Church, which for that very reason I intend to do. I am going to put on sackloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, 'pater, miserere mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return them by Connell. The Lord stand with the righteous. Amen, amen. R. B. No. XXIV. TO MR DAVID BRICE, SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. Mossgiel, July 17, 1786. I have been so throng printing my poems that I could scarcely find as much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother for¬ bade me the house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bachelor, which Mr Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me 28 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I leave the country. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am, dear Brice, yours, R. B. No. XXV. TO MR JOHN RICHMOND. Old Rome Forest, July 30, 1786. My dear Richmond,— My hour is now come—you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders, within three weeks at furthest, to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it ? Armour has got a warrant to throw me into jail till I find security for an enormous sum.* This they keep an entire Becret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am wandering from one friend’s house to another, and, like a true son of the gospel, “ have no where to lay my head.” I know you will pour an execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, en¬ raged lover's bosom await her mother until her latest hour ! I write in a moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation—exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write no more—let me hear from you by the return of coach. I will write you ere I go.—I am, dear sir, yours, here and hereafter, R. B. No. XXVI. TO MR JOHN KENNEDY. Kilmarnock, Aug. 1786. My dear Sir, —Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d instant gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way; but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, very probably a last, adieu, before I go for Jamaica; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class. Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my authorship; but now you have them, let them speak for themselves. R. B. [The poet here inserts his “ Farewell,” which will be found at P-118.] * The poet had been misinformed. Armour had no wish to imprison him; he only sought to drive him from the country. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 29 No. XXVII. TO MR ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK. Mossgiel, Friday Noon, Sept. 1786. My Friend, my Brother, —Warm recollection of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart that I send him the prefixed baga¬ telle, (“ The Calf,”) pleased with the thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of distant language of friendship. You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my soul. The poem was nearly an extemporaneous production, on a wager with Mr Hamilton that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given time. If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr W. Parker, and if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men whose friendship I shall be proud to claim both in this world and that which is to come. I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit from, my dear sir, your most devoted, R. B. No. XXVIII. TO MR BURNESS, MONTROSE. Mossgiel, Friday Noon, Sept. 26, 1786. My dear Sir, —I this moment receive yours—receive it with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend’s welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. ’Tis there that man is blest! ’Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being—the burning glow when he clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom—the tender yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence—these nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man who never rouse3 them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not comply with your friendly invitation. When it will be, I don’t know, but if I can make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some time before. My best compliments to Mrs-; I should [be] equally mortified should I drop in when she is abroad; but of that I suppose there is little chance. 30 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. What I have written Heaven knows; I have not time to review it: so accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase—perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity —I am, dear sir, ever yours, R. B. Ho. XXIX. TO DR ARCHIBALD LAWRIE. Mossgiel, Nov. 13,1786. Dear Sir, —I have, along with this, sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the songs. Ossian I am not in such a hurry about, but I wish the songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, returned, as soon as they can be conveniently des¬ patched. If they are left at Mr Wilson’s, the bookseller, Kilmar¬ nock, they will easily reach me. My most respectful compliments to Mr and Mrs Lawrie, and a poet’s warm wishes for their happiness; —to the young ladies, particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better qualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of Saul. Indeed, it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in one of the sweetest scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw, as I think the peaceful unity of St Margaret’s Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalypse.—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely, Robert Burns. Ho. XXX. TO MISS ALEXAHDER. Mossgiel, Nov. 18,1786. Madam, —Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world gene¬ rally 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 abilities can produce; and, what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is as sincere as fervent. The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I daresay, madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic rheur as he wandered by you. I had roved out, as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 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 moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 31 feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station: Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed who, regardless of your harmonious 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 of the fairest pieces of nature’s workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet’s eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold converse with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. The enclosed song [“ The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle ”] was the work of my return home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene.—I have the honour to be, madam, your most obedient and very humble servant, R. B. No. XXXI. TO MRS STEWART OF STAIR. Nov. 1780. Madam, —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 entertainment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of “ Ettrick Banks,” [“ The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle ”] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit: both as a tolerable description of one of nature’s sweetest scenes, a July evening; and one of the finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know any¬ thing of, an amiable, beautiful young woman; but I have no com¬ mon friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. I am quite aware, madam, what task the world would assign me in 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 actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated descrip- 3 2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. tion. This, madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Be¬ sides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found—the company of your compeers; and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remember—the reception 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 benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely 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. 11. B. No. XXXII. TO MR ROBERT MUIR. Mossgiel, Nov. 18, 1786. My dear Sir, —Enclosed you have “ Tam Samson,” as I intend to print him. I am thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come se'ennight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first.—I am ever, your much indebted, R. B. No. XXXIII. IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. Amen. We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date January 25, 1759,* Poet-Laureate and Bard-in Chief in and over the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, to our trusty and well beloved William Chalmers and John M‘Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right and wrong. Right Trusty, —Be it known unto you, that whereas in the course of our care and watching over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and venders of poesy; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c., &c., male and female, we have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy wherof we have here enclosed : Our will therefore is, that ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nickname of The Deil’s Yell Nowte : + and * The poet’s birthday. t Dr Currie thinks this phrase alludes to old bachelors; but the poet’s brother, Gilbert Burns, considers it a contemptuous appellation often given to the officers of the law, and that it is in this sense it is used here. “ Holy Willie’s Prayer” is the poem alluded to. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 33 after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch’s merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the 24th current, when in person We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Mauchline, November 20, a.d. 1786. God save the Bard! No. XXXIV. TO DR MACKENZIE,* MAUCHLINE, ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER.+ Wednesday Morning, Nov. 1786. Dear Sir, —I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the pro¬ fessor, [Dugald Stewart.] I would be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I were not the object; he does it with such a grace. I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus—four parts Socrates—four parts Nathanael—and two parts Shakespeare’s Brutus. The accompanying verses were really extempore, but a little cor¬ rected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of, dear sir, your very humble servant, R. B. No. XXXV. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE. + Edinburgh, Dec. 7,1786. Honoured Sir,—I have paid every attention to your commands, but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this * Dr Mackenzie was one of Burns’s early friends and admirers, and the first to introduce him to Dugald Stewart. After practising for many years as a surgeon in Irvine, he retired to Edinburgh, and died there in 1837 at ah advanced age. t See the lines, p. t Gavin Hamilton, a fast friend of Burns’s, was his landlord in the farm of Mossgiel. Burns was a frequent and welcome guest at his table. Mr Hamilton had incurred the censure of the session of the church of which he was a member, on account of alleged non-attendance at public worship, Sunday travelling, &c., and it was this which suggested to the poet the writing of that tenable satire, 1 ‘ Holy Willie's Prayer,” (See page 20.) Burns wrote a dedicatory poem to Gavin Hamilton, (see page 114,) which did not appear at the front of the volume, though included in its pages. 34 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. reaches you, that Muirkirklands were bought by a Mr John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, &c., by a Mr Frederick Fotheringham,.supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald’s folks. This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reacH you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor better. For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas k Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin’s and Aberdeen Almanacs, along with the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and in all probability, I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise, man of the world. Through my lord’s influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post. I have met, in Mr Dalrymple of Orangefield, what Solomon empha¬ tically calls “a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same en¬ thusiastic kind which you, Mr Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. May cauld ne’er catch you but a hap,* Nor hunger but in plenty’s lap! Amen ! R. B. Ho. XXXVI. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., BANKER, AYR.+ Edineuegh, Dec. 13, 1786. My honoured Friend,— I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se’ennight, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy, warm friend in Mr Dalrymple of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glen¬ cairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall re¬ member when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed in the Caledonian Hunt, and entered in their books, that they are to * Without sufficient clothing. t John Ballantyne, a friend and patron of the poet’s, to whom he addressed “ The Brigs of Ayr ” He was for some time provost of Ayr, and had shown much zeal in the improvement of his native town. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 35 take eaeli a copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse ; but my avowed patrons and patronesses are - the Duchess of Gordon, the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord and Lady Betty,* the Dean of Faculty, Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati: Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr Mackenzie—“ The Man of Feeling.” An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr Sibbald, which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be Patrick Millar, Esq., brother to the Justice-Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two next post, when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is very well. Dugald Stewart and some of my learned friends put me in the periodical paper called the Lounger a copy of which I here enclose you, l was, sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, write you an account of my every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle.—I have the honour to be, good sir, your ever-grateful humble servant, R. B. If any of my friends write me, my direction is, cafe of Mr Creech, bookseller. No. XXXVII. TO MR ROBERT MUIR. Edinburgh, Dec. 20,1786. My dear Friend, —I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your letter; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said she “ didna ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o’ thae bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like them.” So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. I enclose you g, parcel of subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it would not be like me to comply. Your friend’s notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr Parker. R. B. * Lady Betty Cunningham, an unmarried sister of the Earl’s, t The Lounger, by Henry Mackenzie, the author of “The Man of Feeling.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 36 No. XXXVIII. TO MR CLEGHORN. “Oh. whare did ye get that hauver meal bannock,” &c.* Dear Cleghorn,— You will see by the above that I have added a stanza to “ Bonnie Dundee.” If you think it will do, you may set it agoing “ Upon a ten-string’d instrument, And on the psaltery.” R. B. Mb Cleghobn, Fabmer. God bless the trade. No. XXXIX. TO MR WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITER, AYR.f Edinburgh, Dec. 27,1786. 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 majesty preside over the dull routine of business—a heavily-solemn oath this !—I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the said apostle John, brother to the apostle James, com¬ monly called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the Less—after throwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from which he was miraculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh; which—a circumstance not very uncommon in story telling—brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this para¬ graph, you will have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. * See the first version of “Bonnie Dundee,” at p. 335. t Mr William Chalmers, a writer in Ayr, an early friend of the poet’s. He was in love, and, as he was not so successful in his suit as he wished to be, he asked Burns to endeavour to propitiate the object of his affections by addressing a poem to her. “Willie Chalmers” (see pagel21.) was the result. It is not known whether he succeeded in his suit. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 37 One blank in the address to Edinburgh —“ Fair B-”—is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve on the first day of her existence. My direction is—care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge Street. K. B. No. XL. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE. Edinburgh, January 7,1787. To tell the truth among friends, I feel a miserable blank in my heart from the want of her [alluding to Jean Armour], and I don’t think I shall ever meet with so delicious an armful again. She has her faults; but so have you and I; and so has everybody. Their tricks and craft hae put me daft; They’ve ta’en me in and a’ that; But clear your decks, and here’s the sex, I like the jades for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, And twice as muckle’s a’ that. I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian farmer’s daughter, whom I have almost persuaded to accompany me to the west coun¬ try, should I ever return to settle there.—By the by, a Lothian farmer is about the same as an Ayrshire squire of the lower kind. —I had a most delicious ride from Leith to her house yester¬ night, in a hackney coach, with her brother and two sisters, and brother’s wife. We had dined all together at a common friend’s house in Leith, and drunk, danced and sang till late enough. The night was dark, the claret had been good, and I thirsty . . , [The remainder is unfortunately wanting.] No. XLI. TO THE EARL OF EGLINT6N. Edinburgh, Jan. 1787- My Lord,— As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national prejudices which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotsman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour and welfare of my country; and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of 3 8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. life; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine to be dis¬ tinguished ; though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gra¬ tified with the countenance and approbation of one of my country’s most illustrious sons, when Mr Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments; but your patron¬ age is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enoftgh of the etiquette of life to know whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it.—From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and mer¬ cenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest. It. B. No. XLII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. My honoured Friend,— It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw’s Skate, “ past redemption; ” * for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I do it. I am still “ dark as was chaos ” in respect to futurity. My gene¬ rous friend, Mr Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recol¬ lections whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr Miller is no judge of land; and though I daresay he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to meet Mr Miller on his lands some time in May. I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grandmaster Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland, visited. —The meeting was numerous and elegant; all the different lodges about town were present in all their pomp. The grandmaster, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself, as a gentleman and mason, among other general toasts, gave “ Caledonia, and Cale¬ donia’s Bard, Brother Burns,”—which rang through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunder¬ struck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, so * A proverbial expression denoting utter ruin, which is still in use. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 39 loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, “ Very well indeed! ’’ which set me something to rights again. I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My best good wishes to Mr Aiken.—I am ever, dear sir, your much indebted humble ser¬ vant, R. B. No. XLIII. TO THE SAME. Jan. 1787. While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. By Heaven! say I to my¬ self, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, auld toun o’ Ayr, conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr Ballantyne. Here it is— Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care 1 * &c. No. XLIV. TO MBS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, Jan. 15, 1787. Madam, —Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib—I wished to have written to Dr Moore before I wrote to you; but though, every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of “the sons of little men.” To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant’s order, would be disgracing the little character I have; and to write the author of “ The View of Society and Manners” a letter of sentiment—I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way of sub¬ scription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my .glo¬ rious 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 applied for the opinion of some of the literati here who honour me * See “ The Banks o’ Doon,” p. 404. D GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 40 with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to he proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print; and the 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 attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the “ saviour of his country,” which sooner or later I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet; alas! madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened, in¬ formed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company—to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imper¬ fections of awkward rusticity and crude, unpolished ideas on my head—I assure you, madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages 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 sup¬ port me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. I have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy; and, however a friend or the world may differ from me in that par¬ ticular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburden my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about it.—But, “When proud fortune’s ebbing tide recedes,” you will bear me witness that, when my bubble of fame was at tbe highest, I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground, with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. Your patronising me and interesting yourself in my fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in; it exalts me in my own idea: and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms for the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace? R. B. * See “The Vision,” p. 54. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 4 1 No. XLY. TO DR MOORE * Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. Sib,—M rs Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of let¬ ters 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 character. Your criticisms, sir, I receive with reverence : only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a peccant passage or two, that I would cer¬ tainly 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 authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a differ¬ ent phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice I have lately had: and in a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins described the heart; I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. R. B. * I)r Moore, who thus early discovered the talent of the poet, was a son of the Rev. Charles Moore of Stirling, and was educated at Glasgow for the medical profession. In 1747, while only seventeen years of age, he was, through the patronage of the Duke of Argyle, attached to the hospitals connected with the British army in Flanders. On his return, he settled in Glasgow; but disliking the drudgery of the profession, he gave up his practice, and accepted the post of medical guardian to the young Duke of Hamilton, whose delicate health ren¬ dered the constant attendance of a medical man necessary. On the death of the young Duke, Dr Moore’s services were transferred to the brother of the deceased, with whom he spent five years of Continental travel. When the Duke had attained his majority, Dr Moore settled in London, and afterwards became well-known as an author. He wrote “A View of Society and Manners, in France, Switzerland, and Ger¬ many,” the result of his foreign travel ; “Medical Sketches and when he was an old man, a novel entitled, “ ZelucQ.” In 1792, when sixty-three years of age, he was in Paris, and witnessed the insurrection of the 10th of August, the dethronement of the king, and much of the horrors of that year of blood, and gave the result of his experience on his return, in the shape of “A Journal during a Residence in France,” &c. He was a man of undoubted ability, and his works were popular in their day. Jn a letter to Mrs Dunlop, he had ex¬ pressed high admiration of the poetry of Burns, and this letter being shown to the poet, led to a correspondence of a most friendly and confidential nature. He died in 1802, leaving five sons, one of whom, General Sir John Moore, belongs to history. 42 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. SLVI. TO THE REV. G. LAWRIE, NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. Edinburgh, Feb. 5, 1787. Reverend and dear Sir, —When I look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted at¬ tention : do me the justice to believe that my delay by no means proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel, for you the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father. I thank you, sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports; but in reality I have no great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the attention of mankind a while; to it I owe my present eclat; but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide, which has borne me to a height of which I am perhaps unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of modesty; I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers before I came here; I have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early years. In Dr Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I would have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be placed to the account of Miss Lawrie and her pianoforte. I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs Lawrie a compliment that Mr Mackenzie, the celebrated “ Man of Feeling,” paid to Miss Lawrie the other night at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr Mackenzie, he asked me who she was; I told him ’twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He returned there was something very striking, to his idea, in her appearance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say, “ She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl.” My compliments to all the happy inmates of St Margaret’s. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 43 No. XLYII. TO DR MOORE. Edinburgh, Feb. 15, 1787. Sir, —Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknow¬ ledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23. Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment: but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss Williams has done me, please, sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her; but the other day I got her poems, which for several reasons, some belong¬ ing 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 s think, two characteristic features in her poetry—-the unfet¬ tered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre tender¬ ness of “time-settled sorrow.” I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why. E. B. No. XLVIII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. Edinburgh, Feb. 24,1787. My honoured Friend,— I will soon be with you now in guid black prent;—in a week or ten days at furthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print subscribers’ names; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they must be sent in to Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver, and, if it can be ready in time, I will appear in my book, looking, like all other fools, to my title-page. R. B. No. XLIX. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. Edinburgh, Feb. 1787. My Lord,—I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, which I was told was to be got in town; but I am truly sorry to see that 44 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. a blundering painter has spoiled a “ human face divine.” The en¬ closed stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could I have been so happy as to procure one with anything of a likeness. As .1 will soon return to my shades, I wanted 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 petition. I owe much 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 independent as your lordship’s, than which I can say nothing more; and I would not be beholden 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 favoured sons of fortune. Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country; al¬ low 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, R. B. No. L. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN Edinburgh, Feb. 1787. My Lord, —The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, 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 pilgrimage through my native country; to sit and muse on those once hard-contested 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 reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phan¬ tom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words:— “I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes merely GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 45 to give you pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have despised: I have given you line upon line and precept upon precept; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the path, contemning me to my face: you know the consequences. It is not yet three months since home was so hot for you that you were on the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune. “ Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to re¬ turn to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will- o’-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? I grant that the utmost ground you can oc¬ cupy is but half a step from the veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppression: ybu know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, independence, and character, on the one hand; I tender you civility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not insult your understand¬ ing by bidding you make a choice.” * 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, grati¬ tude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gra¬ titude 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, as now, draw forth the swelling tear.f R. B. No. LI. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Edinburgh, March 8, 1787. Dear Sir, —Yours came safe, and I .am as usual much indebted to your goodness. Poor Captain Montgomery] is cast. Yesterday it was tried whether the husband could proceed against the unfor¬ tunate lover without first divorcing his wife, and their Gravities on the Bench were unanimously of opinion that Maxwell may prose- * Copied from the Bee, vol. ii. p. 319, and compared with the author’s MSS.—. Currie. t Cunningham says of the Earl of Buchan, “He was one of the most econo¬ mical of patrons; lest the object of his kindness might chance to feel too heavily the debt of obligation, he did not hesitate to allow a painter to present him with a picture, or a poet with a poem. He advised Burns to make a pilgrimage to the scenes of Scotland’s battles, in the hope perhaps that Ancrum Moor would be immortalised in songj and the name of the ‘ Commendator of Dryburgh’ in¬ cluded in the strain.” 46 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. cute for damages directly, and need not divorce his wife at all if he pleases; and Maxwell is immediately, before the Lord Ordinary, to prove, whit I daresay will not be denied, the Crim. Con.—then their Lordships will modify the damages, which I suppose will be pretty heavy, as their Wisdoms have expressed great abhorrence of my gallant Right Worshipful Brother’s conduct. 0 all ye powers of love unfortunate and friendless woe, pour the balm of sympathising pity on the grief-torn, tender heart of the hap¬ less Fair One ! My two songs* on Miss W. Alexander and Miss P. Kennedy were likewise tried yesterday by a jury of literati, and found defamatory libels against the fastidious powers of Poesy and Taste; and the author forbidden to print them under pain of forfeiture of character. I cannot help almost shedding a tear to the memory of two songs that had cost me some pains, and that I valued a good deal, but I must submit. My most respectful compliments to Mrs Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. My poor unfortunate songs come again across my memory. Damn the pedant, frigid soul of Criticism for ever and ever!—I am ever, dear sir, your obliged Robert Burns. No. LII. TO MR JAMES CANDLISH.+ Edinburgh, March 21,1787. My ever-dear old Acquaintance, —I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I daresay you will think by my delay¬ ing so long to write you that I am so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent* to old, and once dear, connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write a good letter, full of argu¬ ment, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don’t give yourself credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares me : the truth is I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated : that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affecta¬ tion of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old women’s stories, ventured in “the daring path Spinosa trod; ” but experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. * The songs alluded to were “The Bonnie Lass o’ Ballochmyle,” and “The Banks o’ Bonnie Doon.” f Another of the poet’s early friends. He married Miss Smith, one of the six helles of Mauchline; and a son of theirs is well known to all his countrymen as the Rev. Dr Candlish of Free St George’s Church, Edinburgh,—probably, since the death of Dr Chalmers, the leading man in the Eree Church. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 47 I am still, in the apostle Paul’s phrase, “ the old man with his deeds,” as when we were sporting about the “Lady Thorn.” I shall be four weeks here yet at least; and so I shall expect to hear from you; welcome sense, welcome nonsense.—I am, with the warmest sincerity, R. B. No. LIIL TO MR WILLIAM DUNBAR.* Lawnmabket, Monday Morning, March 1787. Dear Sir, —In justice to Spenser,-I must acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in the language could have been a more agreeable present to me; and in justice to you, allow me to say, sir, that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would so willingly have been indebted for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, and the handsome volumes of Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your goodness, may perhaps be not in pro¬ portion to one another; but be that as it may, my gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of esteem as yours. The time is approaching when I shall return to my shades; and I am afraid my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a construction that they will not bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish of a more robust constitution. It is indeed very probable that when I leave this city, we part never more to meet in this sublunary sphere; but I have a strong fancy that in some future eccentric planet, the comet of happier systems than any with which astronomy is yet acquainted, you and I, amoDg the harum-scarum sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall recognise old ac¬ quaintance :—■ Where wit may sparkle all its rays, TJncursed with caution’s fears ; That pleasure, basking in the blaze, Rejoice for enaless years. I have the honour to be, with the warmest sincerity, dear sir, &c., R. B. No. LIY. TO--. or eergusson’s headstone. Edinburgh, March 1787. My dear Sir, —You may think, and too justly, that I am a sel¬ fish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances * This gentleman was the subject of the poet’s song entitled. “Rattling, Roaring Willie.” He was a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh. The letter was first published in Hogg and Motherwell’s edition of the poet’s works, and was communicated by Mr P. Buchan of Aberdeen. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 48 of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you; but if you knew yffiat a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the by, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that thing called con¬ science. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to pre¬ vent 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 consequences of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and har¬ rows us with the feelings of the damned. 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 EERGUSSON, POET. “Born, September 5th, 1751—Died, October 16th, 1774. “ No sculptur’d marble here, nor pompous lay, ‘ No storied urn nor animated bust; ’ This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.” On the other side of the stone is as follows : — “ By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergus- Session-house within the Kirk of Canongate, the twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kirkyard funds of Canongate. Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr Robert Bums, of date the 6th current, which was read and ap¬ pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor follows :— “ To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh.—Gentle¬ men, 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 Caledonian name, lie in your churchyard among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. “Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish 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 permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 49 his deathless fame.—I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant, ( sic svhscribitur,) Robert Burns.” Thereafter the said managers, in consideration 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.* Extracted forth of the records of the managers, by William Sprott, cleric. * Mr Cunningham says :—From the sinking of'the ground of the neighbour¬ ing graves, the headstone placed by Burns over Fergusson was thrown from its balance; this was observed, soon after the death of the Bard of Ayr, by the Fsculapian Club of Edinburgh, who, animated by that pious zeal for departed merit which had before led them to prevent some other sepulchral monuments from going to ruin, refixed the original stone, pud added some iron work, with an additional inscription to the memory of Burns. The poetical part of it is taken, almost verbatim, from the Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson:— “ Dignum, laude verum Musa vetat mori. Lo ! Genius, proudly, while to Fame she turns. Twines Currie’s laurels with the wreath of Burns.”— lioscoe. To the Memory of ROBERT BURNS, THE AYRSHIRE BARD; WHO WAS BORN AT DOONSIDE, On the 25th of January 1759; AND DIED AT DUMFRIES, On the 22d of July 1796. “ 0 Robert Burns ! the Man, the Brother ! And art thou gone—and gone for ever ! And hast thou cross’d that unknown river, Life’s dreary bound 1 Like thee, where shall we find another, The world around 1 “ Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state ! But by thy honest turf, I ’ll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the sweetest poet’s fate, E’er lived on earth.” To have raised one solid monument of masonry to both, working Fergusson’s headstone into one side of the structure, and placing the Burns inscription on the other, would perhaps have been more judicious.—See letter to Mr Peter Hill, dated Feb. 5, 1792, relative to this monument. On the subject of Fergusson’s headstone we find the following letter in Dr Currie’s edition of the poet’s works:— _ March 8, 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 be thought partial. So you have obtained liberty from the magistrates to erect a stone over Fer¬ gusson’s grave! Ido not doubt it; such things have been, as Shakespeare says, “ m 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 But ofs tomb that this is written. But how many 5 ° GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. LY. TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. Madam, —I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now I am distinguished, patronised, befriended by you. Your friendly advices—I will not give them the cold name of criti¬ cisms—I receive with reverence. I have made some small altera¬ tions in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking 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. brothers of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Eergusson, 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 eighteenpence for a copy of his works. But then it must be considered that the poet was at that time absolutely starving, and besought his aid with all the earnestness of hunger. And over and above he received 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 wiE be for eight or ten days, I wish you or-would take a snug, well- aired bedroom for me. where I may have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But by all accounts it wiE be a matter of some difficulty to see you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week beforehand. 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 possi¬ ble, the fate of poor Eergusson, .... Queerenda pecunia primurn est, virtue post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by: you seemed to despise it while in this part of the country, but probably some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense. Pray are you yet engraving as well as printing—are you yet seized “ With itch of picture in the front. With bays and 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 fan we meet.” “The above extract,” says Dr Currie, “is from a letter of one of the ablest of our poet’s correspondents, which contains some interesting anecdotes of Eer¬ gusson. The writer is mistaken in supposing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction respecting the monument erected for Eergusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between Burns and the Kirk-Session of the Canongate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usually trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is adorned.” See additional letter on this subject, dated September 1789. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. SI 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 roll’d 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, unplagued with the rou¬ tine of business, for which Heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; and 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 thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may not be excusable; 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 tq his care; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions 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 have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease, by which I can live, to commence farmer. 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 resolu¬ tion, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life ; but while following 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. B. B. No. LVI. TO THE SAME. Edinburgh, April 15, 1787. Madam, —There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish * The clear profit realised has been assumed to be seven hundred pounds. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 52 heart. For my part, madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and to little prudence for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your letter, but v “Rude am I in speech, And therefore little can I grace my cause In speaking for myself;” so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and haunted figures. | I shall just lay my hand on my heart and say, I hope I shall ever j have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. 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 William’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. 11. B. No. LVII. TO DR MOORE, f Edinburgh, April 23,1787. I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, sir, for the honour you have * Adam Smith, the distinguished author of “ The Wealth of Nations,” &c. t The answer of Dr Moore was as follows Clifford Street, May 23,1787. Dear Sir,—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 subscrip¬ tion money; but you may depend upon it, few subscribers 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 Dord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he wished to give live of them as presents. Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are very beautiful, particularly the “Winter Night," the “Address to Edinburgh,” “Green Grow the Rashes,” and the two songs immediately following, the latter* of which is exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such composi¬ tions, which you ought to indulge. No kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired on account of his Odes than all his other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your “Vision” and “Cotter’s Saturday Night.” In these are united fine imagery, natural and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and thought. It is evident that you already possess a great variety of expression and command of the English language; you ought therefore to deal more sparingly for the future in the provincial dialect. Why should you, by using that, limit the number of your admirers to those who understand the Scottish, when you can extend it to all persons of taste who understand the English language ? In my opinion you should plan som“ 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 • “The Gloomy FljHis Gothjriog last.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 53 done me; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book is what I am 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, &c.,—I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quite 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 appear¬ ance 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 Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I may probably endeavour to return her poetic compliment in kind. It. B. No. LVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, April 30,17S7. Your criticisms, madam, I understand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your 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 mythology, to which there are ever¬ lasting allusions in all the poets, and which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What will require to be studied with more attention is modern history—that is, the history of France and Great Britain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh’s reign. I know very well you have a mind capable of attaining know¬ ledge by a shorter process than is commonly used, and I am certain 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 in¬ convenient ; and make no apology when you do write for having postponed it. Be assured of this, however, that I 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, particularly 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 addresses 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 business 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 Scotland this season ; when I do, I’ll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and yoi* may depend on a very cordial welcome from this family.—I am, dear sir, your friend and obedient servant, J. Moore. • “Hob Willie's Prayer,” is perhaps tlie poem allude 1 to. 54 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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 princes, lords, clergy, critics, &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 particular approbation. For my “ Dream,” * which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence in person. R. B. No. LIX.+ TO JAMES JOHNSON, EDITOR OF THE “SCOTS MUSICAL MUSEUM.” Lawnmarket, Friday Noon, May 3, 1787. Dear Sir, — I have sent you a song never before known, for your collection; the air by Mr Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it from Dr Blacklock. Farewell, my dear sir! I wished to have seen you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I march to-morrow. Had my acquaint¬ ance with you been a little older, I would have asked the favour of your correspondence; as I have met with few people whose company and conversation gave me so much pleasure, because I have met with few whose sentiments are so congenial to my own. 'When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging somewhere about my heart. Keep the original of this song till we meet again, whenever that may be. R. B. No. LX. TO THE REY. DR HUGH BLAIR.J Lawnmarket, Edinburgh, May 3,1787. Reverend and much-respected Sir, — I leave Edinburgh to¬ morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half * The well-known poem, beginning, “Guid morning to your Majesty,” (see p. 101.) Mrs Dunlop had probably recommended its being omitted in the second edition, on the score of prudence.— Cunningham. t This letter first appeared in Hogg and Motherwell’s edition of the poet’s works. J Mr Cunningham says the answer of Blair to this letter contains a full refuta¬ tion of all those who asserted that the poet’s life in Edinburgh was wild and irre¬ gular:— Argyi/e Square, Edinburgh, May 4,1787. Dear Sir,—I was favoured this forenoon with your very obliging letter, toge¬ ther with an impression of your portrait, for which I return you my best thanks. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 55 a line sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friend¬ ship 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 notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and literature, 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 Beugo’s work* for me, done on Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- warm gratitude I am, &e., R. B. 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 publishing 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 great a share of public notice and observation you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well; and, as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character 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 employments which your situation will render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote 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 forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents. For on any second production 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 proper seasons come forth with more advantage and energy. He will not think himself neglected 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 daresay render unneces¬ sary. 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 sin¬ cerely, Hugh Blair. * The portrait of the poet after Nasmyth. 56 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. LXI. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ., EDINBURGH. Selkirk, May 13, 1737. My honoured Friend, —The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day’s riding. I have been over most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk shires; and next week I begin a tour through che north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble patron,* Quern JDeus conservet! I would write till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I daresay by this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death; so, with a grateful farewell, I have the honour to be, good sir, yours sincerely, R. B. Auld chuckie-Keekie’st sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel burnish’d, crest, NaC joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava: Her darling bird that she lo’es best, Willie’s awa. f No. LXII. TO MR PATISON, BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. Berrywell, near Dunse, May 17, 1787. Dear Sir, —I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this country, when I was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley Banking Company on the Royal Bank, for twenty-two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies of my book I sent you. According to your motions, I see you will have left Scotland before this reaches you, otherwise I would send you “ Holy Willie” with all my heart. I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things I ought to have minded, among the rest, sending books to Mr Cowan; but any order of yours will be answered at Creech’s shop. You will please remember that non¬ subscribers pay six shillings; this is Creech’s profit; but those who have subscribed, though their names have been neglected in the printed list, which is very incorrect, they are supplied at the subscrip¬ tion price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for London; and Ithink Mrs Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a poor poet. When you or Mr Cowan write for copies, if you should want any, direct to Mr Hill,§ at Mr Creech’s shop, and I write to Mr Hill by this post, to * James Earl of Glencairn. + Edinburgh. % See the remainder of this piece, and an interesting notice of Bailie Creech, the poet’s Edinburgh publisher, atp. 257, § Mr Peter Hill, then an assistant to Creech, afterwards a bookseller on his own account, and with whom the late Archibald Constable was an apprentice. The poet corresponded regularly with him, and esteemed him highly. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 57 answer either of your orders. Hill is Mr Creech’s first clerk, and Creech himself is presently in London. I suppose I shall have the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of assuring you how much I am, dear sir, your obliged humble servant. It. B. No. LXIII. TO MR W. NICOL,* MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. Carlisle, June 1, 1787. Kind honest-hearted Willie,— I’m sitten doun here, after seven-and-forty miles’ ridin’, e’en as forjesket and forniaw’d as a forfochten cock, to gie ye some notion o’ my land-lowper-like stra- vaigin sin the sorrowfu’ hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi’ Auld Reekie. My auld, ga’d gleyde o’ a meere hashuchyall’d up hill and doun brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh andbirnie as a vera devil wi’ me.+ It’s true she’s as poor's a sang maker and as hard’s a kirk, and tipper taipers when she taks gate, the first like a lady’s gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle; but she’s a yauld, poutherie girran for a’ that, and has a stomach like Willie Stalker’s meere that wad hae digested tumbler-wheels, for she’ll whip me aff her five stimparts o’ the best aits at a doun-sittin’ and ne’re fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl’d she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three ooks’ ridin’ at fifty mile a day, the deil-sticket a five gallop¬ ers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. I hae dander’d ower a’ the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae forgather’d wi’ mony a guid fallow, and mony a weelfaur’d hizzie. I met wi’ twa dink queynes in particular, ane o’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie; the tither was a clean shankit, straught, tight, weel-far’d winch, as blithe’s a lintwhite on a flowrie thorn, and as sweet and modest’s a new-blawn plumrose in a hazel shaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o’ them had as muckle smeddum and rumblegumption as the half o’ some presbyteries that you and I baith ken. They play’d me sic a deevil o’ a shavie that I daur say, if my harigals were turned out, ye wad see twa nicks i’ the heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail- whittle in a castock. r Mr W. Nicol was an intimate friend of Burns’s, and one of the masters of the High School. He accompanied him in his tour through the Highlands, and proved himself somewhat troublesome as a travelling companion, compelling the poet again and again to go and come as he listed. He was fond of good company, and good eating and drinking, and died prematurely in 1797. ' t This mare was the poet’s favourite Jenny Geddes. ‘ ‘ She was named by him,” says Cromek, “after the old woman who, in her zeal against religious innovation, threw a stool at the Dean of Edinburgh’s head when he attempted, in 1637, to in¬ troduce the Scottish Liturgy.” 58 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but Gude forgie me, I gat mysel so noutouriously bitchify’d the day, after kail-time, that I can hardly stoiter but and ben. My best respecks to the guidwife and a’ our common friens, es- peciall Mr and Mrs Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o’ Jock’s Lodge. I’ll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hail.—Gude be wi’ you, Willie 1 Amen! E. B.* No. LXIY. TO MR JAMES SMITH, AT MILLER AND SMITH’S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. Mauchline, June 11,1787. My dear Sir, —I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday evening last. I slept at John Dow’s and called for my daughter; Mr Hamilton and family; your mother, sister, and brother, my quondam Eliza, &c., all—all well. If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour’s family, their mean servile compliance would have done it. Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Milton’s Satan :— “Hail, horrors! hail, Infernal world! and thou, profounaest hell, Receive thy new possessor! one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time!” I cannot settle to my mind. Farming the only thing of which I know anything, and Heaven above knows but little do I understand even of that—I cannot, dare not, risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix, I -will go for Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall compensate my little ones for the stigma I have brought on their names. I shall write you more at large soon; as this letter costs you no postage, if it be worth reading you cannot complain of your penny¬ worth.—I am ever, my dear sir, yours, E. B. No. LXV. TO MR WILLIAM NICOL. Mauchline, June 18,17S7. Mv dear Friend,— I am now arrived safe in my native country, after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all my * No man had ever more command of the ancient Doric dialect than Burns. He has left a curious testimony of his skill in the above letter—an attempt to read * sentence of which would break the teeth of most modern Scotchmen.— GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 59 friends well. I breakfasted witb your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr Smith; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most excellent appearance and sterling good sense. I have been with Mr Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him again in August. From my views of the land, and his reception of my hardship, my hopes in that business are rather mended; but still they are but slender. 1 am quite charmed with Dumfries folks—Mr-Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully re¬ member ; and his wife—Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart; in short—but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of anything generous; but the stateliness of the patricians in. Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments—the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, un¬ yielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defialnce of .hardship, in that great personage Satan. ’Tis true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith; that noxious planet, so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon.—Misfortune dodges the path of human life : the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for, the walks of business; add to all, that thoughtless follies and harebrained whims, like so many ignes fatui, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step- bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless bard, till, pop, “ he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.” God grant this may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! but should it not, I have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay you—the many ties of acquaintance and friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all of them of such frail contexture that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune; but from you, my ever-dear sir, I look with confidence for the apostolic love that shall wait on me “ through good report and bad report,”—the love which Solomon emphatically says “ is strong as death.” My compliments to Mrs Nicol, and all the circle of our common friends. P.S. —I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July. R. B. Sir. IV.ilter SfcoTT. It is written in the west-country dialect and does not pre¬ sent any difficulty to a native.—M otherwell. 6 o GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Wo. LXVI. TO MR JAMES CAWDLISH* Edinburgh, 1787. My dear Friend, —If once I were gone from tlie scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspond¬ ence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing. Dissipation and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest Scotch enthusiast,!* a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I could meet with. “ Pompey’s Ghost,” words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his- second number—the first is already published. I shall show you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two : you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. Direct to me at Mr W. Cruikshank’s, St James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh. R. B. * Mr Cunningham quotes Mr Candlish’s reply as an evidence of the taste and talents of the poet’s early friend and companion “Your kind letter came to hand, and I would have answered it sooner, had I not delayed, in expectation of finding some person who could enable me to com¬ ply with your request. Being myself unskilled in music as a science, I made an attempt to get the song you mentioned, set by some other hand; but as I could not accomplish this, I must send you the words without the music. Some of Edina’s fair nymphs may perhaps be able to do you a piece of service which I would have done with the greatest pleasure had it been in my power. It is with the greatest sincerity I applaud your attempt to give the world a more correct and more elegant collection of Scottish songs than has hitherto appeared. They have been long and much admired, and yet perhaps no poetical compositions ever met with approbation more disproportioned to their merit. Many, from an affectation perhaps of a more than usual knowledge of ancient literature, extol, with the most extravagant praises, the pastoral productions of the Greek and Roman poets ; and attempt to persuade us that in them alone is to be found that natural simplicity, and that tenderness of sentiment, which constitute the true excellence of that species of writing. Eor my own part, though I cannot altogether divest myself of partiality to the ancients, whose merit will cease only to be admired with the universal wreck of men and letters, yet I am persuaded that in many of the songs of our own nation, there are beauties which it would be vain to look for in the most admired poetical compositions of antiquity. They are the offspring of nature, they are expressed in the language of simplicity; and the love songs, breathing sentiments that are inspired by the most tender and exquisite feelings, are in unison with the human heart. There is no one in whose veins the smallest drop of Scottish blood circulates but must feel the most heartfelt pleasure when he reflects that those songs, which do such honour to both the genius and to the feelings of his countrymen ; which, in simplicity of language, and in the sensibility that pervades them, have never been equalled by those of any nation ; and which have been so much admired by foreigners, will continue to be sung with delight by both sexes, while Scots men and the Scots language remain.—If the collection is to be published by subscription, put down my name for a copy. My time this winter is very much employed—no less than ten hours a day.—Expecting to see you soon, I am yours most sincerely. “James Candlish.»> t Johnson, the publisher and proprietor of the Musical Museum,. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Ol No. LXVII. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. Auchtertyre,* Monday, June 1787. My dear Sir, —I find myself very comfortable here, neither op¬ pressed by ceremony nor mortified by neglect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, and very happy in her family, which makes one’s out-goings and in-comings very agreeable. I called at Mr Ramsay’s of Auchtertyre [Ochtertyre, near Stirling] as I came up the country, and am so delighted with him that I shall certainly ac¬ cept of his invitation to spend a day or two with him as I return. I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. Make my kind compliments to Mr and Mrs Cruiksliank, and Mrs Nicol, if she is returned.—I am ever, dear sir, your deeply-indebted. No. LXVIII. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ST JAMES’S SQUARE, EDINBURGH.+ Auchtertyre, Monday, June 1787. I have nothing, my dear sir, to write to you, but that I feel my¬ self exceedingly comfortably situated in this good family: just notice enough to make me easy, but not to embarrass me. I was storm-stayed two days at the foot of the Ochil Hills, with Mr Tait of Herveyston and Mr Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that I shall certainly spend a day on the banks of the Devon as I return. I leave this place I suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr Ramsay at Auchtertyre, near Stirling: a man to whose worth I cannot do justice. My respectful kind compliments to Mrs Cruik- shank, and my dear little Jeanie, and, if you see Mr Masterton, please remember me to him.—I am ever, my dear sir, &c., R. B. No. LXIX. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. Arrochar, June 28, 17S7. My dear Sir, —I write you this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains; thinly over¬ spread with savage 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. R. B. * The seat of Sir William Murray, Bart.—two miles from Crieff. f Burns resided with Cruiksliank in the latter part of 1787, in St James’s Square. The “dear little Jeanie” of the letter was the “Rosebud” of his poem, p. 151. 62 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Wo. LXX. TO MR JAMES SMITH, AT MILLER AND SMITH’S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. z June 30,1787. My beau Fkiend,—O n our return, at a Highland gentleman’s hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced’ till the ladies left us at three in the morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal movements. The ladies sang Scotch songs at intervals like angels; then we flew at “ Bab at the Bowster,” “ Tullochgorum,” “ Locherroch Side,” * &c., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. When the dear lasses left us, we Ranged round the bowl till the good-fellow hour of six; except a few minutes that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled. Our worthy landlord’s son held the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand, and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense: like Thomas the Rhymer’s prophecies, I suppose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow’s house, and consequently pushed the bottle; when we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves “ no very fou, but gayly yet.” My two friends and I rode soberly down the loch side, till by came a Highlandman at the gallop on a tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. My conk- panions, though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past the Highlandman, in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter. Just as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and threw his rider’s breekless bottom into a dipt hedge, and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship between her and the High- landman’s horse. Jenny trode over me with such cautious reverence that matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; so I came *>ff with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. As for the rest of my acts and my wars, and all my wise sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded, in a few weeks hence at Lin¬ lithgow, in the chronicles of your memory. R. B. No. LXXI. TO THE SAME. June 1787. I HAVE yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am just as usual—a rhyming, mason-making, raking, * Scotch tunes. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 63 aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon •—I was going to say a wife too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house of Parnassus ; and, like other younger sons of great families, I may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one indeed, of my former happiness—that eternal propensity I always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have only -- This last is one of your distant acquaintances, has a fine figure, elegant manners, and, in the train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters in Europe. I do like her a deal; but what piques me is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her when I was in -, and after passing regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ven¬ tured, in my careless way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms; and after her return to -, I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words further, I suppose, than even I intended, flew off in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning; and wrote me an answer which measured me out very completely what an immense way I had to travel before I could reach the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial tower- ings, pop down at my foot, like Corporal Trim’s hat. R. B. Ho. LXXII. TO MR JOHN RICHMOND, Mossgiel, July 7,1787. My dear Richmond, —I am all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder of right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to answer his indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions truly of that kind, which I rather doubt; may well tremble for his sake. His chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, to Buch good purpose, here, like other accomplices in robbery and plun¬ der, will, now the piratical business is blown, in all probability turn king’s evidences, and then the devil’s bagpiper will touch him off— “ Bundle and go ! ” If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all this; if not, I know you will swear to every word I said about him. I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and Inverary, 64 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. and running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild Highlandman ; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather, zig-zagged across before my old spavined hunter, whose name is Jenny Geddes,,and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and down came Jenny and my hardship; so I have got such a skinful of bruises and wounds that I shall be at least four weeks before I venture on my journey to Edinburgh. Hot one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, if Heaven pleases, more so; but, at all events, I trust you will let me know, of course, how matters stand with you, well or ill. ’Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when matters go wrong; but you know very well your connexion and mine stands on a different footing.—I am ever, my dear friend, yours, R. B. No. LXXIII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. Mauchline, July 1787. 1 My dear Sir,—M y life, since I saw you last, has been one con¬ tinued hurry; that savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong liquors is the devil. I have a sore warfare in this world; the devil, the world, and the flesh are three formidable foes. The first I generally try to fly from; the second, alas! generally flies from me ; but the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. I have been looking over several farms in this country ; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that, if my offer to the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my other shift; * but this to a friend. I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning; how long I stay there is uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform you myself. However, I determine, poesy must be laid aside for some time ; my mind has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to habituate it to the routine of business.—l am, my dear sir, yours sincerely, R. B. No. LXXIY. TO DR MOORE. Mauchline, Aug. 2, 1787. ' SlR,—For some months past I have been rambling over the coun¬ try, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originat¬ ing, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in * The Excise. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 65 this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country; you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what char¬ acter of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may per¬ haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at my own expense; for I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble,—I have, I say, like him turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friend¬ ship. After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you that the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to doj a predicament he has more than once been in before.* No. LXXV. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE, JUN., BERRYWELL, DUNSE. Edinburgh, Aug. 23, 1787. “ As I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a pickle yarn, Robin, silly body, He gat me wi’ bairn.” From henceforth, my dear sir, I am determined to set off with my letters like the periodical writers—viz., prefix a kind of text, quoted from some classic of undoubted authority, such as the author of the immortal piece of which my text is a part. What I have to say on my text is exhausted in chatter I wrote you the other day, before X had the pleasure of receiving yours from Inverleithing; and sure never was anything more lucky, as I have but the time to write this that Mr Nicol on the opposite side of the table takes to correct a proof sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling Latin so loud that I can¬ not hear what my own soul is saying in my own skull, so must just give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, and end, if time permit, with a verse tie rei generatione. To-morrow I leave Edinburgh in a chaise : Nicol thinks it more comfortable than horseback, to which I say amen; so Jenny Geddes goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase of my mother’s, “wi’ her finger in her mouth.” Now for a modest verse of classical authority The cats like kitchen, The dogs like broo, The lasses like the lads woel, And the auld wives too. * The remaining portion of this letter, containing the poet’s autobiographical sketch, will be found in the Appendix to the Memoir prefixed to the Poetical Works. 66 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. CHORUS. And we’re a’ noddin, Nid, nid noddin, We’re a’ noddin fou at e’en.* If this does not please you, let me hear from you ; if you write apy time before the first of September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the post-office till called for; the next week at Aberdeen; the next at Edinburgh. The sheet is done, and I shall just conclude with assuring you that I am, and ever with pride shall be, my dear sir, yours, &c., Robert Burns. Call your boy what you think proper, only interject Burns. What do you say to a Scripture name; for instance, Zimri Burns Ainslie, or Ahithophel, &c. Look your Bible for these two heroes—if you do this, I will repay the compliment. No. LXXYI. TO MR ROBERT MUIR. Stirling, Aug. 26, 1787. M T dear Sir, —I intended to have written you from Edinburgh, and now write you from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with a truly original, but very worthy man, a Mr Nicol, one of the masters of the High School in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by-excur¬ sions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Falkirk, and here am I undoubt¬ edly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia over the hole in a blue whin- stone, where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn; and just now, from Stirling Castle. I have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very strong, but so very late that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two-perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from Edinburgh. I left Andrew Brucef and family all well.—I will be at least three weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and have many people to call for. My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow- saint; and Messrs W. and H. Parkers. I hope HughocJ is going on and prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin. If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every * See son? commencing “Guile e’en to you, kimmer.” t An Edinburgh Friend. J The Hughoc of poor Mailie. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 67 other post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business like this scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the better. Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever shall be, my dear sir, your obliged, E. B. No. LXXVII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ; Stirling, Aug. 28,1787. My dear Sir, —Here I am on my way to Inverness. I have ram¬ bled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am de¬ lighted with their appearance: richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or two places, an old- wife’s ridge. Yesterday morning I rode from this town up the meandering Devon’s banks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Caudron Linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston; and, after spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. They are a family, sir, though I had not had any prior tie—though they had not been the brothers and sisters of a certain generous friend of mine—I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these several years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks are now. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than otherwise; and I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of those consumptive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatening him.—His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. (I put in the word still to please Mrs Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features in his character; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the breast of a poet! Grace has a good figure, and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in her person. I sdarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first; but, as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her obser¬ vation. Of Charlotte I cannot speak in common terms of admira¬ tion ; she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is elegant; her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and the settled complacency of good-nature in the highest degree; and her complexion, now that she has happily recovered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet’s, After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr Donne’s mistress 68 General correspondence. “ Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one would almost say her body thought.” Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tender¬ ness, and a noble mind* I do not give you all this aceount, my good sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realms might own with pride ; then why do you not keep up more correspondence with these so amiable young folks ? I had a thou¬ sand questions to answer about you. I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told them that Johnt was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was going on still very pretty; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edin¬ burgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting with Mrs Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat, somewhat marred our enjoyment. I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks.—My most respectful compliments to Mrs Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. I shall probably write him from some stage or other.—I am ever, sir, yours most gratefully, R. B. No. LXXVIII. TO MR WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE.J Inverness, Sept. 5,1787. 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 a 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 Nicol’s chat and the jog¬ ging 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 prayed for them very sin¬ cerely to day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly noble duchess, || * Miss Charlotte Hamilton was celebrated by Burns in his charming song, “The Banks of the Devon.” She became the wife of Dr Adair, physician in Harrowgate, and has been dead for some years.” f Son of Mr Gavin Hamilton—the “wee curlie Johnnie” of “ The Dedication.” J Mr Josiah Walker, at this time tutor in the family of the Duke of Athole, afterwards Professor of Humanity in the University of Glasgow. He was an in¬ timate friend of the poet’s, and wrote a life of him, and edited an edition of his works. § “ The Humble Petition of Bruar Water.” See p. 147. || Jane, daughter of Charles, ninth Lord Cathcart. The “little angel band” consisted of Lady Charlotte Murray, aged twelve, afterwards the wife of Sir John GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 69 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 Guido to do them justice ! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality—markedly kind indeed; Mr Graham of Fintray’s charms of conversation—Sir W. Murray’s friendship; in short, the recollection of all that polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my bosom. R. B. No. LXXIX. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, Sept. 17, 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 abbut ten miles be¬ yond Inverness. I went through the heart of the Highlands by Crieff, Tavmouth, 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’s ; thence across the Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke’s seats, where I had the honour of spending nearly two days with his Grace and family; thence many miles through a wild country among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed the 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 on which tradition says King Duncan was murdered: lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. I returned by the coast, through Naim, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive,* where James Burness, from Mon¬ trose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our rela¬ tions, and found our aunts Jean and Isabel still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, 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 delay 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 Menzies of Castle-Menzies; Lady Amelia, aged seven, afterwards Viscountess Strathallan, and Lady Elizabeth, an infant of five months, afterwards Lady Macgregor Murray of Lanrick. * Stonehaven. 70 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glas¬ gow ; but you shall hear further from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty and many compliments from the north to my mother; and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a berth for William, but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. it. B.* No. LXXX. TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, AFTERWARDS MRS LEWIS HAT, OF EDINBURGH. Sept. 26, 1787. I send Charlotte the first number of the songs'; I would not wait for the second number ; I hate delays in little marks of friend¬ ship as I hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am de¬ termined to pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in the second number, t You will see a small attempt on a shred of paper in the book; but although Dr Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of some kind; the whin¬ ing cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline-a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, vene¬ rable author of “ Tullochgorum,” “ John of Badenyon,” &c.+ I sup¬ pose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever got.* I will send you a copy of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr Miller about his farms.—Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. “ I wisdom dwell with pru¬ dence.” What a blessed fireside !—How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under their venerable roof ! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion and folly! And what frugal lessons as we straitened the fireside circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! Miss N- is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out of Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems * The letters that passed between Gilbert and his brother are among the most precious of the series— here there could be no disguise. That the brothers had entire knowledge of, and confidence in, each other, no one can doubt; and the plain, manly, affectionate language in which theyboth write is truly honourable to them and to the parents who reared them.— Lockhart. \ t 0^ the Scots Musical Museum. V 11 The Rev. John Skinner, Episcopal minister at Longside, near Peterhead. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 7 1 quite to have lost its effect on the lovely half of mankind—I have seen the day—but that is a “ tale of other years.”—In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator’s workmanship; I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their motions, and—wish them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion dontj’ai eu Vhonneur d'etre un miserable enclave r as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, permanent pleasure, “ which the world cannot give nor take away,” I hope; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth. R. B. No. LXXXI. TO THE SAME. Without date. I have been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that country. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man, (qualities which are only a younger brother’s fortune in our family,) I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return into partnership with him, and at our leisure take / another farm in the neighbourhood. I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air is admirable; true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which an Inverness lady sang me when I was there ; and I was so charmed with it that I begged her to write me a set of it from her singing; for it had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson’s next number; so Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time in contradicting me. I wont say the poetry is first-rate; though I am convinced it is very well; and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but just. [Here follows the song of “ The Banks of the Devon.” See p. 337.] R. B. No. LXXXII. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., GORDON CASTLE. Edinburgh, Oct. 20,1787. Sir, —I will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of Christian principles—“ Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.” I shall certainly, among 72 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. my legacies, leave my latest curse on tliat unlucky predicament which hurried—tore me away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch-mile periods, and damned to seven-league paragraphs; while declension and conjugation, gender, number, and time, under the ragged banners of dissonance and disarrangement, eternally rank against him in hostile array. Allow me, sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your ac¬ quaintance, by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edinburgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, set about collecting all our native songs and setting them to music; particularly those that have never been set before; Clarke, the well-known musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs Beattie and Blacklock, Mr Tytler of Wood- houselee, and your humble servant to the utmost of his small power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimes for a fine air make a stanza, when it has no words. The brats, too tedious to mention, claim a parental pang from my hardship. I suppose it will appear in Johnson’s second number—the first was published before my acquaintance with him. My request is—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen” is one intended,for this number, and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gordon’s words to it, which you were so kind as to repeat to me.* You may be sure we won’t prefix the author’s name, except you like, though I look on it as no small merit to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted, I do not well know where to write to you—I rather write at you; but if you will be so oblig¬ ing, immediately on receipt of this, as to write me a few lines,f I * Alexander, fourth Duke of Gordon, who entertained Burns at Gordon Castle, possessed considerable abilities for song-writing, though few of his verses have been made public. f The following was the answer sent to the above :— Gordon Castle, Oct. 31, 1787. Sir, —If you were not sensible of your fault as well as of your loss, in leaving this place so suddenly, I should condemn you to starve upon cauld Jcail for ae townmont at least; and as for Dick Latins [Mr Nicol,] your travelling com¬ panion. without banning him wit a’ the curses contained in your letter (whibh lie’ll no value a bawbee) I should give him nought but Stra'bogie castocks to chew for so* oulcs, or aye until he was as sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. Your song [“Bonnie Castle Gordon”] 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 Charlotte’s desire, in a book belonging to her ladyship ; where it is in company with a great mapy 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, as long as the Duke is in this country.—I am, sir, yours sincerely, James Hot. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 73 shall perhaps pay you in kind, though not in quality. Johnson’s terms are :—Each number, a handsome pocket volume, to consist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, &e. The price to subscribers, 5s .; to non-subscribers, 6s. He will have three numbers, I conjecture. My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr William Cruikshank’s, St James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh.—I am, sir, yours to command, R. B. No. LXXXIII. TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. * Edinburgh, Oct. 25, 1787. Reverend and Venerable Sir, —Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you, sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while I live I shall regret, that, when I was in the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother’s dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw —“ Tullochgorum’s my delight! ” The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making, if they please, but, as Job says—“ Oh that mine adversary had written a * The following is Mr Skinner’s reply to Burns :— Linshaet, Nov. 14, 1787. Sir,—Y our kind letter, without date, but of post-mark October 25, came to 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 surprising genius, and your opinion of my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The difference between our two tracts of education and 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 mightily im¬ proves and assists itand 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 on the Green,” which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which some years ago I attempted 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 expectations, and contrary to. my intentions, at the same time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected. As to the assistance you propose from me in the undertaking you are engaged in [his collection of Scottish songs,] I am sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my only intelli¬ gencers, are all forts familiate, and the old woman, their mother, has lost that taste. There are two from my own pen, which I might give you, if worth the while. One to the old Scottish tune of “Dumbarton Drums.” The other, perhaps, you have met with, as. your noble friend, the Duchess, has, I am told. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 74 book! ”—let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks them, not only from English songs, but also from the modem efforts of song-wriglits, in our native manner and language. The only remains of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rest with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlea, was likewise “ owre cannie ”—a “ wild warlock ”—but now he sings among the “ sons of the morning.” I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us; but “reverence thyself.” The world is not our peers, so we challenge the jury. We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of amusement and happiness independent of that world. There is a going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a brother parson in her neighbour¬ hood, to accommodate a new Highland reel for the Marquis’s birthday, to the stanza of “ Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly,” &c. If this last answer your purpose, you may have it from a brother qf 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. " There was a wee wifiekie was coming frae the fair, Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikle care; It took upo’ the wifie’s heart, and she began to spue, And quo the wee wifiekie, ‘I wish I binna fou,”’ &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 you 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 employed, do not sheath your own proper and piercing weapon. Prom what I have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and morality delivered in your amus¬ ing 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 binna saying I’m ill-bred. Else, by my troth, I ’ll no oe glad; Eor cadgers, ye have heard it said, And sic like fry, Maun ay 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. The Poems of the Rev. John Skinner were published in 1807. A new edition, edited with a memoir by Mr H. G. Reid of Peterhead, has been recently published by Mr Taylor of that town. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 75 best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are ad¬ mitted, but the music must all be Scotch. Drs Beattie and Black- lock are lending a hand, and the first musician in town presides over that department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every information remaining respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a very fragment business; but at the end of his second number—the first is already published—a small account will be given of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, “Tullochgorum,” “John of Badenyon,” and “ The Ewie wi’ the Crookit Horn,” go in this second number. I was determined before I got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would wish them to continue in future times; and if you would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others, that you would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the other authors,— “ Nill ye, will ye.” One half of Scotland already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks.—I am, with the warmest sincerity, sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. Ho. LXXXIV. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., GORDON CASTLE. Edinbdbgh, Nov. 6, 1787. Dear Sir,—I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to me that I ought to send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, particularly when he is in¬ debted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to him— the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant—is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks : my return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or, perhaps for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending one’s precious hours and still more precious breath: at anyrate, they will be, though a small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose further acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation. The Duke’s song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expres¬ sion peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of “ Tullochgorum,” &c.. 76 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. and the late Ross, of Loehlea, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay with his contemporaries, and poor Boh Fergusson went to the world of death¬ less existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast,’would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song; but as Job says, “Oh that mine adversary had written a book ! ” Those who think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business—let them try. I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Chris¬ tian admonition—“ Hide not your candle under a bushel,” but “ Let your light shine before men.” I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal worse employed; nay, I question if there are half a dozen better: perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious gift.—I am, dear sir, your obliged humble servant. Ho. LXXXV. TO MISS M-N * Saturday Noon, No. 2 St James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh, Nov. 1787. Here have I sat, my dear madam, in the stony altitude of per¬ plexed study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured around; my pendulous goose feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a complimentary card to accompany your trinket. Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the plea¬ sure of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connois¬ seur ; but it is, like Willy Gaw’s Skate, past redemption. The broken glass likewise went under review; but deliberative wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric.—I am, dear madam, with all the sincerity of enthusiasm, your very obedient servant, R. B. * Inquiries concerning the name of this lady have been made in vain. The communication appeared, for the first time, in Burns’s Letters to Clarinda. The import of those celebrated letters has been much misrepresented; they are sentimental flirtations chiefly—a sort of Corydon-and-Phillis affair, with here and there passages over-warm, and expressions too graphic, such as all had to endure who were honoured with the correspondence of Burns.— Cunningham. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 77 No. LXXXVI. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Nov. 21,1787. I have one vexatious fault to the kindly welcome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte’s * goodness—it contains tqo much sense, sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible that even • you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit |or any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write what¬ ever comes first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or to fill up a corner, e’en put down a laugh at full length. How none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any; though, thank Heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss— A lover. Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God knows I am ill fitted for the struggle; I glory in being a poet, and I want to be thought a wise man—I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. “ Some folk hae a hantle o’: fauts, an’ I’m but a ne’er-do- weel.” Afternoon. —To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Car- rick by the title of the “ Wabster’s grace: ”— “ Some say we ’re thieves, and e’en say are we ; Some say we lie, and e’en say do we ! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will He ! Up and to your looms, lads.” R. B. Ho. LXXXVII. TO MR ROBERT AIHSLIE, EDIHBURGH. Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, Nov. 23,1787. I beg, my dear sir, you would not make any appointment to take us to Mr Ainslie’s to-night. On looking over my engagements, consti¬ tution, present state of my health, some little vexatious soul con¬ cerns, &c., I find I can’t sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one o’clock if you have a leisure hour. You will think it romantic when I tell you that I find the idea of your friendship almost necessary to my existence.—You assume a * Miss Hamilton. 78 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. proper length of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good things. I don’t know, upon the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in God’s world, but you are so to me. I tell you this just now, in the con¬ viction that some inequalities in my temper and manner may per¬ haps sometimes make you suspect that I am not so warmly as I ought to be your friend, R. B. ■No. LXXXVIII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE. Mauchline, 1787. My dear Ainslie, —There is one thing for which I set great store by you as a friend, and it is this : I have not a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk nonsense without for¬ feiting some degree of esteem. Now, to one like me, who never weighs what he says, such a friend is a valuable treasure. I was never a knave, but I have been a fool all my life, and in spite of all my endeavours, I see now plainly that I shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my heart to have met with such a fellow as you, who, though you are not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never listen so much to the temptation of the devil, as to grow so very wise that you will in the least disrespect an honest fellow, because he is a fool. In short, I have set you down as the staff of my old age, when the whole host of my friends will, after a decent show of pity, have forgot me. “ Though in the morn comes Sturt and strife, Yet joy may come ere noon ; And I hope to live a merry, merry life, When a’ their days are done.” Write me soon, were it but a few lines, just to tell me how that good sagacious man your father is—that kind dainty body your mother—that strapping child your brother Douglas—and my friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel of old as she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. R. B. No. LXXXIX. TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., ORANGEFIELD. Edinburgh, 1787. Dear Sir,—I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you that he is determined by a coup de main to complete his pur¬ pose on you all at once, in niaking you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to myself they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I shall ever value with grateful re¬ spect, “ I gapit wide, but naething spak.” I was nearly as much GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 79 struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word. I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my wonder- scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its func¬ tions, 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 conse¬ quences, occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the Protestant interest; or St Peter’s keys, to-. You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in “ auld use and wont.” The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and inter¬ ested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. go into his 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 patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at “the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.” R. B. Ho. XC. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. My Lord, —I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am going to make to you; but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise; 1 am told that your lordship’s interest will easily procure me the grant from the commissioners; and your lordship’s patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude. My brother’s farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will probably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and, after the assistance which I have given and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hundred pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, Bo GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old age. These, my lord, are my-views : I have resolved from the maturest deliberation : and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship’s patronage is the strength of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed, my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial; but to your lordship I have not only the honour, the comfort, but the pleasure of being your lord¬ ship’s much-obliged and deeply-indebted humble servant, R. B. No. XCI. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Dec. 12,1787. I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb ex¬ tended on a cushion; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; mis¬ fortune, bodily constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a “ quad¬ ruple alliance ” to guarantee the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five books of Moses and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft. I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the “ Banks of the Devon,” which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The “ Ochil Hills ” * you shall probably have next week for yourself.—None of your fine speeches! R. B. No. XCIL TO THE SAME. Edinburgh, Dec. 19,1787. I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th curt., which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly * The song in honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning “Where, braving angry winter’s storms.” Sea p 337. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 81 clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken, stilts; throw¬ ing my best leg with an air, and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance as a, May frog leaping across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of* the refreshed earth after the long expected shower! I can’t say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, poverty; at¬ tended, as he always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering con¬ tempt ; but I have sturdily withstood his bufietings many a hard- laboured day already, and still my motto is—I dare ! My worst enemy is moi-mime. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion; and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and fore¬ thought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild state, traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. R. B. No. XCIII. TO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., ADVOCATE,» / ENCLOSING VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRESIDENT. + Pec. 1787. Sir, —The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion the last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning’s sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, the wailing of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity.—These ideas damped my muse’s fire; however, I have done the best I could, and at all events it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. No. XCIV. TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. Edinburgh, Pec. 1787. Sir, —Mr Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest your. * Ultimately a judge, under the designation of Lord Newton, t See the lines, p. 153. 82 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. self 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 patronised by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by ... . friends to them, and honoured acquaint¬ ances to me ; but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am con¬ vinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper life who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may in some measure palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is by any means a neces¬ sary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent attention to economy is almost inseparable from it; then there must be, in the heart of every bard of nature’s making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the politesse 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 independent fortune at the plough-tail. I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the manners of the gentleman should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so in¬ humanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and 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 unacceptable—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 relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! E. B. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 83 No. XCV. TO MISS WILLIAMS,* ON READING THE POEM OP “ THE SLAVE-TRADE.” Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. I know very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. The poerh opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9 and 10 in particular, “ Where ocean’s unseen hound Leaves a drear world of waters round,” are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine ; and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise de¬ cidedly above it. From verse 31 to verse 50 is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36, “ That foul drama deep with wrong,” is nobly expressive. Verse 46,1 am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest; “ to dare to feel ” is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in the apostrophe to Mr Pitt. Verse 55 is the antecedent to verses 57 and 58, but inverse 58 the connexion seems ungramma¬ tical :— f‘ Powers .... With no gradations mark’d their flight, But rose at once to glory’s height.” Risen should be the word instead of rose. Try it in prose. Powers, —their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53, “For this,” is evidently meant to lead on the sense of verses 59, 60, 61, and 62; but let us try how the thread of connexion runs :— “ Eor this .... The deeds ot mercy, that embrace A distant sphere, an alien race, Shall virtue’s lips record, and claim The fairest honours of thy name.” I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, but this appears to me the only imperfect passage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam is fine. The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. The thought, * Miss Williams had in the previous June addressed a complimentary epistle to Burns, which appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine for Sept. 1817. That she was a lady of some merit will appear from the fact that one of her songs, “Evan Banks,” had the honour to be imputed to Burns himself. 8 4 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. “ Virtue ..... Sends from her unsullied source The gems of thought their purest force,” is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81 to 85, that the “blest degree” is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85 to verse 108, is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery of the captive on the other. Yerse 88 might perhaps be amended thus: t “ Nor ever quit her narrow maze.” We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Yerse 100 is exquisitely beautiful:— “ They whom wasted blessings tire.” Verse 110 is, I doubt, a clashing of metaphors; “to load a span,” is, I am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114, “ Cast the universe in shade,” is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120, “ The load of unremitted pain,” is a remarkable, strong expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the slave- trade, from verse 143 to verse 208, is animated with the true life of genius. The picture of oppression— “ While she links her impious chain, And calculates the price of pain ; Weighs agony in sordid scales, And marks if death or life prevails ”— is nobly executed. What a tender idea is in verse 180! Indeed, that whole descrip¬ tion of home may vie with Thomson’s description of home, some¬ where in the beginning of his “ Autumn.” I do not remember to have seen a stronger expression of misery than is contained in these verses:— “ Condemn’d, severe extreme, to live When all is fled that life can give.” The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original and siriking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a well done, though a horrid, picture. I am not sure how far introducing the sailor was right; for, though the sailor’s common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business. Yerse 224 is a nervous . . . expressive—“ The heart convulsive anguish breaks.” The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the West Indies is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the oppressor’s sorrow on seeing the slave pine is like the butcher’s regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death is exceeding fine. I am got so much into the cant of criticism that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and, instead of GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 85 elucidating my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason I will not pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few re¬ maining beautiful lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280 is the strongest description of selfishness I ever saw. The comparison in verses 285 and 286 is new and fine; and the line, “ Your arms to penury you lend,” is excellent. In verse 317, “like” should certainly be “as” or “so; for instance— “ His sway the harden’d bosom leads To cruelty’s remorseless deeds; As (or, so) the blue lightning, when it springs With fury on its living wings, Darts on the goal with rapid force, Hor heeds that ruin marks its course.” If you insert the word “like” where I have placed “as,” you must alter “ darts ” to “ darting,” and “ heeds ” to “ heeding,” in order to make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not remember anything even in Thomson’s “Winter” superior to your verses from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, beginning with “Fancy may dress,” &c., and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my opinion, the most beau¬ tiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. I will not beg your pardon, madam, for these strictures, as my conscience tells me that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by. R. B. No. XCVI. TO MR RICHARD BROWN, IRVINE* Edinburgh, Dec. 30,1787, My dear Sir, —I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure than Fortune’s kindness to you since those days in which we met in the vale of misery; as I can honestly say that I never knew a man who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent share. My will-o’-wisp fate you know. Do you recollect a Sunday we spent together in Eglinton woods ? You told me on my repeating some verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I derived that idea of my own pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two * Richard Drown was the individual whom Bums, in his autobiographical letter to Dr Moore, describes as his companion at Irvine—whose mind was fraught with every manly virtue, but who, nevertheless, was the means of mak¬ ing him regard illicit love with levity. 86 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. or three months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet ; “ and, faith, I hope we ’ll not sit dumb, nor yet cast out! ” I have much to tell you “ of men, their manners, and their ways,” perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to Mrs Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered, but not a different man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the steady affectionate husband, and the fond careful parent. For me, I am just the same will-o’-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of wisdom; but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tornadoes which blow me into chaos. Almighty love still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment ready to hang myself for a young Edin¬ burgh widow,* who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command in case of springtide paroxysm^ You may guess of her wit by the following verses, which she sent me the other day. (See note to the poem entitled, “ To Clarinda,” p. 154.) My best compliments to our friend Allan.—Adieu ! R. B. No. XCVII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON.* Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. My dear Sir, —It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I con¬ gratulate you on the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in which I saw you suffering exis¬ tence when last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for anybody—“ I’m baith deadswear and wretched ill o’t; ” but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint of wine, (I mean an English pint,) and that you w'ill never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold * This was Mrs M'Lehose, (Clarinda.) She was not a widow, hut was sepa¬ rated from, her husband, who wae in Jamaica. f The memory of Burns is warmly cherished by the descendants of the gen¬ tleman to whom this letter is addressed. Dr Hamilton of Mauchline bought at the sale of the furniture of “ Auld Nanse Tinnock” the arm-chair in which the bard was accustomed to sit when he visited her howff, and presented it to the mason lodge, where it is now the seat for the grand-master. The worthy doctor, ihe eldest son of Gavin Hamilton, died in the month of Nov. 183D. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 87 drams you will never more taste : and, above all things, I am con¬ vinced that after drinking perhaps boiling punch you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of, charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and, in my zeal for your wellbeing, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs Hamilton and Miss Kennedy.— Yours, &c., R. B. No. XCVIII. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Dec. 178T. My dear Madam, —I just now have read yours. The poetic com¬ pliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you out to the world at large; and the circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you ? I will; so look to it. Personal attrac¬ tions, madam, you have much above par; wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems—by second sight I suppose—for I am seldom out in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. I wish to show to the world the odds between a poet’s friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information—both the pieces go in. One of them, “ Where braving angry winter’s storms,” is already set—the tune is Neil Gow’s Lamentation for Abercairny ; the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow’s collection of an¬ cient Scots music; the name is “Ha a Chaillich air mo DUeith.” My treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about “ Les Incas,”, only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech’s possession. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of “ Somebody” will come too late, as I shall, for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my direction in town, so anything, wherever I am, will reach me. I saw yours to --; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. 88 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. On the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Mr-has given him the invitation, and he is determined to accept of it. 0 selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circum¬ stances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father’s disposition, the whole affair is chimerical—yet he will gratify an idle jpenchant at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous pas¬ sion of love ! he is a gentleman in his mind and manners —tant pis! He is a volatile schoolboy—the heir of a man’s fortune who well knows the value of two times two ! Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the arpiahle, the lovely-the derided object of their purse-proud contempt! I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs-’s recovery, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her:— “ As I came in by G-lenap, I met with an aged woman ; She bade me cheer up my heart, For the best o’ my days was cornin’.”* This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are like my¬ self, not what they ought to be ; yet better than what they appear to be. “Heaven’s Sovereign saves all beings but himself That hideous sight—a naked human heart]” Farewell! remember me to Charlotte. R. B. No. XCIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburg®, Jan. 21,1788. After six weeks’ confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission; for I would not take in any poor ignor¬ ant wretch by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the cam¬ paign a starving cadet—a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble, or conceal my cowardice. As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh : and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop House. R,. B. * Tin’s is an old popular rhyme, and was a great favourite with the poet Glenap is in the south of Ayrshire. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 89 No. C. EXTRACT FEOM A LETTER TO THE SAME. Edinburgh, Feb. 12,1788. Some things in your late letters hurt me: not that you say them, hut that you mistake me. Religion, my honoured madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoy¬ ment. I have, indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas! I have ever been “more fool than knave.” A mathema¬ tician without religion is a probable character : an irreligious poet is a monster. . . . . . • R. B. No. CI. TO THE REY. JOHN SKINNER. Edinburgh, Feb. 14,1788. Reverend and dear Sir, —I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would have written you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing in the magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication of the magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will forgive it. The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is published to day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquain¬ tance. Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index ; as I assure you, sir, I have heard your “ Tullochgorum,” particularly among our west-country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly to the immortal author of “ The Minstrel,” who, indeed, never wrote anything superior to “ Gie’s a sang, Mont¬ gomery cried.” Your brother has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly’s reel, which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr Cruikshank, of the High School here, and said to be one of the best Latinists of this age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, that I borrowed for him from your acquaintance and much-respected friend in this place, the Rev. Dr Webster. Mr Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to the tune of “ Dumbarton Drums,” and the other, which you say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy of each.—I am ever, rev. sir, with the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, R. B. 9 ° GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CII. TO RICHARD BROWN.* Edinburgh, Feb. 15,1788. My dear Friend,— I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening; and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tuesday. I shall wait for you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at Davies’s Black Bull Inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should go to Greenock; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this date, where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to Edinburgh.—I am ever, my dearest friend, yours, R: B. No. cm. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, Sunday, Feb. 15, 1788. To-morrow, my dear madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in I could not find; and, indeed, after the necessary support my brother and the rest of the family required, I could not venture on farming in that style suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken. I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks’ instructions; afterwards, for I get employ instantly, I go ou il plait a Dieu et mon roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is, not at what door of fortune’s palace we shall enter in, but what doors does she open to us. I waS not likely to get anything to do. I wanted un but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on or morti¬ fying solicitation; it is immediate bread, and, though poor in com¬ parison of the last eighteen months of my existence, ’tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life : besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. R. B. No. CIV. TO THE SAME. [JVo date.~\ Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke measures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen, * The letters to Richard Brown, says Professor Walker, written at a period when the poet was in the full blaze of his reputation, show that he was at no time so dazzled with success as to forget the friends who had anticipated the public by discovering his merit. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 9 1 letter. He replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me upon his honour that I should have the account on Monday; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me ! a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonising sensibility, and bedlam passions ! “I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to die !” I had lately “ a hairbreadth ’scape i’ th’ imminent deadly breach” of love too. Thank my stars I got off heart-whole, “ waur fleyed than hurt.”— Interruption. I have this moment got a hint: I fear I am something like—un¬ done ; but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrink¬ ing resolution; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world! You must not desert me ! Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my for¬ lorn hope. Seriously, though life at present presents me with but a melancholy path : but—my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on. R. B. Ho. CY. TO MRS ROSE OP KILRAYOCK. Edinburgh, Feb. 17,1788. Madam*—Y ou are much indebted to some indispensable busi¬ ness I have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your obliging favour as would have tired your patience. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say that I am sen¬ sible of your kindness : it may be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more justly than Addison applies it,— « Some souls by instinct to each other turn.” There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from the cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather tranfuse, into language the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock— the venerable grandeur of the castle—the spreading woods—the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy source, and linger¬ ing with apparent delight as he passes the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden;—your late distressful anxieties—your present enjoy¬ ments—your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes ;—my aged friend, venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and, His peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. You cannot imagine, madam, how much such feelings delight me; they are the 92 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should I never revisit the north, as probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your little fellow’s name mak¬ ing a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included: ) among others, I have given “ Morag,” and some few Highland airs which pleased me most, a dress which will be more generally known, though far, far inferior in real merit. As a small mark of my grate¬ ful esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed; the Man of Feeling, that first of men, has pro¬ mised to transmit it by the first opportunity. I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. When you see the “ Two fair spirits of the hill’’ at Kildrummie,* tell them I have done myself the honour of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to come, consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same period; but, as the apostle Paul says, “ this I ask of grace, not of debt.”—I have the honour to be, madam, &c., R. B.f No. CYI. TO RICHARD BROWH. Mossgiel, Feb. 24, 1788. My dear Sir,—I cannot get the proper direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the following will do:—To Mr Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg’s, Esq., care of Mr Benjamin Henriquez, merchant, * Miss Sophia Brodie of L-, and Miss Rose of Kilravock. f The following is Mrs Rose’s reply Kilravock Castle, Feb. 30,1787. Sir,—I hope you will do me the justice to believe that it was no defect in grati¬ tude 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 enclosed, 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 1 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 enclosed notes. Tlieyare clothed with “thoughts that breathe and words that burn.” These, however, 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 a 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 Kilravock and its inhabitants were amongst these adds to my satisfaction. I am even vain enough to admit your very flatter¬ ing application of the line of Addison; at anyrate allow me to believe that ‘ 1 friend¬ ship will maintain the ground she has occupied in both our hearts,” in spite of GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 93 Orange Street, Kingston. I arrived here, at my brother’s, only yes¬ terday, after fighting my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, and the flesh—so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worthy the name of friendship. “ 0 youth! enchanting stage, profusely blest.” Life is a fairy scene: almost all that de¬ serves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a charming delu¬ sion ; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the course of eco¬ nomy, for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of mind; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the friends of age : never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear: and, for futurity— The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw 1 How like you my philosophy? Give my best compliments to Mrs B., and believe me to be, my dear sir, yours most truly, [The poet was now nearly recovered from the disaster of the “ maimed limb.” He endured his confinement with the more patience, that it enabled him to carry on his correspondence with Clarinda, and write songs for Johnson’s Musical Museum .— Cunningham.] Ho. CVIL TO-. Mossgiel, Friday Morning. Sib,—T he language of refusal is to me the most difficult language on earth, and you are the [only] man of the world, excepting one of IP. Hon bl8 . designation to whom it gives me the greatest pain to and that when we do meet it will be as acquaintance of a score of years ; and on this footing consider me as interested in the future course of e so splendidly commenced. Any communications of the progress of ie will be received with great gratitude, and the fire of your genius will :r to warm even us frozen sisters of t’ absence, a Standing; your fame s your muse w „ have power to warm even us frozen sisters of the north. The firesides of Kilravock and Kildrummie 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 pictures and you ’ll seldom be wrong. We remember Mr Nicol with as much good Will as we can do anybody who hurried Mr Burns from us.* Farewell, sir; I can only contribute the widow's mite to the esteem and ad¬ miration excited by your merits and genius, but this I give as she did, with all my heart—being sincerely yours, El. Bose. 94 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. told suet language. My brotter tas already got money, and stall want notting in my power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you; but to be security on so large a scale, even for a brotter, is what I dare not do, except I were in suet circumstances of life as that the worst that might happen could not greatly injure me. I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I know the unhappy consequences; I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman for whom I have the highest respect, and to whom I am deeply obliged.—I am ever, sir, your obliged and very humble servant, Robert Borns * No. CVIII. TO MR WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. Mauchline, March 3,1788. My DEAR Sir, —Apologies for not writing are frequently like apolo¬ gies for not singing—the apology better than the song. I have fought my way severely through the savage hospitality of this country to send every guest drunk to bed if they can, I executed your commission in Glasgow, and I hope the cocoa came safe. ’Twas the same price and the very same kind as your former parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buying there per¬ fectly well. I should return my thanks for your-hospitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost overpowered, fighting with prosaic wickedness in high places; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever you come to the passage, so pass over it in silence. I am just returned from visiting Mr Miller’s farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with me was highly pleased with the farm; and as he is without exception the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before me; I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I have written Mr Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week; I would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions, I only mention these ideas to you: and indeed, except Mr Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to-morrow, I will not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would send my compliments to Mr Nicol, but he would be hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not to him: so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest compliments to my worthy hostess and the sweet little rosebud. '• * The above letter was evidently written towards the end of February 1788, and before he had settled with his publisher, Creech. He was not then aware how his affairs would turn out, and therefore acted with prudence. It will be seen in his letter to Dr Moore how munificently he acted for the relief of his brother’s distresses. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 95 So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an Excise- officer, or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from a regu¬ lar correspondence with the only man almost I ever saw who joined the most attentive prudence with the warmest generosity. I am much interested for that best of men, Mr Wood; I hope he is in better health and spirits than when I saw him last.—I am ever, my dearest friend, your obliged, humble servant, E. B. No. CIX. TO EOBEET AINSLIE, ESQ. Macchline, March 3,1788. Mv dear Friend, —I am just returned from Mr Miller’s farm. My old friend whom I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to accept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible farmer in the country,* and his advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans before me : I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eli¬ gible. On the whole, if I find Mr Millar in the same favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall in all probability turn farmer. I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffeting 6f the wicked one since I came to this country. Jean I found ban¬ ished, forlorn, destitute, and friendless: I have reconciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother.f I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned from Dum¬ fries. Indeed, she is the only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul and body putting up ?—a little like man and wife, I suppose. E. B. No. CX. TO EICHAED BEOWN. Mauchline, March 7,1788. I have been out of the country, my dear friend, and have nob had an opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will * The “ sensible” farmer who accompanied Burns to Dalswinton, and influenced him in taking the farm of Ellisland, was Mr Tait of Glenconner, to whom the poet addressed a metrical epistle. (See p. 262.) t On the very day this was written Jean was delivered of twins—girls—the unfortunate result of their renewed intimacy. The infants died a few days after their birth. g6 general correspondence. be gone out of the country too. I have been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent on idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine : but you will say a “ great effort is worthy of you.” I say so myself : and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of “which was to be demonstrated,” may cry up reason as much as they please; but I have always found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to add her re¬ proaches to his other grievances. I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean; as, after all, I may say with Othello— “Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, hut I do love thee!” I go for Edinburgh on Monday.—Yours, R. B. No. CXI. TO MR MUIR, KILMARNOCK. Mossgiel, March 7,1788. Dear Sir, —I have partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr Miller’s farm, and he was so pleased with it that I have written an offer to Mr Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and Newmills, and I shall set off so early as to despatch my business and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort at home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspondence that pro¬ mised me more pleasure than yours: I hope I will not be disap¬ pointed. I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is “ Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun Was roll’d together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound.” But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the valley, be it so; at least there is an end of pain. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 97 cure, woes, and wants: if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent destruction of the man—away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as the many are always weak of consequence, they have often, perhaps always, been deceived: a man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow-creatures—even granting that he may have been the sport at times of passions and instincts—he goes to a great unknown Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy, who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force. These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where, indeed, all men are equally in the dark.—Adieu, my dear sir; God send us a cheerful meeting ! K. B. No. CXII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Mossgiel, March 17,1788. Madam, —The last paragraph in yours of the 20th February 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 employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the devil; at least as Milton describes him; and though I may be rascally enough to be sometimes 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 occasion 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 Scota, from which, by the by, I took the idea of Coila (’tis a poem of Beattie’s in the Scottish dia¬ lect, which perhaps you have never seen):— “ Ye shake your head, but o’ my fegs Ye’ve set auld Scota on her legs; Lang had she lien wi’ bed’s and flegs, Bumbazed and dizzie; Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, Wae ’s me, poor hizzie ! ” R. B. * One of the daughters of Mrs Dunlop is here intimated. She was painting a sketch from the Coila of “ The Vision.” 93 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CXIII. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, March 14,1788. I know, my ever-dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news when I tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yes¬ ternight I completed a bargain with Mr Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c.; and Heaven be my help ! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of lousiness. I have dis¬ charged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures ; a motley host! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have incorporated into a lifeguard. I trust in Dr Johnson’s observation, “Where much is attempted, something is done.” Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a character I would wish to be thought to possess : and have always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. Poor Miss K-is ailing a good deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition; too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure; formed in¬ deed for, and highly susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, alas! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times com¬ paratively unfeeling and often brutal. R. B. No. CXIV. TO RICHARD BROWN. Glasgow, March 26,' 1788. I AM monstrously to blame, my dear sir, in not writing to you, and sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack ex¬ tended, as I have taken a farm; and I have been racking shop account with Mr Creech, both of which, together with watching, fatigue, and a load of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some degree actually fevered me. I really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; but I was convulsed with rage a great part of the day. I have to thank you for the ingenious, friendly, and elegant epistle from your friend Mr Crawford. I shall certainly write to him, but not now. This is merely a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfriesshire, where many perplexing arrangements await me. I am vexed about the Directory; but, my dear sir, for¬ give me. These eight days I have been positively crazed. My com¬ pliments to Mrs B. I shall write to you at Grenada.—I am ever, my dearest friend, yours, R. B. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 99 No. CXV. TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORN.* Mauchline, March 81,1788. Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy, joyless moors, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; and ytfur favourite air, “ Captain O’Kean,” coming at length into 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 mea¬ sure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming pro¬ ject 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 poet in me. My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs Cleghorn. No. CXYI. TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, EDINBURGH.! Mauchline, April 7,1788. I have not delayed so long to write to you, my much respected friend, because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long * Cleghorn had no little skill in musical composition ; he was, besides, some" thing of a farmer, and a pleasant and social man. lie sent the following reply to the poet’s letter:— Saughton Mills, April 27,1788. 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, 1 would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field of Culloden, by the unfortunate Charles. Tenducci personates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song, “ Queen Mary’s Lamentation.” Why may not I sing in the person of her great-great-great-grandson ? Any skill I have in country business you may truly command. Situation, soil, customs of countries, may vary from each other; but Farmer Attention is a good farmer in every place. Mrs Cleghorn joins me in best compliments. I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, your very sincere friend, Robert Cleghorn, The poet complied with his friend’s request, and wrote the two remaining stanzas of his beautiful song, “ The Chevalier’s Lament.” t Here the bard gives the first two stanzas of “The Chevalier’s Lament.” t The gentleman to whom the above letter is addressed was a writer to the Sig¬ net in Edinburgh. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. ioo since given up that kind of formal correspondence where one sits down irksomely to write a letter because we think we are in duty bound so to do. I have been roving over the country, as the farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters; but most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn; add to this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious and hourly study. I have dropt all con¬ versation and all reading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except one worthy young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits and gens comme il faut which I lately left, and with whom I never again will intimately mix—from that port, sir, I expect your Gazette: what les beaux esprits are saying, what they are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from my sequestered walks of life; any droll original; any passing remark, important forsooth, because it is mine; any little poetic effort, however embryoeth; these, my dear sir, are all you have to expect from me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must have it always understood that I appeal from your wit and taste to your friendship and good nature. The first would be my favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; but the last, where I declined justice. I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two. I trust that this will find you in better health than I did last time I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal [at rest]. Now, never shun the idea of writing me because perhaps you may be out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good consequences attending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine some other time—it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much-respected sir, your obliged friend and humble servant, E. B. No. CXVII. TO MISS CHALMEES. Mauchline, April 7,1788. I am indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange, how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of one another! Even I, who pique myself on my skill GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. IOI in marking characters—because I am too proud of my character as a man to be dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth, and too proud of my situation as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty—I was unacquainted with Miss K.’s very uncommon worth. I am going on a good deal progressive in mon grand but, the sober science of life. I have lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I vivd voce with you to paint the situation and recount the circum¬ stances, you would applaud me.* R. B. No. CXVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. M.4UCHLINB, Apr il 28,1788. Madam ,—Y our 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 Whitsun¬ day, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six months’ attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission—which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be resumed—I thought five-and-thirty pounds a year was no bad dernier ressort 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 rains was only mitigated by being sifted through number¬ less apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In consequence 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 vraisemblable. Your last was so full of expostu¬ lation, 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 enjoyments of my future life. Your books have delighted me. Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso, were j all equally strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. i R. B. I * The sacrifices alluded toreferred to his determination to many Jean Armour | 102 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CXIX. TO MR JAMES SMITH, AVON PRXNTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. Matjohline, April 28,1788. Beware of your Strasburg, my good sir! Look on this the open¬ ing of a correspondence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun bat¬ tery ! There is no understanding a man properly without knowing some¬ thing of his previous ideas, (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ;) for I know many who, in the animal muster, pass for men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 1'25—1*5—1 - 75, (or some such fractional matter;) so to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately and privately given a ma¬ trimonial title to my corpus. “ Bode a robe and wear it, Bode a pock and bear it,” savs the wise old Scots adage. I hate to presage ill-luck; and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually are to their partners of our sex in similar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding day: these twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossipings, twenty-four christenings, (I mean one equal to two,) and I hope, by the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make them twenty-four dutiful children to their parents, twenty-four useful members of society, and twenty-four approven servants of their God. “ Light’s heartsome,” quo’ the wife when she was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I have hungup to lighten your paths, when you are idle enough to explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. ’Tis now as plain as a pikestaff why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I could readily employ. Now for business—I intend to present Mrs Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which I daresay you have a variety; ’tis my first present to her since I have irrevocably called her mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the first said present from an old and much-valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan on whose friendship I count myself possessed of as a life-rent lease. Look on this letter as a “ beginning of sorrowsI will write you till Y»ur eyes ache reading nonsense. Mrs Burns (’tis only her private designation) begs her best com¬ pliments to you. R. B. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 103 No. CXX. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.* Mafchline, May 3, 1788. Sib,—I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great, unknown Being, who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will attend your visit to the Continent, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as my privilege to ac¬ quaint 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 hav¬ ing 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 conse¬ quence of my late success in life. R. B. No. CXXI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Maitchline, May 4,1788. 1 Madam, —Dryden’s Yirgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgies are to me by far the best part of Yirgil. 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 Georgies, and then survey my own powers, ’tis like the idea of a Shetland pony drawn up by the side of a thoroughbred hunter, to start for the plate. 1 I own I am disappointed in the AEneid. Faultless correctness may please, and does highly please, the lettered critic; but to that awful char¬ acter I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether 1 I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved Homer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing to the translators; for, from everything 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 j inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented I my want of learning most. R. B. * The kindness of heart and amenity of manners of this distinguished philoso- ' pher were as conspicuous as his talents. The poet has given an interesting esti- i mate of his accomplished friend’s character in a letter to Dr Mackenzie, which see at p. 33. H 104 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CSXIT. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. Mauchlixe, May 26,1788. My dear Friend, — I am two kind letters in your debt, but I have been from home, and horridly busy, buying and preparing for my farming business, over and above the plague of my Excise in¬ structions, which this week will finish. As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years’ corres¬ pondence between us, ’tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles; a dull letter may be a very kind one.—I have the pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bar¬ gainings hitherto : Mrs Burns not excepted; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this last affair; it has indeed added to anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind and resolutions unknown before; and the poor girl bas the most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deportment. I am inter¬ rupted.—Farewell! my dear sir. R. B. No. CXXIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. May 27,1788. Madam, —I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for that kind partiality of yours which has followed me, in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. 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 moment¬ ary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions of my road through life—insig¬ nificance 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 round me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman’s fireside, wheie 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 same nature with madam, 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, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 105 not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the important few. We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, not¬ withstanding 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, “ Beverence thyself! ” We looked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty anthill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride. B. B. No. CXXIV. , TO THE SAME. AT ME DUNLOP’S, HADDINGTON. Ellislaxd, June 13,1788. “Where’er I roam, whateyer realms I see, My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthen’d chain.” ■— Goldsmith. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an old smoky spence; far from every object I love, or by whom I am beloved; nor any acquaint¬ ance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awk¬ ward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmo¬ sphere native to my soul in the hour of care; consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irri¬ tated 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 principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. “The valiant in himself, what can he suffer? Or what need he regard his single woes ?” &o. Tour surmise, madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My preserva¬ tive from the first is the most thorough consciousness of her senti¬ ments of honour, and her attachment to me; my antidote against the last is my long and deep-rooted affection for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress: and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly apprentice to my mother and sisters in their dairy and other rural business. The muses must not be offended when I tell them the concerns of my wife and family will in my mind always take thecas,* but I assure them their ladyships will ever come next in place. 106 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more friends; but from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number. I found a once much-loved and still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements; but I ena¬ bled her to purchase a shelter;—there is no sporting with a fellow- creature’s happiness or misery. The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome 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 the New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny pay-wedding. No. CXXV. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. Eli.isi.and, June 14,1788. This is now the third day, my dearest sir, that I have sojourned in these regions; and during these three days you have occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding: in Ayrshire I have several variations of friendship’s compass—here it points in¬ variably to the pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well—“ Why should a living man complain V’ I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, some modification of dul- ness. In two or three small instances lately, I have been most shamefully out. I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms among the light horse—the picket-guards of fancy; a kind of hussars and Highlanders, of the brain; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, besides the great studies of your profession ? You said something about religion in your last. I don’t exactly remember what it was. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 107 as the letter is in Ayrshire; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. ' I make no reservation of your being well married: you have so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, that, though you may not realise perhaps the ideas of romance, yet you will never. be ill married. Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting provision for a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, I look to the Excise scheme as a certainty of maintenance; a maintenance ! —luxury to what either Mrs Burns or I were born to.—Adieu ! E. B. Ho. CXXVI. TO THE SAME. Mauchline, June. 23,1788. Thts letter, my dear sir, is only a business scrap. Mr Miers, profile painter in your town, has executed a profile of Dr Blacklock for me : do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which put in the same size as the doctor’s. The account of both profiles will be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when you give him the parcel. You must not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is short; when I sat to Mr Miers, I am sure he did not exceed two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, the doctor, and you, in trio over my new chimney-piece that is to be.—Adieu. E. B. Ho. CXXYII. TO THE SAME. Eixisland, June SO, 1788. My dear Sib, —I just now received your brief epistle; and, to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. I am vexed at that affair of the . . . . , but dare not enlarge on the subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be altered on your late master and friend’s death.* I am concerned for the old fellow’s exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvan¬ tage in any respect, for an old man’s dying, except he have been a very benevolefit character, or in some particular situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is natu- * Mr Samuel Mitchelson, "W.S. 108 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. rally a kind, benevolent animal, but be is dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other food, that in fact he must lay aside his cares for others that he may look properly to himself. You have been imposed upon in paying Mr Miers for the profile of a Mr H-. I did not. mention it in my let¬ ter to you, nor did I ever give Mr Miers any such order. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession. I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 15s. to him, I will rather enclose you a guinea note. I have it not, in¬ deed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there I have the bank-notes through the house like salt permits. There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one’s private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neighbours, who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own, too; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the ser¬ vice of hell? Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kid¬ ney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence : but ’tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than imprudence respect¬ ing character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; but I appeal to your observation, if you have not met, and often met, with the same disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked- of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes and virtue deserves may be all matter of fact. But in things belonging to and terminating in this present scene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or starve in the arctic cir¬ cle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in the manly conscious¬ ness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a galling load of re¬ gret and remorse—these are alternatives of the last moment. You see how I preach. You used occasionally to sermonise too; I wish you would, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke wrote to Dean Swift:—“Adieu, dear Swift! with all thy faults I love thee entirely: make an effort to love me with all mine!” Humble ser¬ vant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted business that honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to the primitive, simple—farewell! R. B. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 109 No. CXXYIII. TO MR GEORGE LOCKHART, MERCHANT, GLASGOW. Mauohline, July 18, 1788. My dear Sir, —I am just going for Nitlisdale, else I would certain¬ ly have transcribed some of my rhyming things for you. The Misses Baillie I have seen in Edinburgh. “ Fair and lovely are Thy works, Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the sons of men !” It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr Baillie’s, I was almost in the predicament of the chil¬ dren of Israel, when they could not look on Moses’ face for the glory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. I did once write a poetic address from the falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. I return to Mauchline in about ten days. My compliments to Mr Purden.—I am in truth, but at present in haste, yours, R. B. No. CXXIX. TO MR PETER HILL. My dear Hill, —I shall say nothing to your mad present, you have so long and often been of important service to me; and I sup¬ pose 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 greatcoats 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 successful 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 pulvilised , 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 good things among your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There, in my eyes, is our friend Smellie; a man positively of the first abilities and greatest strength * Peter Hill, the bookseller, sent the poet a present of some valuable books. Burns returned the compliment in his own way by sending the “fine old ewe- milk cheese.” no GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. of mind, as well as one of tlie best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with; when you see him, as, alas! he too is smart¬ ing at the pinch of distressful circumstances, 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 his sorrows vanish like the morning mist before the summer sun. Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called by the name of friend,—if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some of his superabundant modesty, you would do well to give it him. David,* with his Courant, comes, too, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those bedaubing .paragraphs with which he is eterhally 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 to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish also to be a partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night’s wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps.+ Among our common friends I must not forget 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 anything that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest John Somerville, he is such a contented, happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do with them professedly—the faculty are beyond my prescription. As to tlieir 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 detes¬ tation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. I was going to mention at man of worth, whom I have the honour tp call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch; 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 on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfriesshire Whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- berry’s late political conduct. * Mr David Ramsay, printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. f A club of choice spirits. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . Ill I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage. R. B. No. CXXX. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAY. Sir, —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, in Shakespeare, asked old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he answers, “ Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master.” For some such reason, sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I daresay, 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 give in his certificate, with a request for an order for instructions. In this affaiu if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronising friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for; but with anything like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage (jf life, in the character of\a country farmer; out after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for exist¬ ence in that miserable manner which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws of a jail; whence death, the poor man’s last, and often best, friend, rescued 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 eco¬ nomy, I will try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. R. B. No. CXXXI. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. Ellisland, Aug. 1788. I have not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of your last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very soon; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss matters vivd voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well; and an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remember the circumstance you allude to, respecting Creech’s * The filial and fraternal claims to which this letter refers were two hundred pounds lent to his brother Gilbert, to enable him to fight out the remainder of the lease of Mossgiel—and a considerable sum given to his mother. 112 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. opinion of Mr Nicol; but as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the affair. It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the con¬ sequence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell- commissioned scoundrel,' A-. If, notwithstanding your unpre¬ cedented industry in public, and your irreproachable conduct in pri¬ vate life, he still has you so much in his power, what ruin may he not bring on some others I could name ? Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both, which you so ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots! *—Adieu. R B. No. CXXXII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Mauchline, Aug. 2, 1788. Honoured Madam,— Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the noble lord’s apology 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 neighbour¬ hood. Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwell¬ ing house ; as at present I am almost an evangelical man in Niths¬ dale, for I have scarce “ where to lay my head. ” There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. “ The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger inter- meddleth not therewith.” The repository of these “ sorrows of the heart” is a kind of sanctum sanctorum: and ’tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them :—■ “Heaven of tears,the bosom chords That nature finest strung.” You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. In¬ stead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wroteln a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the Muses have conferred on me in that country. + * The verses enclosed were the lines written in Friars’ Carse Hermitage. See lines written in Friars’ Carse Hermitage, p. 156, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 113 Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the pro¬ duction of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum¬ nock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my Ex¬ cise hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fin tray, one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, 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, unanointed, unanneal’d —* 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 Ayr¬ shire in ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Ho¬ man farewell. R. B. No. CXXXIII. TO THE SAME. Mauohline, Aug. 10, 1798. My much-honoured Friend, —Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friepd—-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 Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled answering a speech from the best of kings. I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not, from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt senti¬ ment of veneration. When Mrs Burns, madam, first found herself, “ as women wish to be who love their lords,” as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint; and not only forbade me her company and their house, but, on my rum¬ oured West Indian voyage, 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 fortune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her; and, as 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 trifie with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life; but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance. * See “ First Epistle to Robert Graham,” p. 260 :—“ Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless strain.” 114 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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 entailing on me at the same time expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affec¬ tation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, which (pardnnnez-moi, madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry. I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting 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. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is my pruriency of writing, to you at large. A page of post is on such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close corre¬ spondence. It. B. No. CXXXIV. TO THE SAME. Ellisland, Aug. 16,1788. I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian:— > “Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ? ” My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country—gloomy con¬ jectures in the dark vista of futurity—consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world—my broadened mark to mis¬ fortune in a wife and children;—I could indulge these reflections till my humour should ferment into the most acid 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 sove¬ reign balm for my wounded spirit. 1 was yesterday at Mr Miller’s to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind—from the lady of the house quite flattering. 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 agonising 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 Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs, with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsi¬ chord, beginning. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 115 “ 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 Scot¬ tish proverb says well, “ King’s chaff is better than ither folks’ corn.” I was going to make a Mew-Testament quotation about “ casting pearls,” but that would be / too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak’of the selected 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,” beginning thus :— “’Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie.” I had an old granduncle 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 these melancholy 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 enthu¬ siasm, “ What truth on earth so precious as the lie !” My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her God; the correspondence fixed with Heaven; the pious suppli¬ cation 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 the 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. It. B. * See p. 342, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 116 No. CXXXV. TO MR BEUGO, ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. Ellisland, Sept. 9, 1788. My dear Sir, —There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the graces whose letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternight. I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that most pleasurable part of life called social communication, I am here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value cf these they estimate as they do their plaiding webs—by the ell! As for the Muses, they have as much idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. Fo! my old capricious, but good-natured, hussy of a muse— By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Coila I thought on, In midst thereof I,hung my harp The willow-trees upon. I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my “ darling Jean,” and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my becobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. I will send the “ Fortunate Shepherdess,” as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, as I would not for any tiling it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian virtue ; ’tis purely a selfish gratification of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should be extremely happy; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a quarter. I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : ’twas a glorious idea. Could you conveniently do me one thing ?—whenever you finish any head I should like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long story about your fine genius; but as what everybody knows cannot have escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about it. R, B. ' GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 17 No. CXXXYI. TO MISS CHALMERS, EDINBURGH. Ellis land, (near Dumfries,) Sept. 16,1788. Where are you ? and how are you ? and is Lady Mackenzie re¬ covering her health ? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not think you have forgot me, madam; and, for my part “When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand I” “ My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.” I do not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows—rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or impression, except where they hit in hostile collision. I am here driven in with my harvest folks by bad weather; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting your¬ selves much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul—I will not say more, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you—hearts the best, minds the noblest of human kind—unfortunate even in the shades of life—when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight days than I can do with almost anybody I meet with in eight years—when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this world again—I could sit down and cry like a child ! If ever you honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls: and a late important step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however overlooked in fashionable licence or varnished in fashion¬ able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of villany. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married “my Jean.” This was notin consequence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; but I had a long and much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery in my' determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a de- l posit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite I tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened j and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affecta¬ tion : and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the county. Mrs Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnSte homme in the universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and the New Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly; and all the ballads in the Il8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. country, as she has (0 the partial lover! you will cry) the finest “ wood-note wild ’’ I ever heard. I am the more particular in this lady’s character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am build¬ ing my house; for this hovel that I shelter in while occasionally ' here is pervious to every blast that blows and every shower that falls; and I am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar¬ gain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day after my reapers. To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my excise instructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emer¬ gency of fortune. If I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would approve of my idea. I will make no apology, dear madam, for this egotistic detail ; I know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy—if they, are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not equals ? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, may they not be friends ? When I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, “When one is confined idle within doors by bad weather, the best antidote against ennui is to read the letters of, or write to, one’s friends; ” in that case then, if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire. I very lately—to wit, since harvest began—wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the manner, of Pope’s “ Moral Epistles.” It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my muse’s pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of it, when once I have heard from you. I have likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works: how the superstructure will come on, I leave to that great maker and marrer of projectsT— Time. Johnson’s collection of Scots songs is going on in the third volume; and of consequence finds me a consumpt for a great deal of idle metre. One of the most tole¬ rable things I have done in that way is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman of my acquaintance composed for the anniver¬ sary of his wedding-day, which happens on the 7th of November. Take it as follows:— The clay returns—my bosom bums,— The blissful day we twa did meet, &c.* * Seep. 348. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 119 I stall give over this letter for shame. If I should he seized with a scribbling fit before this goes away, I shall make it another letter; and then you may allow your patience a week’s respite between the two. I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell! To make some amends mes cheres mesdames, for dragging you on to this second sheet; and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles; though I have these eight or ten months done very little that way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows; supposing myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion:— LINES WRITTEN IN FRIAP.S 5 OARSE HERMITAGE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, &c. * R. B. No. CXXXVII. TO MR MORRISON, MAUCHLINE.f Ellisland, Sept. 22,1788. My dear Sir, —Necessity obliges me to go into my new house even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to pei'ish; if ever 3’ou were in a situation that a little kindness would have rescued you from many evils; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being—get these matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs Morrison.—I am, after all my tribulation, dear sir, yours, R”. B. No. CXXXVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. Mauchline, Sept. 27, 1788. I have received twins, dear madam, more than once; but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th. instant. To make myself understood; I had written to Mr Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was * See p. 156. t Mr Morrison was a Mauchline cabinetmaker. He made the furniture re¬ quired for the new house at Ellisland. 120 ■ GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. dated the very day he had received mine; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind. Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair statement of cold impar¬ tiality, balancing with unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an author’s merits; they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I have just arrived from Eithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this morning by three o’clock; for between my-wife and my farm is juBt forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit, as follows :—- MRS FERGUSSON OF CRAIGDARROCH’S LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON, An uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age. Pate gave the word—the arrow sped, And pierced my darling’s heart, See. * You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double plea¬ sure; what falls from your pen can neither be unentertaining in itself nor indifferent to me. The one fault you found is just; but I cannot please myself in an emendation. What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent 1 You interested me much in your young couple. I would not take my folio paper for this epistle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness w T ith anything larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of this morning’s manufac¬ ture. I will pay the sapientipotent George, most cheerfully, to hear from you ere 1 leave Ayrshire. R. B. Ho. cxxxix. TO MR PETER HILL. Mauchline, Oct. 1, 1788. I HAVE been here in this country about three days, and all that time my chief reading has been the “Address to Lochlomond” you were so obliging as to send to me.f Were I empannelled one of the author’s jury, to determine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my verdict should be, “Guilty!—a poet of nature’s making!” It is an excellent method for improvement, and what I believe every poet does, to place some favourite classic author in his own walks of * See p. 159. f A poem written by one of the masters of the Edinburgh High School. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 121 study and composition 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 forgive 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 madd’ning passions all to peace.”— Address. “To soothe the throbbing passions into peace.”— Thomson. I think the “ Address ” is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of versification, fully equal to the “Seasons.” Like Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for himself: you meet with no copied descrip¬ tion. One particular criticism I made at first reading; in no one instance 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 altogether 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 vulgarised by every-day language for so sublime a poem ? “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. Every reader’s ideas must sweep the “Winding margin of a hundred miles.” The perspective that follows mountains blue—the imprisoned billows beating in vain—the wooded isles—the digression on the yew-tree—“ Benlomond’s lofty, cloud-envelop’d head,” &c., are beau¬ tiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet our poet in his grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, entirely original:— “The gloom Deep 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 ploughing the red mould,” too, is beautifully fancied. “Benlomond’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 which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modem muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain’s wish to carry “ some faint idea of the vision bright,” to entertain her “partial listening ear,” is 122 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. a pretty thought. But in my opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond’s “hospitable flood; ” their wheeling round, their light* ing, mixing, diving, &c.; and the glorious description of the sports¬ man. This last is equal to anything in the “ Seasons.” The idea of “ the floating tribes distant seen, far glistering to the moon,” pro¬ voking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. “ The howling winds,” the “ hideous roar ” of “ the white cascades,'” are all in the same style. I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, however, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must like¬ wise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning “The gleaming lake,” &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the last two 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 grateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me. A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, “ Letters on the Religion Essential to Man,” a book you sent me before; and “ The World Unmasked; or, The Philosopher the Greatest Cheat.” Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant; I only wish it, had been in two volumes. R. B. No. CXL. TO THE EDITOR OF THE STAR* Nov. 8,1788. SiE,—Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature — the principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given us—still, the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they are not natives of the human heart. Even the un¬ happy partner of our kind who is undone—the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes—who but sympathises with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We forget the injuries, and feel for the man. I went last Wednesday to my parish church, most cordially to join in grateful acknowledgment to the Author of all Good for, the consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that aus¬ picious event we owe no less than our liberties civil and religious; * John Mayne, a Dumfries man, author of several popular poems—“Logan Braes,” “The’ Muffled Drum,” and two more ambitious efforts, a poem entitled, .“Glasgow,” and “The Siller Gun.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 123 to it we are likewise indebted for the present royal family, the ruling features of whose administration have ever been mildness to the subject, and tenderness of his rights. Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of rea¬ son and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive planner in which the reverend gentleman* mentioned the house of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps, as much as their crime, to be the authors of those evils; and we may bless God for all His goodness to us as a nation, without at the same time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas and made attempts that most of us would have done, had we been in their situation. “ The bloody and tyrannical house of Stuart,” may be said with propriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family, and the sentiments of our days; but is there no allowance to be made for the manners of the times ? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts more attentive to their subjects’ rights ? Might not the epithets of “ bl6ody and tyrannical ” be, with at least equal jus¬ tice, applied to the house of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors ? The simple state of the case, sir, seems to be this:—at that period the science of government, the knowledge of the true relation be¬ tween king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar¬ barity. The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contem¬ poraries enjoying; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happi¬ ness of a nation and the rights of subjects. In this contest between prince and people, the consequence 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 unwarrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happi¬ ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the jostling 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 inconsistent with the cove¬ nanted 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. * The preacher was Mr Kirkpatrick, minister of the parish of Dunscore. Me afterwards got a harmonious call to another parish; and although the stipend was smaller than that of Dunscore, he accepted—a rare instance of clerical self- denial. 124 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Who does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders and com¬ manders are often hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are for or against us ? Man, Mr Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being; who 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 animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them, that a certain people under our national protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our whole legislative BODY, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did of the house of Stuart! I will not, I cannot, enter into the merits of the cause; but I daresay the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed 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 wrongheaded house of Stuart. To conclude, sir; let every man who has a tear for the many miseries incident to humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let .every Briton (and particularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. R. B. No. CXLI. TO MRS DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. Mauchline, Nov. 13,1788. Madam,—I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop vester day. Men are said to flatter 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 compli¬ ments, 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 inuendos of compliment, that, if it had not been for a lucky recollection how much additional weight and lustre your good ppinion and friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one word 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 quey (heifer) in Ayrshire, which he made me a present of to help and adorn my farming stock., As it was on hallowday, I am determined annually as that day returns, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 125 to decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first convenience to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend¬ ship, under the guarantee of the major’s hospitality. There will soon be threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between us; and now that your friendship and friendly correspondence is en- twisted with the heart-strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of “ the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” R. B. No. CXLII. TO MR JAMES JOHNSON,* ENGRAVER. Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. My dear Sir, —I have sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, or anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very probably have four volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in this business; but you are a patriot for the music of your country; . and I am certain' posterity will look on themselves as highly in¬ debted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry; let us go on cor¬ rectly, and your name shall be immortal. I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then vanish for ever : but your work will outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of time. Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let me know a few of her qualities, such as whether she be rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; short, or tall, &c.; and choose your air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate her R. B. No. CXLIII. TO DR BLACKLOCK.+ Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. Reverend and dear Sir, —As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are, or were, out of town, I do not know where this * lames Johnson, the publisher of the Musical Museum. A new edition, with remarks on Scottish song by the late Mr Stenhouse, and Mr David Laing of the Signet Library, was published some years ago by Messrs Blackwood; but is now, we believe, out of print. Would this work not bear re-printing ? f Heron says of Blacklock:—“ Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness; cheerfulness, even, to gaiety, was, notwithstanding that irremediable 126 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. may find you, or whether it will find you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matrimony, in June; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs Blacklock in too precarious a state of .health and spirits to take notice of an idle packet. I have done many little things for Johnson since I had the plea¬ sure of seeing you; and I have finished one piece in the way of Pope’s “Moral Epistles;” but, from your silence, I have everything to fear, so I have only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your present feelings. In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till then my direction is at this place; after that period it will be at Ellis- land, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but half a line, to let me know how you are and where you are. Can I be indifferent to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much—a man whom I not only esteem, but venerate ? My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs Blacklock, and Miss Johnston, if she is with yoii. I cannot conclude without telling you that . I am more and more pleased with the step I took respecting “my Jean.” Two things, from my happy experience, I set down as apophthegms in life—A wife’s head is immaterial compared with her heart; and—“Virtue’s (for wisdom what poet pretends to it ?) ways are ways of pleasant¬ ness, and all her paths are peace.” Adieu ! It. B. [Here follow “The mother’s lament for the loss of her son,” and the song beginning “ The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill.” See pp. 159, 349.] Ho. CXLIV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Dec. 17,1788. Mr dear honoured Friend, —Tours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. “ Almost blind and wholly deaf,” is melancholy news of human nature; but when told of a much-loved and honoured friend they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part and gratitude on mine began a tie which has gradually entwined itself among the dearest chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely when you forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than misfortune, long the predominant colour of his mind. In his latter years, when the gloom might otherwise have thickened around him, hope, faith, devotion the most fervent and sublime, exalted his mind to heaven, and made him maintain his wonted cheerfulness in the expectation of a speedy dissolution.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 127 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 dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions 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 have got so well again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, madam, for I will make my threatenings 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 school¬ fellow 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 heartworkings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, “ auld lang syne,” exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song and tune which have 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, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot V * as I suppose Mr Ker will save you the postage. Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-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 baccha¬ nalians ! Now I am on my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please me mightily ;— “ Go fetch to me a pint of wine.” f E. B. No. CXLV. TO MISS DAVIES. Dee. 1788. Madam,— I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr Eiddel, has informed you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad that I do not think Job, or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was: so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I daresay he never intendedand reduced me to the unfortu¬ nate alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis¬ gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished production of a * See p. 35a t n>id. 128 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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 considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental group 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 bjene, to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentleman’s pencil was to him, my muse is to me; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste; but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person “ after my own heart,” I positively feel what an orthodox Protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration; and I can no more resist rhym¬ ing, on the impulse, than an Eolian 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 gray-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 before I was a manned man, my imagination would hallow the very idea: and I am truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject.* ft. B. No. CXLYI. TO MR JOHN TENNANT.f Dec. 22,1788. I yesterday tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong; or six, ordinary toddy. The whisky of this country is a most ras¬ cally liquor; and, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the inhabitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might do a great deal of business, in the way of consumpt; and should you commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your business so far as this country side. I write you this on the account of an accident, which I must take the merit of having partly designed to a neigh¬ bour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse-mill—a man who is, in a word, a “ very ” good man, even for a £500 bargain. He and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. They keep a country public-house, and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but * See p. 385. t Mr Tennant of Ayr, one of the poet’s early friends. Some of his reminiscences of the poet will be found in the Appendix to the Memoir. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 129 all along thought that whisky would have degraded this house. They were perfectly astonished at my whisky, both for its taste and strength; and by their desire I write you to know if you could supply them with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. Please write me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife, and fork, very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs Tennant, and all the good folks in Glenconner and Barquharrie. R. B. No. CXLYII. 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 right¬ eous man availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings: everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every plea¬ sure that frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian that I approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habi¬ tuated 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 forefathers, I always Tceep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.” We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or struc¬ ture 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 ex¬ traordinary impression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild briar-rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of gray plovers in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 13 ° GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. poetry. Tell toe, my dear friend, to what can this he owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the Eolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such nroofs of those awful and important realities—a God that made all things—man’s immaterial and immortal nature—and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave.* R. B. No. CXLYIJI. TO DR MOORE. Ellisland, Jan. 4,1789. 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 mansion of poverty. The character and employment of a poet were formerly my plea¬ sure, 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 Scotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon myself as having some pretensions from nature to the poetic character. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the Muses’ trade, is a gift bestowed by Him “who forms the secret bias of the soul;”—but I as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least I am resolved to try my doc¬ trine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press I put off to a very distant day, a day that may never arrive—but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession, the talents of shining in every species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is im- * Mr Cunningham quotes the following letter to show that this mood of feeling and reflection was not uncommon in the household of the Bums family •- Mossgiel, Jan. 1, 1789. Dear Brother, —I have just finished my New-year’s day breakfast 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 vicissi¬ tudes, “through the dark postern of time long elapsed,” I cannot help remark¬ ing 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 all will turn 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 William, the first time you see him.—I am, dear brother, yours, Gilbert Burns. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. * 3 * possible 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-skin¬ ned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases— heart breaking despondency of himself.-—Dare I, sir, already im¬ mensely 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 Fintray, 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 Mr Creech’s ingenuous fair dealing with me. He kept me hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August 1787, until the 13th April 1788, before he would condescend to give me a statement of affairs; nor had I got it even then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. “ I could” not a “ tale ” but a detail “ unfold,” but what am I that should speak against the Lord’s anointed Bailie of Edinburgh ? * I believe I shall, in the whole, (£100 copyright included,) clear about £400, some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give you this infor¬ mation, because you did me the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give you this information, but I give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the gentleman’s mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes tempted to have of him —God forbid I should! A little time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the business if possible. To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married “my Jean,” and taken a 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 re¬ turn from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 to save them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much—I only interposed between my bro¬ ther and his impending fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part: I was con¬ scious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affec¬ tion into the scale in my favour, might help to smooth matters at * Those who publish books for authors are not in general the most prompt in rendering returns, ahd for this there is some reason, as well as excuse, in tne forms and circumstances of the book-trade ; out Mr Creech was remarkable for his reluctance to settle accounts of any kind, and of tms the poet seems 10 have been eminently a victim.—C hambees. 132 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. the grand recJconing. There is still one thing would make my cir¬ cumstances quite easy: I have an Excise officer’s commission, and I live in the midst of a country division. My request to Mr Graham, who is one of the Commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of my great patrons might procure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. Thus, secure of a livelihood, “ to thee, sweet poetry, delightful maid,” I would consecrate my future days. R. B. No. CXLIX. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. Ej.LifcLAND, Jan. 6,1789. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear sir! May you be comparatively happy up to your comparative worth among the sons of men; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest of the human race. I do not know if passing as a writer to the signet be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere business of friends and interest. How¬ ever it be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, which, though I have repeated them ten thousand times, still they rouse my manhood and steel my resolution like inspiration “On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man.”—Yocxe. “ Hear, Alfred, hero of the state Thy genius Heaven’s high will declare ; x The triumph of the truly great Is never, never to despair! , Is never to despair 1 ”— Masque of Alfred. I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds.—But who are they ? Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body your com¬ peers, seven-tenths of whom come short of your advantages natural • and accidental; while two of those that remain either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or misspend their strength, like a bull goring a bramble bush. But to change the theme : I am still catering for Johnson’s publi¬ cation; and among others, I have brushed up the following old favourite song a little, with a view to your worship. I have only altered a word here and there; but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or two to add to it. R. B. No. CL. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. Ellisland, Jan. 20,1789. Sib,—T he enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a few days after I had the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 133 gone for the Continent. I have now added a few more of my pro¬ ductions, those for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to R. G-., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr Graham Of Fintray, accompanying a request for his assistance in a matter, to me, of very great moment. To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted for deeds of kindness of serious import to my dearest interests—done in a manner grateful to the delicate feel¬ ings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composition new to me; but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see by the “Poet’s Progress.” These fragments, if my de¬ sign succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years; of course I do not wish it much known. The fragment beginning “ A little, upright, pert, tart,” &c., I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all,, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching; but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to point out the original, please to let it be for your single, sole inspection. Need I make any apology for this trouble to a gentleman who has treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness— who has entered into my interests with so much zeal, and on whose ' critical decisions I can so fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions are to me of the last consequence. My late tran¬ sient acquaintance among some of the mere rank and file of great-’ ness, I resign with ease; but to the distinguished champions of genius and learning I shall be ever ambitious of being known. The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr Stewart’s critical stric¬ tures; the justness (iron justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr Gregory’s remarks,* and the delicacy of Professor Dalziel’s taste, I shall ever revere. I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month.—I have the honour to be, sir, your highly-obliged, and very humble servant, R.B. No. CLI. TO BISHOP GEDDES.f Ellisland, Feb. 3,1789. Venerable Father,—A s I am conscious that, wherever I am, you do me the honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it gives * The poet alludes to the merciless strictures of Dr Gregory on the poem of the “Wounded Hare.” f Alexander Geddes, a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church, was a man of undoubted talents, but much too liberal for his Church. He was the author of a clever rustic poem, beginning, “ There was a wee wifielrie, was coming frae the fair,” and had translated one of the books of the Iliad. 134 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. me pleasure to inform you, that I am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those great and important questions—What am I ? where am I ? and for what am I destined? In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one side on which I was habitually blamable, 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 encumbrances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun; but when the alternative was being at eternal warfare with myself on account of habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made another choice. Besides, I had in “my Jean” a long and much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery among my hands—and who could trifle with such a deposit? 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 com¬ mission, 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 pretend to borrow honour from my profession; and though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect. Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my reverend and much-honoured friend, that my characteris- tical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I am determined to study man and na¬ ture, and in that view incessantly; and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can enable me to produce something worth pre¬ serving. 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 the Nitk. Some large poetic plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meeting with you; which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning of March. That acquaintance, worthy sir, with which you were pleased to honour me, you must still allow me to challenge; for with whatever unconcern I give up my transient connexion with the merely Great, I cannot lose the patronising notice of the learned and good, without the bitterest regret. R. B. No. CLIL TO MR JAMES BURNESS. Ellisland, Feb. 9,1789. Mr deab Sin,—Why I did not write to you long ago is what even on the rack I could not answer. If you can in youi; mind form an r GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 135 idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, enter¬ ing on untried scenes of life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem before I knew him—an esteem which has much increased since I did know him; and, this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other indictment with which you shall please to charge me. After I parted from you, for many months my life was one con¬ tinued scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have taken a farm and—a wife. The farm is beautifully situated on the USTith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. I have gotten a lease of my farm as long as I please ; but how it may turn out is just a guess, and it is yet to improve and enclose, &c.; however, I have good hopes of my bargain on the whole. My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed I have not any reason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a very good wife, and have shaken myself loose of every bad feeling. I have found my book a very profitable business, and with the - profits of it I have begun life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour me in farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in another resource, which, however some folks may affect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr Graham of Fintray one of the Commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission of an Excise-officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; and accordingly I took my instructions, and have my commission by me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what I do not know; but I have the comfort¬ able assurance that, come whatever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the Excise Board, get into employ. We have lost poor Uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very weak, and, with very little alteration on him, he expired on the 3d Jan. His son Williarp has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me I expect in summer. They are both remarkably stout young fellows, and promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever since her father’s death, and I purpose keep¬ ing her in my family till she be quite woman grown, and fit for better service. She is one of the cleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable dispositions, I have ever seen. All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to all friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs B. and family.—I am ever, my dear cousin, yours, sincerely, R. B. K 136 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CLIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, March, 4,1789. Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To a man who has a home, however humble or remote—if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic comfort—the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust. “ Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you! ” When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim—“ What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being 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 Ptolomean system of astro¬ nomy that he said had he been of the Creator’s council, he could have saved Him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the heck and limb sinews of many of his majesty’s liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point of respectful distance, which the important creature itself requires; as a measur¬ ing-glance at its towering altitude would determine the affair like instinct. You are right, madam, in your idea of poor Mylne’s poem, which he has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault—it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend’s English pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of all Mylne’s poetic performances; and would have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my spirits, sha ll GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 137 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 foxglove ere her bells disclose, Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, Bair 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. CLIY. TO THE REV. P, CARFRAE. March 1789. Rev. Sir, —I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer pang of shame than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied Mr Mylne’s poem. I am much to blame: the honour Mr Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy, circum¬ stance of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better return. I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to some periodical publication; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid that, in the present case, it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems have so dunned, and daily do dun the public, that • the very name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if pub¬ lishing any of Mr Mylne’s poems in a magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever; and Mr Mylne’s relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has, denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr Mylne’s fame (among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself) always keep in eye his respectability as a man and as a poet, and take no measure that, before the world knows anything about him, would risk his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. I have, sir, some experience of publishing; and the way in which * These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, are the production of the lady to whom this letter is addressed.—C uebie, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 138 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 produc¬ tions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his-friends had it in idea to publish soon by subscrip¬ tion, for the sake of his numerous family:—not in pity to that family, but in justice to what his friends think the poetic merits of the deceased; and to secure, in the most effectual manner to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits.* R. B. No. CLY. TO DR MOORE. Ellisland, March 23, 1789. Sir, —The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhood, -and a very particular * The letter of the Rev. Peter Carfrae to which the poet alludes is as follows Jan. 2, 1789. Sir, —If you have lately seen Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the author of the verses whicli accompany this letter. He was a man highly respectable for every accomplishment and virtue which adorns the character of a man or a Christian. To a great degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, were added an invincible modesty of temper, which prevented, in some measure, his figuring in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of his character and talents to the small circle of his chosen friends. He was ultimately taken from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 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 composi¬ tions, 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 different 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 in the form of a letter addressed to you, and, I imagine, were only prevented from being sent by himself 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 qualified 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 museand 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, s.r, your most obedient servant, P. Carmlle. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. T 39 acquaintance of mine.* As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve him :—Mr Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace 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. The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs Oswald of Auchencruive. 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 blamable. 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 Oswald, and poor I was forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes¬ tuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say that, when a good fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode. I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr Creech; and I must own that, at last, he has been amicable and fair with me. R. B.+ No. CLYI. TO MR WILLIAM BURNS. Isle, March 25,1789. I have stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a line to accompany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. Your sister Nannie arrived yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. * He was minister of Kirkbean, on the Solway, f Dr Moore’s reply to this letter was as follows:— Clifford Street, Ju ne 10,1789. Dear Sir, —I thank you for the different communications you have made me, : of your occasional productions in manuscript, all of which have merit, and some 140 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . Write me every opportunity—never mind postage. My head, too, is as addle as an egg this morning with dining abroad yesterday. I received yours by the mason. Forgive me this foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle.—I am ever, my dear William, yours. It. B. P.S. —If you are not then gone from Longtown, I ’ll write you a long letter by this day se’ennight. If you should not succeed in your tramps, don’t be dejected, nor take any rash step—return to us in that case, and we will court Fortune’s better humour. Bern ember this, I charge you.* R. B. of them merit of a different kind from what appears in the poems you have pub¬ lished. You ought carefully to preserve all your occasional productions, to cor¬ rect 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 occasion, it may be in my power, as it is very much in my inclinations, 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 lan¬ guage 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 English 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 James Smith,” 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 of those so harmonious as to add ,to the beauty ; for what poet would not prefer gloaming 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 attention 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 prudent wife, must not show ill humour, although you retain a sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, 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. 1 desired Mr Cadell to write to Mr Creech, to send you a copy of “Zeluco.” This performance has had great success here; but I shall be glad to have your opinion of it,-because I value your opinion, and because I know you are above saying what you do not think. I beg you will offer my best wishes to my very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who I understand 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. * The original of the above letter from the poet to his brother 'William was a few years ago in the possession of a Mr J. Fraser, of the Red Lion I- n, Shake¬ speare Square, Edinburgh. This street, like a great many other interesting por¬ tions of old Edinburgh, does not now exist, having been cleared away some time ago to form the site of the present Post-Offic;. Sir Fraser was himself a poet of no mean powers, and author of “Craigmillar,” the “Soldier’s Dream,’’and many other pieces. The letter, framed and placed between two plates of glass, used to be suspended in one of the public apartments of the “ Red Lion,” and was regarded by many visitors as a relic of no ordinary interest. It was presented by Mr Begg, schoolmaster, Ormiston, East Lothian, the poet’s nephew, (son of the Nannie alluded to in the letter,) to Mr St George, Haddington, and by the latter gentleman to Mr Fraser.—The letter itself is commonplace enough, but the P.S.” is strongly characteristic of Burns.— Kilmarnock Journal. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 141 No. CLVII. TO ME HILL. Ellisland, April 2, 1789. I will make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus, (God forgive me for murdering language!) that I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. It is economy, sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I beg you will sit down, and either comppse or borrow a panegyric. If you are going to borrow, apply to .... * to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my remarkable frugality; that I write to one of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a'miserable vault of an ale-cellar'. 0 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 these heights, and through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary feet:—not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame are, breathless, clambering, 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 natives of Paradise!— Thou withered sibyl, my sage conductress, usher me into thy reful¬ gent, adored presence !—The power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! —Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with this peculiar counte¬ nance and protection !—He daily bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserving and the worthless—assure him that I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do anything, be anything— but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery! But to descend from heroics. I want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English dictionary— Johnson’s, I suppose, is the best. In these, and all my prose com¬ missions, the cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr Eobert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge * Probably the name required to fill up this blank was Creech.— Chambers. 142 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. him to take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings’ worth of anything you have to sell, and place it to my account. The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun, under the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in emula¬ tion of it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr Monteith of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. Captain Riddel gave his infant society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that subject; but one of these days I shall trouble you with a commission for “The Monkland Friendly Society” —a copy of the Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger, “ Man of Feeling,” “Man of the World,” Guthrie’s “Geographical Grammar,” with some religious pieces, will likely be our first order. When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At present, every guinea has a five guinea errand with, my dear sir, your faithful, poor, but honest friend. No. CLVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, April 4,1789. I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan of fancy but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to you that communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox; but how long the fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just rough-sketched as follows.* On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of assuring you in person how sincerely I am R. B. No. CLIX. TO MRS M'MURDO, DRUMLANRIG. Ellisland, May 2,1789. Madam,—I have finished the piece which had the happy fortune to be honoured with your approbation; and never did little Miss with more sparkling pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma than I now send my poem + to you and Mr M'Murdo, if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin- skinned animals—what sensitive plants poor poets are. How do we shrink into the embittered corner of self-abasement when neglected or condemned by those to whom we look up! and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our stature, on being noticed * See the entire sketch at p. 163. t The poem alluded to is the song entitled, “ There was a lass and she was fair,” p. 431. The heroine was the eldest daughter of Mrs M'Murdo, and sister to Phillis. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 143 and applauded by those whom we honour and respect! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely, with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures.—I recollect your goodness to your humble guest. I see Mr M'Murdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells, as it would burst with warm emotions and ardent wishes! It may be it is not gratitude—it may be a mixed sensation. That strange, shifting, doubling animal man is so generally at best but a negative, often a worthless, creature, that we cannot see real goodness and native worth without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation.—With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the honour to be, madam, your obliged and grateful humble servant, R. B. Mo. CLX. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Elltsland, May 4, 1789. My dear Sir, —Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I received two days ago; I will not say I perused it with pleasure; that is the cold compliment of ceremony; I perused it, sir, with delicious satis¬ faction ;—in short, it is such a letter as not you, nor your friend, but the Legislature, by express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they should order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, as an encouragement and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be something to your taste. One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare caihe crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season when all of them have young ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our sport individuals in the animal crea¬ tion, that do not injure us materially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. Inhuman man! curse on thy bai'b’rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Let me know how you like my poem* I am doubtful whether it * The poem on the Wounded Hare. Burns had also sent a copy to Dr Gregory for his criticism. The following is a portion of that gentleman’s reply:— Edinburgh, June 2,1789. Dear Sir, —I take the first leisure hour I could command to thank you for your letter, and the copy of verses enclosed in it. As there is real poetic merit. 144 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . would not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. Cruikshank* is a glorious production of the Author of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel + of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me “Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart.” I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the time of “ Three good fellows ayont the glen.” It. B. No. CLXI. TO MR SAMUEL BROWN, £ Mossgiel, May 4,1789. Dear Uncle, —This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal yoke-feljow in your good old way; I am impatient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt for me to enumerate the various tran¬ sactions I have been engaged in since I saw you last; but this know —I am engaged in a smuggling trade, and God knows if ever any poor man experienced better returns, two for one; but as freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out a licence and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old Patriarchs, get men- servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters.—Your obedient nephew, R. B. No. CLXII. TO RICHARD BROWN. Mauchline, May 21, 1789. My dear Friend,—I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, I could not resist the temptation of wishing you I mean both fancy and tenderness, and some happy expressions in them, I think they well deserve that you should revise them carefully, 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 desire 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 likewise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much amended as you please) of the “ Water Fowl on Loch Turit.” * Mr Cruikshank of the High School. We know a gentleman in mature life, who lived as boarder and pupil with Cruikshank, and to whom the character of the man, in consequence of the severity of his discipline, appeared in a very different light from what it did in the eyes of his boon-companion—Burns.— Chambers.' t Mr William Dunbar, W.S. J Samuel Brown was brother to the poet’s mother, and seems to have been a GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 145 joy on your return—wishing you would write to me before you sail again—wishing you would always set me down a3 your bosom friend —wishing you long life and prosperity, and that every good thing may attend you—wishing Mrs Brown and your little ones as free of the evils of this world as is consistent with humanity—wishing you and she were to make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs B. threatens very soon to favour me—wishing I had longer time to write to you at present; and, finally, wishing that, if there is to be another state of existence, Mr B., Mrs B., our little ones, and both families, and you and I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial party to all eternity ! My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries.—Yours, R. B. No. CLXIII. TO MR JAMES HAMILTON.* Ellisland, May 26,1789. Dear Sir,—I send you by John Glover, carrier, the above account for Mr Turnbull, as I suppose you know his address. I would fain offer, my dear sir, a word of sympathy with your misfortunes; but it is a tender string, and I know not how to touch it. It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments on the sub¬ jects that would give great satisfaction to—a breast quite at ease; but as one observes who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of life, “ The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermed- dleth not therewith.’’ Among some distressful emergencies that I have experienced in life, I ever laid this down as my foundation of comfort —That he who has lived the life of an honest man has It/ no means lived in vain ! With every wish for your welfare and future success, I am, my dear sir, sincerely yours, R. B. No. CLXIV. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. Ellisland, May 30, 1789. Sir,— I had intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensations of an omnipotent toothache so engross all my inner man a3 to put it out of my power even to write • nonsense. However, as in duty bound, I approach my bookseller with an offering in my hand—a few poetic clinches and a son'g. To joyous and tolerant sort of person. He appears also to have been somewhat ignorant of the poet’s motions, for the licence to which he alludes was taken out nearly a twelvemonth before this letter was written. * One of the poet’s early friends, whose misfortunes called forth this letter of condolence from Burns. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 146 expect any other kind of offering from the rhyming tribe would be to know them much less than you do. I do not pretend that there is much merit in these morgeaux, but I have two reasons for sending them— Primo, they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my present feelings, while fifty troops of infernal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along my jaw bones; and secondly, they are so short, that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so hurt my pride in the idea that you found any work of mine too heavy to get through. I have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes and by all your hopes that the muse will spare the satiric wink in the moment of your foibles; that she will warble the song of rapture round your hymeneal couch; and that she will shed on your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude: grant my request as speedily as possible—send me by the very first fly or coach for thisp lace three copies of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, come among thy hands, until they be filled with the good things of this life, prayeth It. B. No. CLXV. TO MR MACAULAY, OF DUMBARTON. Ellisland, June 4,1789. Dear Sir, —Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that grand, universal inquest of right and wrong, commonly called the Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch¬ vagabond, Satan, who I understand is to be king’s evidence, cannot throw in my teeth—I mean ingratitude. There is a ceitain pretty large quantum of kindness for which I remain, and, from inability, I fear must still remain, your debtor; but, though unable to repay the debt, I assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember the obli¬ gation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old ac¬ quaintance, Mr Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan’s language, “Hale, and weel, and living;” and that your charming family are well, and promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to the company of performers, whom the great manager of the drama of man is bringing into action for the succeeding age. With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy; and at times sauntering by the delightful windings of the Nith, on the margin of which I have built my humble, domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or holding an intrigue with the Muses; the only gypsies with whom I have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned completely Zion-ward; and as it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 147 of former days will of course fall under the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute of celestial prescription. 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 by has a glo¬ rious “wood-note wild” at either old song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel’s “ Messiah.” R. B. No. CLXYI. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. Ellisland, June 8, 1789. My dear Friend, —I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and the companion of my peregrinations; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a collection of poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare for the press, which horrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plas¬ terers, &c., to attend to, roaming on business through Ayrshire—all this was against me, and the very first dreadful article was of itself too much for me. VMh .—I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear sir, is a serious matter. You know, by experience, that a man’s individual self is a good deal, but believe me, a wife and family of children, whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a father, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude are spent on trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose only support, hope, and stay we are—this to a generous mind is another sort of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which centre merely in the individual, On the other hand, let no young, unmarried, rake¬ helly dog among you make a song of his pretended liberty, and freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dream¬ ing metaphysicians; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity, and justice, be aught but empty sounds; then the man who may be said to live only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender faithful embrace endears life, and for the help¬ less little innocents who are to be the men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of his king, and the support, nay the veiy vital existence of his country, in the ensuing age;—■ compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and push in business, among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing in taverns—a fellow 148 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. over whose grave no one will breathe a single “ Heigh-ho ! ” except from the cob-web tie of wbat is called good fellowship—who has no view nor aim but what terminates in himself—if there be any gravelling earth-born wretch of our species, a renegado to common sense, who "would fain believe that the noble creature man is no better than a sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody knows where; such a stupid beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no one else would have the patience. < Forgive me, my dear sir, for this long silence. To make you amends, I shall send you soon, and more encouraging still, without any postage, one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. H. B. Ho. CLXVII. TO MR M'MURDO * Ellisland, June 19, 1789. ' Sir,—A poet and a beggar are in so many points of view alike, that one might take them for the same individual character under different designations; were it not that, though with a trifling poetic licence, most poets may be styled beggars; yet the converse of the proposition does not hold—that every beggar is a poet. In one .particular, however, they remarkably agree; if you help either the one or the other to a mug of ale, or the picking of a bone, they will very willingly repay you with a song. This occurs to me at present, as I have just despatched a well-lined rib of John Kirk¬ patrick’s Highlander : a bargain for which I am indebted to you, in the style of our ballad printers, “ Five excellent new songs.” The enclosed is nearly my newest song, and one that has cost me some., pains, though that is but an equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or three others, which I have by me, shall do themselves the honour to wait on your after leisure : petitioners for admittance into favour must not harkss the condescension of their benefactor. You see, sir, what it is to patronise a poet. 'Tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; you do them the favour to preside in their council for one year, and your name bears the prefatory stigma of bailie for life. With, not the compliments, but the best wishes, the sinceresfc prayers of the season for you, that you may see many and happy years with Mrs M‘Murdo and your family: two blessings by the by to which your rank does not by any means entitle you—a loving wife and fine family being almost the only good things of this life * John M‘Rlurdo of Drumlanrig was one of Burns’s firmest Nithsdale friends and was united with others, at the poet’s death, in the management of his affairs, which prospered so well that two hundred pounds per annum, becamo the widow’s portion for many years before she was laid in the grave. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 149 to which the farm-house and cottage have an exclusive right.—I have the honour to be, sir, your much-indebted and very humble servant, R. B. No. CLXVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellislaxd, June 21, 1789. Dear Madam, —Will you take the effusions, the miserable ef¬ fusions of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring ? I know not of any particular cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me; but for some time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations and gloomy presages. Monday Evening .—I have just heard Mr Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I revere him; but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord,deliver me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally con¬ cerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible great Being, to whom I owe my exist¬ ence, and that He must be intimately acquainted with the operations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward deportment of this creature which He has made—these are, I think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinc¬ tion between virtue and vice, and consequently, that I am an accountable creature; that, from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, nay, positive in¬ justice, in the administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave, must, I think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment’s reflection. I will go farther, and affirm that, from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of His doctrine and pre¬ cepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though, to appearance, He himself was the obscurest and most illiterate of our species—therefore Jesus Christ was from God. Whatever mitigates the woes or increases the happiness of others, this is my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. What think you, madam, of my creed ? I trust that I have said I nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one whose good opinion I value almost next to the approbation of my own mind. R. B. No. CLXIX. TO MISS WILLIAMS. Ellisland, Aug. 1789. Madam,— Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most extraordinary, that he shall go 15 ° GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. on from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from the impotent consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do than the very doing of it would cost him. I am deeply in¬ debted to you, first for a most elegant poetic compliment; then, for a polite, obliging letter; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on the slave trade; and yet, wretch that I am ! though the debt's were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even the very acknowledgment of the obligation, until you must indeed be the very angel I take you for if you can forgive me. Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way whenever I read a book—I mean a book in our own trade, madam, a poetic one—and when it is my own property, that I take a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd papers, little criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem, I want to show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I take to be truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbation; and I do it in the firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me some books : they are not yet come to hand, but I hear they are on the way. Wishing you all success in your progress in the path of fame; and that you may equally escape the danger of stumblingthrough incautious speed, or losing ground through loitering neglect, I am, &c., R. B * No. CLXX. TO MR JOHN LOGAN.+ Ellisrand, near Dumfries, Aug. 7,1789. Dear Sir,—I intended to have written you long ere now, and as I told you I had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a * Miss Williams replied to the above letter as follows Aug 7,1789. Dear Sir, —I do not lose a moment in returning you my sincere acknowledg¬ ments for your letter, and your criticism on my poem, which is a very flattering proof that you have read it with attention. I think your objections are perfectly n just, except in one instance. You have indeed been very profuse of panegyric on my little performance/ A much less portion of applause from you would have been gratifying to me; since I think its value depends entirely upon the source whence it proceeds_the incense of praise, like other incense, is more grateful from the quality, than the quantity, of the odour. , I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of poetry, which are precious, even independent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most valuable property of poetry is its power of disengaging the mind from worldly cares, and leading the imagination to the richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; since, however frequently life may be chequered with gloomy scenes, those who truly love the Muse can alwaysfind one little path adorned with flowers and cheered by sunshine. •j- Of Knockshinnock, in Glen Afton, Ayrshire. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 151 poetic epistle to you; but that old enemy of all good worJcs, the devil, threw me into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a long ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished “ The Kirk’s Alarm;” but now that is done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits in some of the stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into the public; so I send you this copy, the first that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on any account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could be of any service to Dr M'Gill, I would do it, though it should be at much greater expense than ifritating a few bigoted priests; but I am afraid serving him in his present embarms is a task too hard for me. I have enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as a small but sincere testimony how much, and with what respectful esteem, I am, dear sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. No. CLXXI. TO MR -.* Ellisland, Sept. 1789. My dear Sir, —The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, and the indolence of a poet at all times and seasons, will, I hope, ”*■ The name of the gentleman to whom this letter is addressed was unfortun¬ ately suppressed by Dr Currie. His reply is as follows:— London, Aug. 5, 1789. My dear Sir,—E xcuse 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 method in my power, to merit a continuance of your politeness. When you can spare a few moments, I should be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, (reward Street, Soho. I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the instance of your attach¬ ment to my late inestimable friend, Bob Eergusson, [in the erection of a monu¬ ment to him,] who was particularly intimate with myself and relations. While I recollect with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords me the greatest consolation that I am honoured with the correspondence of his successor 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 young and old the spirit which operated on his own mind. 152 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. plead my excuse for neglecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th 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 pro¬ prietors 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 in¬ telligence, that I can hardly conceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the same degree of excellence : but if there was a man who had abilities qqual to the task, that man’s assistance the proprietors have lost. When I received your letter I was transcribing for - my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tombstone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in 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 negative 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 concentrated in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you; as your welfare and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to yours, R. B. No. CLXXII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Sept. 6, 1789. Dear Madam, —I have mentioned in r my last my appointment to the Excise, and the birth of little Frank; who, by the by, I trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace,* as he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older; and likewise an excellent good tem¬ per, 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. * This child, named Francis Wallace, after Mrs Dunlop, died at the early age of fourteen. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 153 I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs J. Little, a very ingenious, but modest composi¬ tion.* I should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her composi¬ tions 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 extremely 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. * .The following letter accompanied Miss Janet Little’s poetical epistle :— Loudon House, July 12, 1789. Sir, —Though 1 have not the happiness of being personally acquainted with you, yet amongst the number of those who have read and admired your publica¬ tions, may 1 be permitted to trouble you with this? _ You must know, sir, I am somewhat in love with the Muses, though I 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 Eccle- fechan, (where my parents resided,) in the station of a servant, and am now come to Loudon House, at present possessed by Mrs-; 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 a more dignified station. I wrote a few verses of address to you, which I did not then think of ever pre¬ senting; 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 have an opportunity of seeing you, I shall, in hopes of your future friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them ;— Fair fa’’the honest rustic swain, The pride o’ a’ our Scottish plain ; Thou gies us joy to hear thy strain, And notes sae sweet; Old Bamsay’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 choose To grace his lay. To hear thy sang all ranks desire, Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre, Apollo with poetic fire Thy breast doth warm, And critics silently admire Thy art to charm. Csesar 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. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. *54 Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. Would I could write you a letter of comfort; I would sit down to it with as much-pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition that should equal the Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence; a proposition so obviously probable that, setting reve¬ lation 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 human be¬ lief 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 Thy dedication to G-. H., An unco bonnie hame-spun 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 woman’s faithless vows you blame, 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 I blunt my feckless quill, Your fame to raise; While echo sounds frae ilka hill, To Burns’s praise. Did Addison or Pope but hear, Or Sam, that critic most severe, A ploughboy sing wi’ 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: The attempt would doubtless vex a saint, And weel may thee. The task I’ll drop, wi’ heart sincere, To Heaven present my humble prayer, That all the blessings mortals share, May be by turns Dispensed by an indulgent care To Robert Borns 1 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 155 constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, “ Against the day of battle and of war”— spoken of religion :— “’Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, ’Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. When 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 busy with “ Zeluco.” The Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of it; and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. I shall, however, digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. “Zeluco” is a most sterling performance. Farewell! A Dku, le bon Dieu, je vous commende I R. B. No. CLXXIII. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CARSE. Ellisland, Oct. 16, 1789. Sir, —Big with the idea of this important day at Friar’s Carse, I have watched the elements and skies, in the full persuasion that they would announce it to the astonished world by some phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of nature that bury nations. The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly: they did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me, as Thomson in his “ Winter ” says of the storm, I shall “ Hear astonished, and astonished sing ” The whistle and the man ; I sing The man that won the whistle, &c. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we’ve mevry been, And mony mae we hope to be. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold coward loon is he; Wha last beside his chair shall fa’, He is the king amang us three.* To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale of prose—I have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, * See the poem of “ The Whistle,” p. 169. 156 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. when I request you to get your guest. Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two enclosed covers for me, the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bart., at Kilmarnock,—the other to Mr Allan Masterfcon, writing-master, Edinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and like¬ wise a keen Foxite; the other is one of the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius; so, allow me to say he has a frater¬ nal claim on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant again for them in the evening. Wishing that your Tiead may be crowned with laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, sir, your deeply-indebted. humble servant, R. B. No. CLXXIV. TO THE SAME. Ellisland, 1789. Sib,—I wish from my inmost soul it were in my power to give you a more substantial gratification and return for all the goodness to the poet, than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. However, “ an old song,” though to a proverb an instance of insignificance, is generally the only coin a poet has to pay, with. If my poems which I have transcribed, and mean still to tran¬ scribe, into your book, were equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, they would be the finest poems in the language; as they are, they will at least be a testimony with what sincerity I have the honour to be, sir, your devoted humble servant, R. B. No. CLXXY. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. Ellisland, Nov. 1,1789. Mt deab Friend, —I hhd written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to find you, for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliver you from evil! I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an Excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an ex¬ pectant, as they call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents and purposes an officer of Excise; there to flourish and bring forth fruits worthy of repentance. . I know not how the word exciseman, or still more opprobrious GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. J 57 gauger, will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject; but a wife and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement which I once heard a recruiting-sergeant give to a numerous, if not to a respectable, audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock : “ Gentlemen, for your further and better encourage¬ ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the Crown, and consequently with us an honest fellow' has the surest chance of preferment.” You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and dis¬ agreeable circumstances in my business; but I am tired with and disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills; capricious foolish man mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they were the pecu¬ liar property of his particular situation; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is almost without exception a constant source of disappointment and misery. I long to hear from you how you go on—not so much in business as in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably at ease in your internal reflections ? ’Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great character as a man. That you may be both the one and the other is the earnest wish, and that you will be both is the firm persuasion of, my dear sir, &c., R. B. Ho. CLXXVI. TO MR RICHARD BROWN. Ellisland, Nov. 4, 1789. I have been so hurried, my ever-dear friend, that though I got both your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as I wished; and even now you are to look on this as merely confessing debt, and craving days. Few things could have given me so much pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra jirma, and happy in that place where happi¬ ness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in all those endearing con¬ nexions consequent on the tender and venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an addi¬ tional income of £50 a year, while at the same time, the appoint¬ ment will not cost me above £10 or £12 per annum of expenses more than I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance I5 8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. is that the Excise division which I have got is so extensive—no less than ten parishes to ride over—and it abounds besides with so much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare moment. How¬ ever, labour endears rest, and both together are absolutely neces¬ sary for the proper enjoyment of human existence. I cannot meet you anywhere. No less than an order from the Board of Excise at Edinburgh is necessary before I can have so much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come and see me. We must have a' social day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, before you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers excepted: and is not that an endearing circum¬ stance ? When you and I first met, we were at the green period of human life. The twig would easily take a bend, but would as easily return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the melancholy, though strong influence of being both of the family of the unfortunate, we were entwined with one another in our growth towards advanced age; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the union ! You and I must have one bumper to my favourite toast, “May the com¬ panions of our youth be the friends of our old age ! ” Come and see me one year; I shall see you at Port-Glasgow the next, and if we can contrive to have a gossiping between our two bed-fellows, it will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and Mrs Brown. Adieu!—I am ever, my dear sir, yours, R. B. No. CLXXVII. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAY. Dec. 9, 1789. Sir, —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 humi¬ liating something that throws cold water on the resolution; as if one should say, “You have found Mr Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns you ought, by everything in your power, to keep alive and cherish,” Now, though since God has thought proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged is all fair: and though my being under your 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 principally as such still you permit me to approach you. I have found the Excise business go on a great deal smoother with me than I expected; owing a good deal to the generous friend¬ ship 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 eorrespon- GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 159 deuce with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between: but I meet them now and then, as I jog through the hills of Nitlisdale, just as I used to do on the banks of the Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose 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 antiquary, 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 daresay you have none of the solemn-league- and-covenant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gor¬ don and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I,think you must have heard of Dr M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest, of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run match in the whole general election. I am too little a man to have any political attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, indivi¬ duals 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 can¬ not speak of with patience. * Sir J. J. does “ what man can do,” but yet I doubt his fate.f No. CLXXVIII. TO MKS DUNLOP. > Ellisland, Dee. 13, 1789. Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system; a system, the state of which is most conducive to our happiness—or the most productive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous headache that I have been obliged for a time to give up my Excise books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a week over ten muir * Dr Currie has here obviously suppressed a bitter allusion to the Duke of Queensberry. t The enclosures in this letter were “The Kirk’s Alarm,” the verses on Grose, and the first ballad on Captain Miller’s election. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 160 parishes. What is man ? To-day, in the luxuriance of health, ex¬ ulting 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 denied a comforter. Day follows night, and night comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life is 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 learn’d as you are.” Can it be possible that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in conscious existence ? When the last grasp 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 be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond death; or are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? / If there is another life. it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and tffe hu¬ mane ; what a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an aged parent^ now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend of my early life: the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and could serve me.'—Muir,* thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble; and if ever emanation from the all-good Being animated a human form, it was thine !—There should I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever-dear Mary! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. “ My Mary, dear departed shade! , Where is thy place of heavenly rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Iiear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ?” Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust Thou art no impostor, and that Thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and the grave is not one of the many impositions which time after time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I 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 endearing. * Muir was one of the poet’s earliest friends. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 161 I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain that what are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think; and but to you I would not ven¬ ture to write anything above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw into the fire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed anything at all. Rumour told me something of a son of yours who was returned from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise you, on the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one world, and anxious about another, that scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. If you have a minute’s leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvre miserable, R. B. No. CLXXIX. TO LADY W[INIFRED] M[AXWELL] CONSTABLE. Ellisland, Dec. 16, 1789. My Lady, —In vain have I from day to day expected to hear from Mrs Young, as she promised me at Dalswinton that she would do me the honour to introduce me at Tinwald; and it was impossible, not from your ladyship’s accessibility, but from my own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, indeed, Mr Maxwell of CarrucheD, in his usual goodness, offered to accompany me, when an unlucky indispo¬ sition on my part hindered my embracing the opportunity. To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often the pleasanter, task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I never have done, and I trust never shall do. But with your ladyship I have the honour to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties in the whole moral world. Common sufferers in a cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious, the cause of heroic loyalty! Though my fathers had not illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what they could they did, and what they had. they lost: with unshaken firmness and unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for”what they esteemed the cause of their king and their country. This language and the enclosed verses are for* your ladyship’s eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence:, but as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no more, I do not wish to hurt myself. I have the honour to be, my lady, your ladyship’s obliged and obedient humble servant, It. B. * Those addressed to Mr William Tytler.—See p. 152. 162 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . No. CLXXX. TO PRO YOST MAXWELL, OF LOCHMABEN. Ellisland, Dec. 20, 1789. Dear Provost, —As my friend Mr Graham goes for your good town to-morrow, I cannot resist the temptation to send you a few lines, and as I have nothing to say, I have chosen this sheet of fools¬ cap, and begun as you see at the top of the first page, because I have ever observed that when once people have fairly set out they know not where to stop. Now that my.first sentence is concluded, I have nothing to do but to pray Heaven to help me on to another. Shall I write you on politics or religion, two master-subjects for your sayers of nothing ? Of the first I daresay by this time you are nearly surfeited; and for the last, whenever they may talk of it who make it a kind of company concern, I never could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might write you on farming, on building, on market¬ ing, but my poor distracted mind is so torn, so jaded, so racked, and bedeviled with the task of the superlatively damned to make one guinea do the business of three, that I detest, abhor, and swoon at the very word business, though no less than four letters of my very short surname are in it. Well, to make the matter short, I shall betake myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; a subject the turtle feast of the sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar plum of the babes of grace—a subject sparkling with all the jewels that wit can find in the mines of genius; and pregnant with all the stores of learning from Moses and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley-—in short, may it please your lordship, I intend to write .... [Here the poet inserted a song which can only be sung at times when the punch bowl has done its duty, and wild wit is set free.] If at any time you expect a field-day* in your town, a day when dukes, earls, and knights pay their court to weavers, tailors, and cob¬ blers, I should like to know of it two or three days beforehand. It is not that I care three skips of a cup dog for the politics, but I should like to see such an exhibition of human nature. If you meet with that worthy old veteran in religion and good fellowship, Mr Jeffrey,f or any of his amiable family, I beg you will give them my best compliments. R. B. No. CLXXXI. TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. ,1790. Sip,—The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the statistical account transmitted to you of the parish of Dunscore * The poet alludes to the Miller and Johnstone contest. f The Rev. Andrew Jeffrey, minister of Lochmaben, and father of the heroine of that exquisite song, “The Blue-Eyed Lass,” (“I gaedawaefu’ gate yestreen.”) GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 163 in Nitlisdale. I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new and may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publication you are the 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 ra¬ tionality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a plan so simple as to be 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 neigh¬ bours to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for three years; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a distance, or death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With their entry-money, and the . credit which they took on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase was always decided by the majority. At every meeting, all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be produced ; and the members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. He whose name stood for that night first on the list had his choice of what volume he pleased in the whole collection; the second had his choice after the first; the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting was last at, this; he who had been second was first; and so on through the whole three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves ; each man had his share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under Mr Riddel’s patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected together up¬ wards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the books, how¬ ever, of this little library, were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History of the Stuarts, the Spectator, Idler, Ad¬ venturer, Mirror, Lounger, Observer, “ Man of Feeling," “ Man of the World," “ Chrysal," “Don Quixote," “Joseph Andrews',' &c. A peasant who can read and enjoy such books is certainly a much supe¬ rior being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very little removed, except in shape, from the brutes he drives. i5 4 general correspondence . Wishing your patriotic exertions their so-much-merited success, I, am, sir, your humble servant, A Peasant. * No. CLXXXII. TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., OF HODDAM. (under a fictitious signature, enclosing a ballad. 1790 OR 1791.) It is true, sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a poor devil: you are a feather in the cap of society, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpatrick. No, no, sir: I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even any province or kingdom; as my mother, who for many years was spouse to a march¬ ing regiment, gave me into this bad world aboard the packet boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. By our common family, I mean, sir, the family of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have a stan¬ dard taste in the belles lettres. The other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have given it; and, taking up the idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas en¬ closed. Will you allow me, sir, to present you them, as the dearest offspring that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ? I have a longing to take you by the hand and unburthen my heart by saying, “ Sir, I honour you as a man who supports the dignity of human nature, amid an age when frivolity and avarice have, between them, debased us below the brutes that perish! ” But, alas, sir, to me you are unapproachable.. It is true, the Muses baptized me in Castalian streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure^ but, bewitching jades! they have * The above letter is inserted in the third volume of Sir John Sinclair’s Statis¬ tical Account of Scotland, p. 598. It was enclosed to Sir John by Mr Riddel himself in the following letter :— Sir John, —I enclose 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 ten¬ antry, tradespeople, and workpeople. Mr Burns was so good as to take the whole charge of this small concern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his public spirit and exertions for their improvement and information.—I have the honour to be, Sir John, yours most sincerely, Robert Riddel. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 165 beggared me. Would they but spare me a little of their cast linen ! Were it only in my power to say that I have a shirt on my back! But the idle wenches, like Solomon’s lilies, “ they toil not, neither do they spin;” so I must e’en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the hangman’s rope, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep together their many-coloured fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I have given that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad trade, from town to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes, too, are what not even the hide of Job’s behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no more: I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite; and though I got it literally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the best bea¬ ver in Britain. I was, during several years, a kind of factotum ser¬ vant to a country clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps of learning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. When¬ ever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and, placing my hat between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of the conic sections. However, sir, don’t let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me that she has taught me to live without her; and, amid all my rags and poverty, I am as inde¬ pendent, and much more happy than a monarch of the world. According to . the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors! in the great drama of life simply as they act their parts. I can look' on a worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and can regard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you, sir, go through your rdle with such distinguished merit, permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, and assure you that with the highest respect, I have the honour to be, &c. No*. CLXXXIII. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Ellisland, Jan. 11, 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 cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to hell! 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 166 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. man of apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue,* which he spouted to his'audience with applause,' I can no more. If once I was clear of this cursed farm, I should .respire more at ease. E. B. No. CLXXXIV. TO WILLIAM DUNBAE, W.S. Ellisland, Jan. 14, 1790. Since we are here creatures of a day, since “a few summer days, and a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end,” why, my dear, much-esteemed sir, should you and I let negligent indo¬ lence, for I know it is nothing worse, step in between us and bar the enjoyment of a mutual correspondence? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, the sons of arithmetic and prudence; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing they may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart: in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon change on our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad health most part of this winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments of life. Our friend, Cunningham, will perhaps have told you of my going jinto the Excise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient business /to have £50 per annum, nor have I yet felt any of these mortifying circumstances in it that I was led to fear. Feb. 2.—I have not, for sheer hurry of business, been able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm business, I ride on my Excise matters at least 200 miles every week. I have not by any means given up the Muses. You will see. in the 3d volume of Johnson’s Scots songs that I have contributed my mite there. But, my dear sir, little ones that look up to you for paternal protection are an important charge, t have already two fine healthy stout little fellows, and 1 wish to throw some light upon them. I have a thousand reveries and schemes about them, and their future destiny. Not that I am a Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved never to breed up a son of mine to any of the.learned professions. I know the value of independence; and since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall give them an inde¬ pendent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect on it! To a father, who himself knows the world, the thought that he shall have sons to usher into it must fill him with dread; but if he have daughters, the prospect in a thoughtful moment is apt to shock him. * See prologue, p. 176 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 167 I hope Mrs Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my feelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser* to realise you to my imagination, and think over the social scenes we have had together. God grant that there may be another world more congenial to honest fellows beyond this. A world where these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, misfor¬ tunes, ill health, &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide friend¬ ship. This I know is your throng season, but half a page will much oblige, my dear sir, yours sincerely, R. B. No. CLXXXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Jan. 25, 1790. 'v It lias been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not written to you, madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-creatures, i, Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for your kind letters; but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and ' mercenary in my own eyes ? When I pique myself on my inde- [ pendent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant; ' and I am so flattered with the honour you have done me, in i making me your compeer in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I cannot, without pain and a degree of mortification, be re¬ minded 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 acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the “ Shipwreck,” which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catas¬ trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora I 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 K * Mr Dunbar had presented him with the copy of Spenser alluded to. t “Falconer,” says Currie, “was in early life a sailor-boy, on board a man-of- war, in which capacity he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of the (satire on Dr Johnson, entitled 1 Lexiphanes,’ then purser of the ship. Camp¬ bell took him as a servant, and delighted in giving him instruction ; and when Ealconer afterwards acquired celebrity boasted of him as a scholar. The editor M 168 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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 fa stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart— “tittle did my mother think, That day she cradled me, What land I was to travel in, Or what death I should die !”* Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine, and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lament¬ ing her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish :— “Oh that my father had ne’er on me smiled ; Oh that my mother had ne’er to me sung! Oh that my cradle had never been rock’d! But that I had died when I was young 1 Oh that the grave it were my bed; My blankets were my winding-sheet ; The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a’ I And, oh, sae sound as I should sleep 1” I do not remember, in all my reading, to have met with anything 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. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson j- the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &e., B. B. No. CLXXXVI. TO MB PETEB HILL, BOOKSELLEE, EDINBUEGH. Ellisland, Feb. 2,1790. No ! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not writing—I am a, poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 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.” * This touching sentiment occurs in the Ballad of the “Queen’s Marie,” or, as some sets have it, “ Mary Hamilton.” t The bard’s second son, Francis. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 169 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to write to, or importance to interest any¬ body ? The upbraidings of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these two or three months past. I wish to God I was a great man, that my correspond¬ ence might throw light upon you, to let the world see what you .really are; and then I would make your fortune, without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen any of my few friends ? What has become of the borough reform, or how is the fate of my poor namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided ? 0 man ! but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that beauteous form, and that once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the affectionate mother; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity ! * I saw lately in a review some extracts from a new poem, called the “Village Curate;” send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of “ The World.” Mr Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy of his book—I shall write him my first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing. ' Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further commissions. I call it troubling you—because I want only books ; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I want Smollett’s Works, for the sake of his incomparable humour. I have already “Roderick Random,” and “Humphrey Clinker.” “Peregrine Pickle,” “ Launcelot Greaves,” and “ Ferdinand, Count Fathom,” I still want; but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only in the ap¬ pearance of my poets. I forget the price of Cowper’s Poems, but, I believe, I must have them. I saw the other day proposals for a publication, entitled, “Banks’s Hew and Complete Christian’s Family Bible,” printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He promises, at least, to give in the work, I think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the names of the first artists in London. You will know the character of the per¬ formance, as some numbers of it are published; and, if it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send me the published numbers.* * The frail female here alluded to had been the subject of some rather oppres¬ sive magisterial proceedings, which took their character from Creech, and roused some public feeling in her behalf. t Perhaps no set of men more effectually avail themselves of the easy credulity Of the public than a certain description of Paternoster Row booksellers. Three hundred and odd engravings!—and by the first artists in London, too!—no wonder that Burns was dazzled by the splendour of the promise. It is no unusual thing for this class of impostors to illustrate the Holy Scriptures by GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me you shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling perplexity of novelty will dissipate, and leave me to pursue my course in the quiet path of methodical routine. R. B. No. CLXXXVII. TO MR W. NICOL. Ellisland, Feb. 9, 1790. My dear Sir, —That damned mare of yours is dead. I would freely have given her price to have saved her; she has vexed me beyond description. Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to have the mare with me. That I might at least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every care of her in my power. She was never crossed for riding above half a score of times by me, or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in fine order for Dumfries fair; when, four or five days before the fair, she was seized with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the neck, with a weakness or total want of power in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrae of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, and in eight-and- forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the country, she died, and be damned'to her! The farriers said that she had been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you had bought her ; and that the poor devil though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, she was under my own eye, and I assure yon, my much-valued friend, everything was done for her that could be done; and the accident has vexed me to the heart. In fact I could not pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of the unfor¬ tunate business. There is little new in this country. Our theatrical company, of which you must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and character are indeed very great, both on the stage and in private life; not a worthless creature among them; and their encourage¬ ment has been accordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to plates originally engraved for the History of England, and I have actually seen subjects designed by our celebrated artist Stothard, from “Clarissa Harlowe” and the Novelists Magazine, converted, with incredible dexterity, by these bookselling-Breslaws, into scriptural embellishments! One of these vendors of “ Eamily Bibles ” lately called on me to consult me professionally about a folio engraving he brought with him. It represented M. Button, seated, contemplat¬ ing various groups of animals that surrounded him : he merely wished, lie said, to be informed whether by unclothing the naturalist, and giving him a rather more resolute look, the plate could not, at a trifling expense, be made to pass for “Daniel in the Lion’s Den 1 ”—Cromek. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 171 twenty-five pounds a night: seldom less than the one, and the house will hold no more than the other. There have been repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by subscription ; the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr Sutherland, was introduced to me by a friend from Ayr; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I have rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by stealth now and then; but they have got up a farce of their own. You must have heard how the Rev. Mr Lawson, of Kirk- mahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr Kirkpatrick, of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have accused, in formal process, the unfortu¬ nate and Rev. Mr Heron, of Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining Mr Nielson to the cure of souls in- Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the confession of faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the word of God ! Mrs B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr Sutherland two Prologues; one of which was delivered last week. I have likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of “ Chevy- Chase,” by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) “ Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn ; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And past the mouth 0’ Cairn.” (See pl81) My best compliments to Mrs Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the family; I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. R. B. No. CLXXXVIII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, Feb. 13,1790. I Beg your pardon, my dear and much-valued friend, for writing to you on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet— “ My poverty, but not my will, consents.” But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and pineapple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing helpmate 172 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. of a village priest; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding exciseman—I make a vow to enclose this sheetful of epistolary 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 Queensberry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take the following fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology :— December, 1789. My dear Cunningham, —Where are you? And what are you doing ? Can you be that son of levity, who takes hp a friendship as he takes up a fashion; or are you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight ? What strange beings we are! Since we have a portion of eonscious existence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happi¬ ness, 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 scant¬ ling 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 substantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things contrive notwithstanding to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them have fallen ? I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambi¬ tion, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, &c. Sunday, Feb. 14,1790. 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 damned past redemption, and what is worse, damned to all eter¬ nity. I am deeply read in Boston’s Fourfold State, Marshall on Sanctification, Guthrie’s Trial of a Saving Interest, &c.; but “ there is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician there,” for me; so I shall GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. *73 e’en turn Arminian, and trust to “ sincere though imperfect obedi¬ ence.” Tuesday, Kith . 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 honest 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; 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 jvas certain !' My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns ! And may all the powers that preside over conviviality and friendship be present with all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, Mr Syme, and you meet! I wish I could also make one. ' Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are lovely, what¬ soever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatso¬ ever things are kind, think on these things, and think on R. B. No. CLXXXIX. TO MR HILL. Ellisland, March 2,1790. At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was re¬ solved 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 Display of the Secession 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 neither 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 Statutes now in force, relative to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; I want three copies of this book : if it is now to be had, cheap or 174 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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 Otway’s Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson’s, Dryden’s, Congreve’s, Wycherley’s, Vanbrugh’s, Cibber’s, or any Dramatic Works of the more modern,. Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy, too, of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any other good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. ! 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. Man¬ kind are by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few scoun¬ drelly instances. I do not think that avarice of the good things we chance to have is born with us; but we are placed here amidst so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order that we may exist ! Still there are, in every age, a few souls that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or 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 disposi¬ tion and character. God knows I am no safnt; 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! - R. B. ' Ho. CXC. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellislakd, April 10,1790. I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper of the Lounger. You know my national prejudices. I 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 ! have I often said to myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my country reaps from the union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and even her very name! I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith— “ States, of native liberty possest, Though very poor, may yet be very blest/ GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 1 75 Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, “ English Ambas¬ sador, 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 such ideas as “ my country; her independence; her honour; the illustrious names that mark the history of my native land;” &c. I believe these, among your men of the world, men who in fact guide for the most part and govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of wrong-headedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the rabble; but for their own private use, with almost all the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of men that ever lived—the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with his interests, and who could completely put on the 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 stanch opinion of men of the world ; but I call on honour, virtue,, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an existence 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 same 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 possessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, con¬ sidering 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, h?.s cost me more honest tears than anything I have read of a long time.* Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison’s exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and the pathetic. His “Man of Feeling” (but I am not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in its kind I * This paper relates to attachments between servants and masters, and concludes with the story of Albert Blane. 176 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the suscep¬ tible young mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity and benevolence; in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others—than from the simple affecting tale of poor Harley ? Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie’s writings, 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 Heaven in the structure of their minds, (for such there certainly are,) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, and elegance of soul which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly important business of making a man’s way into life ? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, A-is very much under these disqualifications; and for the young females of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solici¬ tude, 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. I have been manufacturing some verses lately; but as I have got the most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more leisure to transcribe anything that may show how much I have the honour to be, madam, yours, &c., R. B. Ho. CXCI. TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. Elmsland, 1790. Sib,—I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night—-I wish and pray that the goddess of justice herself would appear to¬ morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my pai’t I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just alighted, or rather, that my poor jackass skeleton of a horse has let me down; for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way, “ Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years ? ” In short, sir, I have broke my horse’s wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offen¬ der has so many great men to espouse his cause that I shall not be surprised if I am committed to the strong hold of the law to¬ morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country.—I have the honour to be, sir, your obliged and obedient humble, R. B. * Supposed to be Anthony, a son of Mrs Dunlop’s. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 177 No. CXCII. TO DR MOORE. Excise-Office, Dumfries, July 14,1790. 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 Byre-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 blamable 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 overweening fancy than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, 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 asterisms, parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or a character sketched with uncommon precision. Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my “ Comparative View,” I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the book of Revelation —“ That time shall be no more ! ” The little collection of sonnets* have some charming poetry in * The sonnets to which Burns alludes were those of Charlotte Smith ; in the volume which belonged to the poet one note alone intimates that the book passed through his hands; the fair authoress, In giving the source of line 14, in the 8th sonnet— “Have power to cure all sadness but despair,” quotes Milton— “ Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair.” To this Bums added with the pen— “ He sang sae sweet as might dispel A’ rage but fell despair.’’ These lines are to be found in one version at least of the fine ballad of Gil Morice. —Cunningham. I7 8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. them. If indeed I am indebted 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 written to the lady, with my grateful acknow¬ ledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs Smith, but merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. R. B. No. CXCIII. TO MR MURDOCH, TEACHER OP FRENCH, LONDON. Ellisland, July 16, 1790. My dear Sir, —I received a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time of my peregrinations and journey- ings through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence your direction along with it. Luckily my good star brought me acquainted with Mr Kennedy, who, I understand, is an acquaint¬ ance of yours: and by his means and mediation I hope to replace that link which my unfortunate negligence had so unluckily broken in the chain of our correspondence. I was the more vexed at the vile accident as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London; and wished above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his respects to his father’s friend. His last address he sent me was, “ Wm. Burns, at Mr Barber’s, saddler, No. 181, Strand.” I wrote him by Mr Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for your address; so, if you find a spare half minute, please let my brother know by a card where and when lie will find you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the man whose name, and Chris¬ tian name too, he has the honour to bear. The next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have much to tell you of “hairbreadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach,” with all the eventful history of a life, the early years of which owed so much to your kind tutorage; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest compliments to Mra Murdoch and family.—I am ever, my dear sir, your obliged friend, R. B.* * The reply to this letter was as follows:— Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square, London, Sept . 14, 1790. My dear Eriend, —Tours of the 16th of July, I received on the 26th, in the afternoon, per favour of my friend Mr Kennedy, and at the same time was informed that your brother was ill. Being engaged in business till late that evening, I set out next morning to see him, and had thought of three or four medical gentlemen of my acquaintance, to one or other of whom I might apply for advice, provided it should be necessary. But when I went to Mr Barber’s, to my great astonishment and heartfelt grief I found that my young friend had, on Saturday, bid an everlasting farewell to all sublunary things. It was about a fortnight before that he had found me out, by Mr Stevenson’s accidentally GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 179 No. CXCIV. TO MR M‘MURDO. Ellisland, Aug. 2, 1790. Sir,—N ow that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities, that on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the villanous business of politics, permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you with a song. calling at my shop to buy something. We had only one interview, and that was highly entertaining to me in several respects. He mentioned some instruc¬ tion I had given him when very young, to which he said he owed, in a great measure, the philanthropy he possessed. He also took notice of my exhorting you all, when I wrote, about eight years ago, to the man who, of all mankind that I ever knew, stood highest in my esteem, “not to let go your integrity.” You may easily conceive that such conversation was both pleasing and encourag¬ ing to me : I anticipated a deal of rational happiness from future conversations. Yain are our expectations and hopes. They are so almost always—perhaps (nay. certainly,) for our good. Were it not for disappointed hopes, we could hardly spend a thought on another state of existence, or be in any degree recon¬ ciled to the quitting of this. I know of no one source of consolation to those who have lost young relatives equal to that of their being of a good disposition, and of a promising character. Be assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympathise with you all, and particularly with Mrs W. Burn ess, who is undoubtedly one of the most tender and affectionate mothers that ever lived. Remember me to her in the most friendly manner, when you see her, or write. Please present my best compli¬ ments to Mrs It. Burns, and to your brother and sisters. There is no occasion for me to exhort you to filial duty; and to use your united endeavours in render¬ ing the evening of life as comfortable as possible to a mother who has dedicated so great a part of it in promoting your temporal and spiritual welfare Your letter to Dr Moore I delivered at his house, and shall most likely know your opinion of “Zeluco,” the first time I meet with him. I wish and hope lor a long letter. Be particular about your mother’s health. I hope she is too much a Christian to be afflicted above measure, or to sorrow as those who have no hope. One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to visit you all ; but I am com¬ monly disappointed in what I most ardently wish for.—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely, John Murdoch. This letter was communicated to Cromek by Mr Murdoch, accompanied by the following interesting note London, Hart Street, Bloomsbury, Dec. 28, 1807. Dear Sir, —The enclosed letter, which I lately found among my papers, I copy for your perusal, partly because it is Burns’s, partly because it makes honourable mention of my rational Christian friend, his father; and likewise because it is rather flattering to myself. I glory in no one thing so much as an intimacy with good men—the friendship of others reflect no honour, when I recollect the pleasure (and I hope benefit) I received from the conversation of William Bur- ness, especially when on the Lord’s-day we walked together for about two miles to the house of prayer, there publicly to adore and praise the Giver of all good. I entertain an ardent hope that together we shall renew the glorious theme in distant worlds, with powers more adequate to the mighty subject, the exu¬ berant beneficence of the Great Creator. But to the letter I promised myself a deal of happiness in the conversation of my dear young friend; but my promises of this nature generally prove fallacious. Two visits GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. i So You knew Henderson—I have not flattered his memory.—I have the honour to be, sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B.* Ho. CXCV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Aug. 8, 1780. _ Dear Madam, —After a long day’s toil, plague, and care, 1 sit < down to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so long! I It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; in short to anything—but for getfulness of la plus aimable de son sexe. By the by, you are indebted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment; as I pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth— a quality rather rare in compliments of these grinning, bowing, scrap¬ ing 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 !+ R. B. No. CXCVI. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, Aug. 8, 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 were the utmost that X received. At one of them, however, he repeated a lesson which I had given him about twenty years before, when he was a mere child, concerning the pity and tenderness due to animals. To that lesson (which it seems was brought to the level of his capacity) he declared himself in¬ debted for almost all the philanthropy he possessed. Let not parents and teachers imagine that it is needless to talk seriously to children. They are sooner fit to be reasoned with than is generally thought. Strong and indelible impressions are to be made before the mind be agitated and ruffled by the numerous train of distracting cares and unruly passions, whereby it is frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of the principles and precepts of rational religion and sound morality. But I find myself digressing again. Poor William! then in the bloom and vigour of youth, caught a putrid fever, and, in a few days, as real chief mourner, I followed his remains to the land of forgetfulness. John Murdoch. * This brief letter enclosed the poem on the death of Captain Matthew Hender¬ son, whom the poet had frequently met while in Edinburgh. t Who this ci-devant friend was. and what was the nature of the quarrel between him and the poet, remain in obscurity. “ The preceding letter to Mrs Dunlop explains the feelings under which this was written. The strain of indignant invective goes 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.”—C urrie. GENERAL CORRESEONDENCE. and had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christen¬ ing; a bride on the market-day before her marriage; or a tavern-keeper at an election dinner; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching 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 attention the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of inde¬ pendence, 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 Smollet’s “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 of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who 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. R. B. Ho. CXCVII. TO DR ANDERSON.* [1790. J Sir, — I am much indebted to my worthy friend Dr Blacklock for introducing me to a gentleman of Dr Anderson’s celebrity; but when you do me the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, alas, sir! you might as well think to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an advocate’s wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the Excise ! and like Milton’s Satan, for private reasons, am forced 11 To do what yet, though damn'd, I would abhor,” . —and except a couplet or two of honest execration, .R. B. * Mr Cunningham says :—Dr Robert Anderson, the editor of the Bee, was one | of the kindest and most benevolent anthors of his time: his door was never j shut against the deserving, and he held out his hand to almost all young literary aspirants. He was one of the first to discover the genius of Campbell, arid the poet acknowledged his discernment in a dedication. He has been for some ) time numbered with the dead. !§2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CXCVIII. TO CRAWFORD TAIT, ESQ., EDINBURGH. Ellisland, Oct. 15,1790. Dear Sir, —Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the hearer, Mr Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to the law, in which department he comes up an adventurer to your good town. I shall give you my friend’s character in two words: as to his head, he has talents enough, and more than enough, for common life; as to his heart, when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that composes it, she said, “ I can no more.” You, my good sir, were born under kinder stars; but your frater¬ nal sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man, who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to be something among his fellow-creatures: but whom the con¬ sciousness of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and wounds to the soul! Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent spirit, and that ingenuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble mind, are, with the million, circumstances not a little disquali¬ fying. What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of such depressed youth! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the purse—the goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessened;—but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up in a cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls! I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. That in¬ direct address, that insinuating implication, which, without any .positive request, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what periphrasis of language, in what circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelop, yet not conceal, this plain story.—“ My dear Mr Tait, my friend Mr Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of much modesty, and great worth. Perhaps it may be in your power to assist him in the, to him, important consideration'of getting a place; but at all events your notice and acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to him; and I dare pledge myself that he will never dis¬ grace your favour.” You may possibly be surprised, sir, at such a letter from me; ’tis, I own, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 183 our acquaintance entitles me to; but my answer is short: Of all the men at your time of life, whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most accessible on the side on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered indeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity point the path you will not tread, or humanity call to you in vain. As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are still a well-wisher, I am here, breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and rhyming now and then. Every situation has its share of the cares a'nd pains of life, and my situation, I am persuaded, has a full ordinary allowance of its pleasures and enjoyments. My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have an opportunity, please remember me in the solemn-league-and- covenant of friendship to Mrs Lewis Hay. * I am a wretch for not writing her; but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way that my conscience lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is Lady M'Kenzie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with compli¬ ments to Mr Wm. Hamilton; Mrs Hamilton and family; and Mrs Chalmers, when you are in that country. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please remember me kindly to her. R. B. Ho. CXCIX. . TO -— Ellisland, 1790. Dear Sir, —Whether, in the way of my trade, I can be of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax’s shield consisted, I think, of seven bull hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector’s utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor’s foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance, superstitioh, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy—all strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence ! Good God, sir ! to such a 'shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a schoolboy. Creation- disgracing scelerats such as they, God only can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impotent as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! Oh for a withering curse to blast the germins of their wicked machinations ! Oh for a poisonous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of their villanous contrivances to the lowest hell! + R. B. * Formerly Miss Margaret Chalmers. f Mr Cunningham surmises that this letter, which contained a copy of “ The Kirk’s Alarm,” was addressed to Cavin Hamilton. 184 GENERAL' CORRESPONDENCE. No. CC. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Nov. 1790. “As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.” Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the apostle—“Rejoice with them that do rejoice”—for me, to sing for joy, is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. I read your letter—I literally jumped for joy. How could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat, on the receipt of the best news from his best friend ? I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride—quick and quicker—out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs Little’s is a more elegant, but not a more sincere, compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in the following verses:— “ 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!” (See p 193) I am much flattered by your approbation of my “ Tam o’ Shanter,” which you express in your former letter; though, by the by, you load me in that said letter with accusations heavy, and many; to all which I plead, not guilty! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly : as to the punctuation, the printers do that themselves. I have a copy of “ Tam o’ Shanter” ready to send you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy to send by post. I heard of Mr Corbet* lately. He, in consequence of your recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon with an account of your good folks; if Mrs H. is recovering, and the young gentleman doing well. R. B. No. CCI. TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. Ellisi.and, Jan. 11,1791. My Lady,— Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my right arm could have prevented me, the moment * One of the general supervisors of Excise. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, ^5 I received your ladyship’s elegant present by Mrs Miller, from re¬ turning you my warmest and most grateful acknowledgments; I assure your ladyship, I shall set it apart: the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall he my inspiring genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of benevolence for the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would interest my fancy in the distresses incident to humanity, I shall remember the unfortu¬ nate Mary.* R. B. No. CCII. TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S. Ellisland, Jan. 17, 1791. I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel,+ but am still here in this sublunary world, serving my God by propagating His image, and honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects. Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the ■ thorns of care never beset his path ! May peace be an inmate to his bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the blood hounds of misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech- owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the bard ! “ Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee!!! ” As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it worthy a friend’s perusal; but if, at your first leisure hour, you will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on, the perform¬ ance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, R. B. No. CCIII. TO MRS GRAHAM OF FINTRAY. Ellisland, Jan. 1791. Madam, —Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past; on that account I enclose it par- * This letter was written acknowledging the present of a valuable snuff-box, with a fine picture of Mary Queen of Sc.ots on the lid. This was the gift of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, in grateful return for the Poet’s “Lament” of that ill-starred Princess. f So styled as President of the Convivial Society, known by the name of The Crochallan Eencibles. 186 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. . ticularly to you. It is true, the purity of my motives may he suspected. I am already deeply indebted to Mr Graham’s goodness; and what, in the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater import¬ ance, Mr G. can do me service of the utmost importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog; and however I may occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live and die poor: but I will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry will . considerably outlive my poverty; and, without any fustian affecta¬ tion of spirit, I can promise and affirm that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall ever make me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever be those of a generous heart, and an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine that I was born to dependence; nor is it Mr Graham’s chiefest praise that he can command influence; but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman; and I trust it shall be mine to receive with thankful¬ ness, and remember with undiminished gratitude. R. B. HO..CCIV. TO MR PETER HILL. Ellisland, Jan. 17, 1791. Take these two guineas, and place them over against that damned account of yours! which has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. Oh, the supreme curse of making three guineas do the business of five! Hot all the labours of Hercules; not all the Hebrews’ three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an insupex-able business, £uch an infernal task!! Poverty; thou half- sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell! where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of eveiy virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little—little aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, only pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely, of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remarks neglected, and his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and ap¬ plause. Nor is it only the family of -worth that have reason to complain of thee : the children of folly and vice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 187 to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family, and fortune. His early follies and extravagance are spirit and fire; Ms consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest fellow; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of'rapine and murder; lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prosti¬ tution, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation; she who, without the same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. Well! divines may say of it what they please; but execration is to the mind what phlebotomy is to the body: the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations. 13 T> No. CCY. TO MR ALEX. CUNNINGHAM* Ellisland, Jan. 23,1791. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend! As many of the good things of this life as are consistent with the usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of Being! * The following is an extract of a letter from Mr Alexander Cunningham to the poet, dated Edinburgh, October lith, 1790:—“I lately received a letter from our friend Barncallie. [John Syme, Esq., of Barncallie, afterwards of Ryedale.] What a charming fellow lost to society—born to great expectations ’ —with superior abilities, a pure heart, and untainted morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed—still I am persuaded he is happy; not like the gallant, the gay Lothario, hut in the simplicity of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the remembrance of the days of other years. “I saw Mr Dunbar put under the cover of your newspaper, Mr Wood’s poem on Thomson. This poem has suggested an idea to me which you alone are capable to execute—a song adapted to each season of the year. The task is difficult, but the theme is charming; should you succeed, I will undertake to get new music worthy of the subject. What a fine field for your imagination, and who is there alive can draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself? It is, by the way, surprising that there does not exist, so far as I know, a proper song for each season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, skating, and one autumnal song, ‘ Harvest Home.’ As your muse is neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your pocket for every season. Eor my suggestions, if I be rude, correct me; if impertinent, chastise me; if presuming, despise me. But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain of insincerity, then am I not thy “Eaithful Eriend,” &c. 188 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I have just finished a poem (“Tam o’ Shanter”), which you will receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales. I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no further than the following fragment, on which please give me your strictures. In all kinds of poetic composition, I set great store by your opinion; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the heart, ) no Roman Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do on yours. I mean the introductory couplets as text verses. [Here follows a portion of the elegy on Miss Burnet, for the whole of which see p. 194.] Let me hear from you soon. Adieu! R. B. No. CCVI. TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ* Ellisland, Feb. 1791. Sir,—N othing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with could have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. * A. F. Tytler, Esq., afterwards Lord Woodhouselee. He addressed the fol¬ lowing letter to the poet on reading his Tam o’ Shanter :— Edinburgh, March, 12, 1791. Mr Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet of “ Grose’s Antiquities,” containing a Poem of yours, entitled “Tam o’ Shanter, a Tale.” The very high pleasure I have received from the perusal of this admirable piece I feel demands the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me he is to send off a packet for you this day; I cannot resist, therefore, putting on paper what I must have told you in person, had I met with you after the recent perusal of your tale, which is, that I feel I owe you a debt which, if undischarged, would reproach me with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted of higher enjoyment from any work, of genius than I have received from this composition; and I am much mistaken if this poem alone, had you never written another syllable, would not have been sufficient to have transmitted your name down to posterity with high reputation. In the intro¬ ductory part, where you paint the character of your hero, and exhibit him at the alehouse ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have delineated nature with a humour and na'ivetb, that would have done honour to Matthew Prior; but when you describe the infernal orgies of the witches’ sabbath, and the hellish scenery in which they are exhibited, you display a power of imagination that Shake¬ speare himself could not have exceeded. I know not that I have ever met with a picture of more horrible fancy than the following:— “Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip sleight, Each in his cauld hand held a light.” But when I came to the succeeding lines, my blood ran cold within me “A knife a father’s throat had mangled, Whom his ain son of life bereft; The grey hairs yet stack to the heft.” And here, after the two following lines, “ Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,” Ac., the descriptive part might perhaps have been better closed than the four lines GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 189 His own favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the Muses entirely new to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most anxious alarm for his success in the attempt; to have that poem so much, applauded by one of the first judges, was tin* most delicious vibration that ever thrilled along the heartstrings of a poor poet. However, Providence, to keep up the proper pro¬ portion of evil with the good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two after I received your letter, my horse came down with me and broke my right arm. As this is the first service my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just in general terms thank you for this additional instance of your patronage and friendship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, they are truly there: one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out; as to the falling off in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce,’ it cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, sir, has given me such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic composition that I am already revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If . I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it will give me an additional opportunity of assuring you how much I have the honour to be, &c., E. B. Ho. CCVII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Feb. 7, 1791. When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the which succeed, which, though good in themselves, yet, as they derive all their merit from the satire they contain, are here rather misplaced among the circum¬ stances of pure horror. The initiation of the young witch is most happily described—the effect of her charms exhibited in the dance on Satan himselt— the apostrophe—“Ah, little thought thy reverend grannie! ”—tlie transport of Tam, who forgets his situation, and enters completely into the spirit of the scene, are all features of high merit in this excellent composition. Tire only fault it possesses is that the winding up, or conclusion, of the story, is not commen¬ surate to the interest which is excited by the descriptive and characteristic 1 90 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. first day my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing; you will allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly un¬ grateful silence. I am now getting' better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable ease; as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is able to compose on the rack. I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had the honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss of an acquaintance as when I heard that so amiable and accomplished a piece of God’s work was no more. I have, as yet, gone no further than the following fragment, of which please let me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much exhausted that any new idea on the business is not to be expected: ’tis well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to this last, you will judge from what follows :—(See the “ Elegy,” p. 194.) I have proceeded no further. Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance, of your godson, came safe. This last, madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have for a long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor’s drugs in his bowels. I am truly happy to hear that the “little flowret” is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the “ mother plant ” is rather recovering her drooping head. Soon and well may her “ cruel wounds ” be healed! I have written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little abler you shall hear further from, madam, yours. No. CCYIII. TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISOK* 1 Elljsland, near Dumfries, Feb. 14, 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 intellectual powers of men, and I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered 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 * The Rev. Archibald Alison, author of “Essays on the Principles of Taste,’ was the father of the historian of Europe. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 191 your propositions startled 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’s harp; that the delicate 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 associations of ideas;—these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith. In short, sir, except Euclid’s Elements of Geometry which I made a shift to unravel by my father’s fireside, 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 un¬ common merit in the work, I mean the language. To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style sounds something like a contradic¬ tion in terms; but you have convinced me that they are quite compatible. I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one in print is my first essay in the way of felling a tale.—I am, sir, &c., B. B. No. CCIX. TO THE BEY. G. BAIRD* Ellisland, Feb. 1791. Reverend Sir, —Why did you, my dear sir, write to me .in such a hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce ? Don’t I know, and have I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall have your choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and, had your letter had my direction so as to have * The poet’s reverend correspondent solicited his help in the contemplated edition of Bruce in these words :— London, Feb. 8, 1791. Sir, — I trouble you with this letter to inform you that I am in hopes of being able very soon to bring to the press a new edition (long since talked of) of Michael Bruce’s poems. The profits of the edition are to go to his mother—a woman of eighty years of age—poorand helpless. The poems are to be published by subscription; and it may be possible. I think, to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the assistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, which I have got from the mother of the poet. But the design I have in view in writing to you is not merely to inform you of these facts ; it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in support of the scheme. ’ The reputation of Bruce is already high with every reader of classical taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against tarnishing his character, by allowing any new poems to appear that may lower it. Eor this purpose, the MSS. I am in possession of have been submitted to the revision of some whose critical talents I can trust to, and I mean still to submit them to others. May I beg to know, therefore, if you will take the trouble of perusing the MSS.—of giving your opinion and suggesting what curtailments, alterations, or amendments, occur to you as advisable ? And will you allow us to let it be known that a few lines by you will be added to the volume 1 I know the extent of this request. It is bold to make it. But I have this 192 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. reached me sooner, (it only came to my hand this moment,) I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the sub¬ scription bills, may bear that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce’s mother. I would not put it into the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings, (anybody but myself, might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation,) that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little of the vista of retrospection. ..... R. B. No. OCX. TO DR MOORE. Eixisland, Feb. 28, 1791. I DO not know, sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose’s “ Antiquities of Scotland.” If you are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have in view: it will give me another opportunity of thank¬ ing you for all your goodness to the rustic bard; and also of showing you that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and patron¬ ise are still employed in the way you wish. The “ Elegy on Captain Henderson ” is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as consolation, that, though you see it proper to refuse it, you will not blame me for having made it ; you will see my apology in the motive. May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in whose company, from his past appearance, you would not, I am convinced, blush to be found, and as I would submit every line of his that should now be published to your own criticisms, you would be assured that nothing derogatory either to him or you would be admitted in that appearance he may make in future. You have already paid an honourable tribute to kindred genius, in Fergusson —I fondly hope that the mother of Bruce will experience your patronage. I wish to have the subscription papers circulated by the 14th of March, Bruce’s birthday; which I understand some friends in Scotland talk this year of observ¬ ing—at that time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, humble stone over his grave. ■ This, at least, I trust you will agree to do—to furnish, in a few couplets, an inscription for it. On these points may I solicit an answer as early as possible; a short delay might disappoint us in procuring that relief to the mother which is the object of the whole. You will be pleased to address for me under cover to the Duke of Athole, London. G-. B. P.S .—Have you ever seen an engraving published here some time ago, horn one of your poems, “O thou Pale Orb?” If you have not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to you. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 193 Roman Catholics; they can he of service to their friends after they have passed that bourn where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead is, I fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the living: and- as a very orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, says, “ whatsoever is not of faith is sin; ” so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by His creatures with thankful delight. As almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly-beloved friend, or still more dearly-beloved mistress, who is gone-to the world of spirits. The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy’s “ Reliques of English Poetry.” By the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe! ’Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not. I have just read over, once more of many times, your “ Zeluco.” I marked with ,my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which, with humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart is your and Fielding’s province, beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson indeed might, perhaps, be excepted; but unhappily, his dramatis personae are beings of another world; and, however they may captivate the inexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper years. As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn; the patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my existence; as soon as the prince’s friends had got in, (and every dog you know has his day,) my getting forward in the Excise would have been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am! and as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot place them on as high an eleva¬ tion in life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so much by 194 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best. Better be the head o’ the commonalty than the tail o' the gentry. But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the other page, and close this with assuring you how sin¬ cerely I have the honour to be, yours, &c., R. B. Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young lady, whom I had formerly characterised under the denomina¬ tion of “ The Rosebud .”—(See Lines to Miss Cruikshank, p. 151) No CCXI. TO MR ALEX. CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, March 12, 1791. If the foregoing piece be 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 sacrilegiously 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 composition, 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. “By yon castle va’ at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray, And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.” * (See p. 384.) If you like the air, and if the stanza hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me if, by the * This beautiful little Jacobite ditty having appeared in Johnson’s Museum with the old song mark at it, it has been received as an old song all over Scot¬ land. There was an old song, but I do not know where to find it. I remember only two lines: “ My heart it is sair, and will soon break in twa; For there’s few good fellows sin’ Jamie’s awa.” This Last line is the name of the air in the very old collections of Scottish tunes.—H ogg. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 195 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; Far, far in the west is he 1 lo’e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me! ” Good night, once more, and God bless you ! It. B. No. CCXII. TO MR ALEXANDER DALZEL,* FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. Ellisland, March 19,1791. Mv dear Sir, —I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, which I send you; and God knows you may perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my own opinion; but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination. ' I can easily guess from my own heart what you have felt on a late most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of my best friend, my first and dearest patron and bene¬ factor; the man to whom I owe all that I am and have! I am gone into mourning for him, and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by nature’s ties ought to feel on the occasion. I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, to let me know the news of the noble family, how the poor mother and the two sisters support their loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the same channel that the honoured remains of my noble patron are designed to be brought to the family burial-place. Dare * This gentleman, the factor, or steward, of Burns’s noble friend, Lord Glen- cairn, with a view to encourage a second edition of the poems, laid the volume before his lordship, with such an account of the rustic bard’s situation and prospects as from his slender acquaintance with him he could furnish. The result, as communicated to Burns by Mr Dalzel, is highly creditable to the character of Lord Glencairn. After reading the book, his lordship declared that its merits greatly exceeded his expectation, and he took it with him as a literary curiosity to Edinburgh. He repeated his wishes to be of service to Burns, and desired Mr Dalzel to inform him that, in patronising the book, ushering it with effect into the world, or treating with the booksellers, he would most willingly give every aid in his power; adding his request that Burns would take the earliest opportunity of letting him know in what way or manner he could best further his interests.— Ce»mkk. 196 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . I trouble you to let me know privately before the day of interment that I may cross the country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever-revered benefactor ? It will oblige me beyond expression. R. B. No. CCXIII. TO -. ' _ _ Ellisland, March 1791. Dear Sir, —I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the truth is that I am the most indolent of all human beings; and when I matriculate in the herald’s office, I intend that my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a slowworm, and the motto, “Deil tak the foremost.” So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for your kind execution of my commission. I would have sent you the poem; but somehow or Qther it found its way into the ^public papers, where you must have seen it.*—I am ever, dear sir, yours sincerely, R. B. No. CCXIV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, April 11, 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 particularly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 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 godson was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your little name¬ sake to be my chef-d’oeuvre in that species of manufacture, as I look on “ Tam 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 canpot 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 bewitching 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 * The poem to which the poet alludes is the “lament of Mary Queen of Scots.’’ ’ GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 197 of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species of caprice, I declare to heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other earthly good ! ' But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally denied to such a 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 what¬ ever; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, and unsullied purity; 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 yielding 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 higher 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 the first post, how cher petit Monsieur* comes on with the small-pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him ! R. B. No. CCXV. TO MR ALEX. CUNNINGHAM. June 11,1791. Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman wh6 waits on you with this. He is a Mr Clarke, of Moffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my 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 ministers, magistrates, and Town Council of Edinburgh, and as the business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name the * Mrs Henri’s child, and the Srapk^ft^ LiisRA^ “ CHESTMJj HILL; MA(& 198 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. historian of Charles V. * I tell him, through the medium of hia 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 preju¬ diced ignorance. 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. Oh to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilised 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 my virtues, if you please, but do, also, spare m'y follies; the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And, since deviating more or less from the paths of propriety and rectitude must be inci¬ dent to human nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my power always from myself and of myself to bear the consequence 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 the subject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, Mr Clarke, to your acquaintance and good offices; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other, f I long much to hear from you. Adieu ! R. B. No. CCXVI. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. Ellisland, June 1791. My Lord, —Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting melto make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. J * Dr Robertson was uncle to Mr Alex. Cunningham. f The poet addressed many letters to Mr Clarke. After the death of her husband, Mrs Clarke, taking offence at some freedom of expression in them, committed them to the flames. j: In the following terms the noble lord invited the poet to his seat. Dryburgh Abbey, June 17,1791. Lord Bijchan has the pleasure to invite Mr Burns to make one at the corona¬ tion of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September; for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm—and, wandering along the pastoral banks of GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 199 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. I once already made a pilgrimage up the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take the same delightful journey doivn the windings of that delightful stream. Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion: but who would write after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and despaired. I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sin¬ cerely and gratefully I have the honour to be, &c., R. B.* [Here follow the verses, for which see p. 198.] No. CCXVII. TO MR THOMAS SLOAN. Ellisland, Sept. 1,1791. My dear Sloan, —Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr Ballan- tine does not choose to interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of information —your address. However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, and strength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the Thomson’s pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambulation of the Tweed is a thought of the late Sir' Gilbert Elliot, and of Lord Minto, 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. * The public praised the verses, on which the Commendator of Dryburgh wrote to the poet as follows:— Sept. 16,1791. 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 you off the field of your honourable and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse which I feel at this moment to suggest to your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent subject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar aspects and manners of our country might furnish an excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, for the employment of happy moments of leisure and recess, from your more important occupations. Your “ Halloween,” and “Saturday Night,” will remain to distant posterity as o 200 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. longest life “ in the world’s hale and undegenerate days,” that will make me forget so dear a friend as Mr Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but T will not part with such a treasure as that. I can easily enter into the embarras of your present situation. You know my favourite quotation from Young— “ On Reason build Resolve ! That column of true majesty in man.” And that other favourite one from Thomson’s Alfred— “ What proves the hero truly great, Is never, never, to despair.” Or shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance ? “ Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by— persevering.” I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are jgoing on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day se’ennight, and sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was over, about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending them that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene; as I was no further over than you used to see me. Mrs B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. Farewell! and God bless you, my dear friend! B. B. No. CCXYIII. TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM.* Ellisland, Sept. 1791. My Lady, —I would, as usual, have availed myself of the pri¬ vilege your goodness has allowed me, of sending you anything I interesting pictures 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 the 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 epistolary form the description of a scene so gladdening and picturesque, with all the concomitant local position, landscape and costume, contrasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 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 disposed to overflow with gratitude in the moment Of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the names of Grlehcairn, Miller, and your other eminent benefac¬ tors ; 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. * Sister of the Earl of Glencairn. Her ladyship died unmarried, in August GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 201 compose in my poetical way; but as I bad resolved so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to make that the first piece I should do myself the honour of sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal: as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship’s feet. As all the world knows my obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to show, as openly, that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and 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 Glencairn ! I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world.* R* b. No. CCXIX. TO COLONEL FULLARTON, OF FULLARTON.+ Ellisland, Oct . 3, 1791. Sir,—I have just this minute got the frank, and next minute must send it to post, else I purposed to have sent you two or three other bagatelles that might have amused a vacant hour, about as well as “ Six excellent new Songs,” or the “Aberdeen prognostications for the year to come.” I shall probably trouble you soon with another packet, about the gloomy month of November, when the people of England hang and drown themselves—anything generally is better than one’s own thoughts. Fond as I may be of my own productions, it is not for their sake that I am so anxious to send you them. I am ambitious, covetously ambitious, of being known to a gentleman whom I am proud to call my countryman; a gentleman who was a- foreign ambassador as soon as he was a man ; and a leader of armies as soon as he was a soldier; and that with an eclat unknown to the usual minions of a court—men who, with all the adventitious advantages of princely connexions and princely fortunes, must yet, like the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime before they reach the wished-for height, there to roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the remaining glim¬ mering existence of old age. If the gentleman that accompanied you when you did me the honour of calling on me is with you, I beg to be respectfully re¬ membered to him. I have the honour to be your highly-obliged and most devoted humble servant, R. B. * “ The Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn.” See p. 196 X Colonel Eullarton is honourably mentioned in “The Vision." 202 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CCXX. TO MR AINSLIE. Eiaisland,1791. My dear Ainslie, —Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all the rest of the damned 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 everything that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the ven¬ geance 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, damn 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 “ Elibanks and Elibraes,” but the stanzas 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 to you. How are you, and what are you doing ? How goes Law ? Apropos, for connexion’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 by and by to act as one; but at present, I am a simple gauger, though t’other day I got an appointment to an excise division of £25 per annum better than the rest. My present income, down money, is £70 per annum. I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know. R. B. Ho. CCXXI. TO MISS DAVIES." It is impossible, madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity of your youthful mind can have any idea of that moral disease * Those who remember the pleasing society which, in the year 1791, Dumfries afforded, cannot have forgotten “ the charming lovely Davies ” of the lyrics of Burns. Her maiden name was Deborah, and she was the youngest daughter of Dr Davies of Tenby in Pembrokeshire ; between her and the Riddels of Briar's Carse there were ties of blood or friendship, and her eldest sister, Harriet, was married to Captain Adam Gordon of the noble family of Kenmure. Her educa¬ tion was superior to that of most young ladies of her station of life; she was GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 203 under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral powers, that may he 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 Indo¬ lence, their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slum¬ bering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. No¬ thing less, madam, could have made me so long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology—the bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies’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 between our wishes and our powers ? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest im¬ potent 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 equally agreeable and witty ; her company was much courted in Nithsdale, and others than Burns respected her talents in poetic composition. She was then in her twentieth year, and so little and so handsome that some one, who desired to compliment her, welcomed her to the Vale of Nith as one of the Graces in miniature. It was the destiny of Miss Davies to become acquainted with Captain Delany, a pleasant and sightly man, who made himself acceptable to her by sympathising in her pursuits, and by writing verses to her, calling her his “ Stella,”—an ominous name, which might have brought the memory of Swift’s unhappy mis¬ tress to her mind. An offer of marriage was made and accepted; but Delany’s circumstances were urged as an obstacle; delays ensued; a coldness on the lover’s part followed; his regiment was called abroad—he went with it; she heard from him once and no more, and was left to mourn the change of affec¬ tion—to droop and die. He perished in battle, or by a foreign climate, soon after the death of the young lady of whose love he was unworthy. The following verses on this unfortunate attachment form part of a poem found among her papers at her death; she takes Delany’s portrait from her bosom, presses it to her lips, and says, “Next to thyself ’tis all on earth Thy Stella dear doth hold, The glass is clouded with my breath, And as my bosom cold; That bosom which so oft has glowed With love and friendship’s name, Where you the seed of love first sowed, That kindled into flame. “ You there neglected let it bum, It seized the vital part, And left my bosom as an urn To hold a broken heart; I once had thought I should have been A tender happy wife, And past my future days serene With thee, my James, through life.” The information contained in this note was obligingly communicated by H. P. Davies, Esq., nephew of the lady.—C unningham. 204 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. hearts have heen wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom acci¬ dent has placed above you—or worse still, in whose hands are, per¬ haps, 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 tremble under your indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt; and largely impart that happi¬ ness 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 I love ! Out upon the world! say I, that its affairs are administered 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 insignificance, 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 life are, among men, comparatively toler¬ able—but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which we can place lovely woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune. Woman 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. R. B. No. CCXXII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellisland, Dec. 17,1791. Many thanks to you, madam, for your good news respecting the little floweret and the mother-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 everything but his abridged existence. I have just finished the following song which, to a lady the de¬ scendant of Wallace—and many heroes of his truly illustrious line— and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 205 “ Scene—A field of battle—time of the day, evening; the wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following SONG OP DEATH. “ 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 I ” (See p. 387.) The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was—look¬ ing over with a musical friend M‘Donald’s collection of Highland airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled “ Oran an Aoig, or, the Song of Death,” to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. I have of late composed two or three other little pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad impudent 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. A Dieuje vous commende. R. B. No. CCXXIII. TO MR WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER* Dumfries, Jan. 22,1792. I sit down, my dear sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion top. 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 industrious to place staring fools and un¬ principled knaves in the foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs Riddel,t 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 Cale¬ donian capital. I told her that her best way was to desire her near * William Smellie was originally bred a printer; he was an ardent student, and in his spare hours attended some of the University classes. He edited an edition of Terence, which gained the prize offered by the Philosophical Society; was principal writer in the first edition of the “Encyclopaedia Britannica,” and author of tlxe “ Philosophy of Natural History.” t Mrs Riddel of Woodleigh Park, near Dumfries. She is to be carefully dis¬ tinguished from Mrs Riddel, of Friar’s Carse, another friend of the poet’s.-*- Chambers. J The Philosophy of Natural History. 206 general correspondence. relation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his j 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 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 subsistence to the mercy of a knave, nor 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.” R. B. No. ocxxiv. TO MR PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. Dumfries, Feb. 5,1792. My dear Friend, —I send you by the bearer, (Mr Clark, a par¬ ticular friend of mine,) six pounds and a shilling, which you will dispose of as follows :—Five pounds ten shillings, per account I owe Mr R. Burn, architect, for erecting the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson. He was two years in erecting it, after I had commis¬ sioned him for it; and I have been two years in paying him, after he sent me his account; so he and I are quits. He had the hardiesse to ask me interest on the sum; but, considering that the money was due by one poet for putting a tombstone over the grave of another, he may, with grateful surprise, thank Heaven that ever he saw a farthing of it. With the remainder of the money pay yourself for the “ Office of a Messenger,” that I bought of you; and send me by Mr Clark a note of its price. Send me, likewise, the fifth volume of the “ Ob¬ server,” by Mr Clark; and if any money remaiu let it stand to account. My best compliments to Mrs Hill. I sent you a maukin by last week’s fly, which I hope you received. —Yours most sincerely, R, B. No. CCXXV. TO MR W. NICOL. Feb. 20,1792. 0 thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitelv GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 207 is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the lumi¬ nous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zigzag 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 inspiration, may it be my por¬ tion, 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 cloudless 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 fly at his dwelling. Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin lamp of my glimmer- ous 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 un¬ hallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven- bound desires : never did the vapours of impurity stain the un¬ clouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. Oh, 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 me afraid. May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, 0 thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality! thy devoted slave,* R. B. No. CCXXVI. TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A.f Dumfries, 1792. Sir, — I believe among all our Scots literati you have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, who fills the moral philosophy chair in * Mr Nicol in a letter to the poet had given him much good advice, hence the irony of his reply. t Mr Grose, in the introduction to his “Antiquities of Scotland,” acknow¬ ledges his obligations to Burns in the following paragraph, some of the terms of which will scarcely fail to amuse the modern reader:— “To my ingenious friend, Mr Robert Burns, I have been seriously obligated; 208 general correspondence. tlie University of Edinburgh.- To say that he is a man of the first parts, and, what is more, a man of the first worth, to a gentleman of your general acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the luxury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough:—but when I inform you that Mr Stew¬ art’s principal characteristic is your favourite feature; that sterling independence of mind, which, though every man’s right, so few men have the courage to claim, and fewer still the magnanimity to sup¬ port; when I tell you that, unseduced by splendour, and undisgusted by wretchedness, he appreciates the merits of the various actors in the great drama of life, merely as they perform their parts—in short, he is a man after your own heart, and I comply with his earnest request in letting you know that he wishes above all things to meet with you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which you proposed visiting; or, if you could transmit him the enclosed, he would with the greatest pleasure meet you any¬ where in the neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to inform Mr Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my promise. Should your time and spirits permit your meeting with Mr Stewart, ’tis well; if not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I have at least an opportunity of assuring you with what truth and respect, I am, sir, your great admirer, and very humble servant, R. B. No. CCXXVII. TO THE SAME. Domfeies, 1792. Among the many witch stories I have heard, relating to Alloway ldrk, I distinctly remember only two or three. Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail; in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take the air in: a farmer or farmer’s servant was plodding and plashing homeward with his plough-irons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and, being rather on the anxious look-out in approaching a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil, and the devil’s friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering through the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a light, which on his nearer approach plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above on his devout supplication, as is customary with people when they suspect the immediate presence of Satan; or whether, according to another custom, he had got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine; but so it he was not only at the pains of making out what was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, the country honoured by his birth, but he also wrote, expressly for this work, tile pretty tale annexed to Alloway Church.” This “pretty tale” being “Tam o’ Shanterl” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 209 was that he ventured to go up to, nay, into, the very kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came off unpunished. The members of the infernal junto were all out on some mid¬ night business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, depending from the roof, over the fire, simmering some heads of unchristened children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., for the business of the night. It was in for a penny in for a pound with the honest ploughman: so without ceremony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, and pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, where it remained long in the family, a living evidence of the truth of the story. Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, was as follows :— On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirkyard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which is about two or three hundred yards farther on than the said gate, had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, between night and morning. Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is run¬ ning by far the greatest risk of mischief,—he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirkyard, he was surprised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old Gothic window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of his acquaintance and neigh¬ bourhood. How the gentleman was dressed tradition does not say, but that the ladies were all in their smocks: and one of them hap¬ pening unluckily to have a smock which was considerably too short to answer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, “ We el luppen, Maggy wi’ the short sark! ” and, recollecting himself, in¬ stantly spurred his horse to the top of his speed. I need not men¬ tion the universally known fact that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Luckily it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close at his heels that one of them actually sprung to seize him ; but it was too late, nothing was on her side of the stream but the horse’s tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the unsightly, tail-less condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble creature’s life, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 210 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. The last relation I shall give, though equally true, is not so well identified as the two former, with regard to the scene ; hut, as the best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. On a summer’s evening, about the time that nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy belonging to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway Kirk had just folded his charge, and was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, who were busy pulling stems of the plant Ragwort. He observed that, as each person pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, “ Up horsie ! ” on which the Ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his Ragwort, and cried with the rest, “ Up horsie ! ” and, strange to tell, away he flew with the company. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt was a merchant’s wine ^cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying, “ By your leave,” they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threatened to throw light on the matter, and frightened them from their carousals. The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day by some of the people belonging to the merchant. Somebody, that understood Scotch, asking him what he was, he said such-a-one’s herd in Alloway, and, by some means or other getting home again, he lived long to tell the world the wondrous tale.—I am, &c., R. B. No. CCXXVIII. TO MR J. CLARKE, EDINBURGH. July 16,1792. Mr Burns begs leave to present his most respectful compliments to Mr Clarke.—Mr B. some time ago did himself the honour of writing Mr C. respecting coming out to the country, to give a little musical instruction in a highly respectable family, * where Mr C. may have his own terms, and may be as happy as indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit him. Mr B. knows well how Mr C. is engaged with another family; but cannot Mr C. find two or three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious of, the high importance of Mr C.’s time, whether in the winged moments of symphonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while listening seraphs cease their own less delight¬ ful strains; or in the drowsy arms of slumberous repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved elbow-chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of indolence circumfuses her vapours round, and sheds her * The family to whom this letter refers was that of M'Murdo’s of Drumlanrig. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 211 dews on the head of her darling son. But half a line conveying half a meaning from Mr C. would make Mr B. the happiest of mortals. No. CCXXIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ahnan Water Foot, Aug . 22,1792. Do not blame me for it, madam—my own conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c., has continued to punish me sufficiently. Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for many favours, to esteem for much worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of now old acquaint¬ ance, 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 ^ scattered 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—I am in love, souse, over head and ears, deep as the unfathomable abyss of the boundless oceaii; 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 attachment. 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 imaginations soar in transport—such, so delighting and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley Baillie, 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 beginning with— “ My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, I’ll rowe thee in my plaidie,” &c. 2X2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, “ un¬ anointed, unanneal'd,” as Hamlet says— “ O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed o’er the Border f She’s gane like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.” (See p. 392.) So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east coun¬ try, as I am to he in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had tlys 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 con¬ sidering 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 question. “ Oh 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 convinced 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 should take every care that your little godson, 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. R. B. No. CCXXX. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Dumfries, Sept. 10,1792. No ! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of busi¬ ness, grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels of the Excise ; making ballads, and then drinking, and then 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 congratulated my friend on his marriage; or GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 213 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 ? ”—0 thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever 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 fauld!—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 performest 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 l —or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur; or performing thy mystic rites in the shadow of the 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, portraying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of unveiled 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 tSte of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the light-horse gallop of clish-ma-claver for ever and ever—come and assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among half a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not got one single sentence of recollec¬ tion, 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 soarings of school divinity, who, leaving Common Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, Reason, delirious with eying his giddy flight; and Truth creeping back into the bottom 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 heaven above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals!!! ” 214 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. —0 doctrine! comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted! “ ’Tis but one tp nineteen hundred 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 dogmas of -> that you will be damned eternally 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 by, will you, or can you, tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalise the heart ? They are orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known them mer¬ ciful : but still your children of sanctity move among their fellow- creatures with a nostril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurning filth, in short, with a conceited dignity 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 ploughboy 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 ploughboys!—Nay, I have since discovered 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! matrimony is quite a different thing from what your lovesick 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.— Goodnature, 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 attend¬ ing on a wife, such as fortune, connexion, education, (I mean educa¬ tion extraordinary,) 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 Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world —how T 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 stanzas make a part— GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 21 $ “ Thou, Lonnie Lesley, art a queen, Thy subjects we before tliee ; Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine, The hearts o’ men adore thee. “ The very Deil he could na scathe 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 im¬ agination, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more convenient season. Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed Sosom-companion, b9 given the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things brought forth by the moon, and the benignest influences 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! It. B. No. CCXXXI. TO MBS DUNLOP. Dumfries, Sept. 24,1792. I have this moment, my dear madam, yours of the 23d. All your other kind reproaches, your news, &c., are out of my head when I read and think on Mrs Henri’s situation. Good God! a heart- wounded, helpless young woman—in a strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed with every horror that can 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 acquisition to his family. •-! I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. ’Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed life / As to a laird farming his own property; sowing his own com 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 flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, gray-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 determined to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to let me have them in 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 216 general correspondence . equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson 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 surpris¬ ing 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 excuse it. God bless you and yours ! R. B. No. CCXXXII. TO THE SAME. SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OP AIRS HENRI, HER DAUGHTER.* Dumfries, Sept. 1792. I had been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return the other day.—What sljall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, 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! —how just the expression ! and, like every other family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of which the world has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indifferently 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. R. B. No. CCXXXIII. TO CAPTAIN JOHNSTON, EDITOR OP THE EDINBURGH GAZETTEERS Dumfries, Rov. 13,1792. Sir, — I have just read your prospectus of the Edinburgh Gazetteer. If you go on in your paper with the same spirit, it will, beyond all comparison, be the first composition of the kind in Europe. I beg * Mrs Henri, daughter pf Mra Dunlop, died at Muges, near Aiguillon, September 15th, 1792. The above letter is one of condolence on this melancholy event. See note to the “ Stanzas on the birth of a Posthumous Child,” p. 193 . + Captain Johnston originated, and for some time conducted, the Gazetteer alluded to above; but having, in the spring of 1793, offended the Government, he was seized and imprisoned, and the paper was shortly afterwards discon tinued. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 217 leave to insert my name as a subscriber, and, if you have already published any papers, please send me them from the beginning. Point out your own way of settling payments in this place, or I shall settle with you through the medium of my friend, Peter Hill, bookseller, in Edinburgh. Go on, sir ! Lay bare with undaunted heart and steady hand, that horrid mass of corruption called politics and state-craft.— Dare to draw in their native colours these— “ Calm—thinking villains whom no faith can fix,”— whatever be the shibboleth of their pretended party. The address to me at Dumfries will find, sir, your very humble servant, Robert Burns. Ho. CCXXXIY. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, Dec. 6,1792. 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 1 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 acquaint¬ ances 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 uncertainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own fate.—But of how different an importance are the lives of different individuals! Hay, of what importance is one period of the same life, more than another ! A few years ago, I could have laid 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. having given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson’s “ Edward and Eleanora : ” “ The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what need he regard his single woes ?” &c. 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 hut 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 Lamenting—Heavens! if privileged from trial How cheap a thing were virtue 1” 2x8 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson’s dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in iny 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 deed3 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 repeti¬ tions. 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 re- . turn 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 bright.” 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 king¬ dom. Indeed, we are a good deal in commption ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter. I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty act¬ ress’s benefit night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, called “ The Rights of Woman “While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things.” (See p. 203.) I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person at Dunlop. R. B. No. CCXXXY. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., FINTRAY.* December 1792. Sib,—I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband—and a father.—You know what you would feel to see the much loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, degraded and dis- * The poet did not write in vain to Graham of Eintray. His letter to Erskine Of Mar enters fully into the matter. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 219 graced from a situation in which they had been respectable and re¬ spected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas, sir ! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot ? and from the damned, dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ! I believe, sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung over my head; and I say that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the British Constitution, on revolution prin¬ ciples, next after my God, I am most devoutly attached; you, sir, have been much and generously my friend.—Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you. Fortune, sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent; has given you patronage, and me dependence.—I would not for my single self, call on your humanity; were such my insular, unconnected situation, I would despise the tear that now swells in my eye—I could brave misfortune, I could face ruin; for at the worst, “ Death’s thousand doors stand open; ” but, good God ! the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage, and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To these, sir, permit me to appeal; by these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. it. B. Ho. CCXXXVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, Pec . SI, 1792. Dear Madam,— A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my ab¬ sence, has until now prevented my returning my grateful acknow¬ ledgments to the good family of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four of the pleasantest I ever enjoyed.—Alas, my dearest friend! how few and fleeting are those things we call plea¬ sures ! on my road to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend whom I much valued; a man whose days promised to be many; and on Saturday last we laid him in l^he dust! Jan . 2, 1793. I have just received yours of the 30 th, and feel much for your situation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free of my complaint.—You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough; but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my resolution, and have greatly 220 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. succeeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned; it is the private parties in the family way, among the hard drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief—but even this, I have more than half given over. * Mr Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least, I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a super¬ visor for several years. I must wait the rotation of the list, and there are twenty names before mine.—I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a settled supervisor was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my family, as I could not remove them on such an uncer¬ tainty. Besides, some envious, malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, henceforth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the undisguised emotions of my soul. War I de¬ precate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. R. B. No. CCXXXVII. TO THE SAME. , Jan. 5 , 1793. You see my hurried life, madam : I can only command starts of time; howevef, 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 Commissioner 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 . . . V;. : * “The following extract,” says Uromek, “from a letter addressed by Robert Bloomfield to the Earl of Buchan, contains so interesting an exhibition of the modesty inherent in real worth, and so philosophical, and at the same time so poetical an estimate of the different characters and destinies of Burns and its author, that I should esteem myself culpable were I to withhold it from the pub¬ lic view. “ ‘ The illustrious soul that has left amongst us the name of Burns, has often been lowered down to a comparison with me ; but the comparison exists more in circumstances than in essentials. That man stood up with the stamp of superior intellect on his brow; a visible greatness; and great and patriotic sub¬ jects would only have called into action the powers of his mind, which lay inac¬ tive, while he played calmly and exquisitely the pastoral pipe. “‘The letters to which I have alluded in my preface to the “Rural Tales” were friendly warnings, pointed with immediate reference to the fate of that ex¬ traordinary man. “ Remember Burns ! ” has been tne watchword of my friends. I do remember Burns ; but I am not Burns ! neither have I his fire to fan or to quench ; nor his passions to control! Where then is my merit if I make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, and with no mutiny on board ? To a lady (I have it from herself) who remonstrated with him on his danger from drink, and the pursuits of some of his associates, he replied, “Madam, they would not thank me for my company, if I did not drink with them.—I must give them a slice of my constitution.” How much to be regretted that he did not give them thinner slices of his constitution, that it might have lasted longer! ’ ” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 221 but, hold! I was praying most fervently in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swearing in this. Alas! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what mis¬ chief they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or thoughtless blabbings ! What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, generosity, kindness,—in all the chari¬ ties 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 Dunlop, their generous hearts—their un¬ contaminated dignified minds—their informed and polished under¬ standings—what a contrast, when compared —if such comparing were not downright sacrilege—with the soul of the miscreant who can de¬ liberately plot the destruction of an honest man that never offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to beggary and ruin! Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fel¬ lows dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality, produced my whigmaleerie cup, and told them that it had been a famiiy-piece among the descendants of William Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm that they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it; and, by and by, never did your great ancestor lay a Sutliron 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 sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns of the season 1 May all good things attend you and yours wherever they are scat¬ tered over the earth! R. B. No. CCXXXVIII. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. March 3,1793. Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write farther. When I say that I had not time, that as usual means that the three demons, indolence, business, 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 reno¬ vating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson’s songs. I daresay he thinks I have used him unkindly, and, I must own, with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired old Highland air called “ The Sutor’s Dochter ? ” It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I 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 fashionable circles by Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately 222 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, wliich vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent one; and I want to cut my armorial 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 supporters. 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 perch¬ ing 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 beild* By the shep¬ herd’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 edition of the “ Gentle Shepherd.” By the by, 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 to 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 his 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 imparts 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 government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. R. B. Ho. CCXXXIX. TO MISS BENSON - , AFTERWARDS MRS BASIL MONTAGU. Dumfries, March 21,1793. ' Madam, —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 had a charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life. * The seal with the arms which the ingenious poet invented was carefully cut in Edinburgh, and used by him the remainder of his life. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 223 Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of onr fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an indi¬ vidual 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 this miserable 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 you despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you that, in the overtakings, turnings, 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 these 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 perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: 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 Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed 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., R. B. No. CCXL. TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., OF DALSWINTON. Dumfries, April 1793. Sir, —My poems having just come out in another edition—will you do me the honour to accept of a copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a gentleman to whose goodness I have been much in¬ debted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration for you, as a man whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature. There was a time, sir, when I was your dependant: this language then would have been like the vile incense of flattery—I could not have used it.—Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute of respect from, sir, your much-in¬ debted humble servant, R. B. No. CCXLI. TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ., OF MAR. Dumfries, April 13,1793. Sir, —Degenerate as human nature is said to be—and, in many instances worthless and unprincipled it is—still there are bright 224 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. examples to the contrary : examples that, even in the eyes of superior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of man. Such an example have I now before me, when you, sir, came forward to patronise and befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely because poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much esteemed friend, Mr Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept, sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for words would but mock the emotions of my soul. You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise;* I am still in the service.—Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman who must be known to you, Mr Graham of Fintray— a gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend—I had without so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want.—Had I had any other resource, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismission; but the little money I gained by my publication is almost every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate, of men. In my defence to their accusations, I said that whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the idea:—That a constitution, which, in its original principles, experience had proved to be in every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory:—That, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either personally, or as an author, in the present business of Reform. But that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the repre¬ sentative part of the legislature, which boded no good to our glorious constitution ; and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended.—Some such sentiments as these, I stated in a letter to my generous patron Mr Graham, which he laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great offence ; and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me—“ that my business was to act, not to think ; and that, whatever might be men or measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient." * In consequence of the poet’s freedom of remark on public measures, malici¬ ously misrepresented to the Board of Excise, he was represented as actually dismissed from his office. This report induced Mr Erskine to propose a sub¬ scription in his favour, which was refused by the poet with that elevation of sentiment that peculiarly characterised his mind, and which is so happily displayed in this letter. See letter to It. Graham of Eintray, Dec. 1792, written by Bums, with even more than his accustomed pathos and eloquence, in further explanation.—C romek. Mr Erskine of Mar, in consequence of the reversal of his grandfather’s at¬ tainder, became Earl of Mar in 1824. but died in the following year, at tne age of eighty-four. He was a stanch Whig in politics. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 225 Mr Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so between Mr Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted. Now, sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest you. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the Poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and family, have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I was, the only eligible, line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame is my dearest coilcem; and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasted anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity exulting in his hireling paragraphs— “Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth 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, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and, slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind.” • In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but— I will say it! the sterling of his honest worth no poverty could debase, and his inde¬ pendent British mind oppression might bend, but could not subdue. —Have not I, to me, a more precious stake in my country’s welfare, than the richest dukedom in it ? I have a large family of children, and the prospect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. —Can I look tamely on, and see any machina¬ tion to wrest from them the birthright of my boys,—the little inde¬ pendent Britons in whose veins runs my own blood ?—No! I will not! should my heart’s blood stream around my attempt to defend it! Does any man tell me that my full efforts can be of no service; and that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the concern of a nation ? • I can tell him that it is on such individuals as I that a nation has to rest, both for the hand of support and the eye of intelligence. The uninformed mob may swell a nation’s bulk; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng may be its feathered ornament; but the number of those who are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low enough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court—these are a nation’s strength! I know not how to apologise for the impertinent length of this epistle; but one small request I must ask of you further—When you have honoured this letter with a perusal, please to commit it to 226 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. the flames. Burns, in whose behalf you have so generously inter¬ ested yourself, I have here, in his native colours, drawn as he is; but should any of the people in whose hands is the very bread he eats get the least knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poor bard for ever ! My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent gratitude with which I have the honour to be, sir, your deeply-indebted, and ever devoted humble servant, R. B. No. CCXLII. TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. April 26, 1793. I am damnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reason why I take up the pen to you: ’tis the nearest way (probation est) to recover my spirits again. I received your last, and was much entertained with it; but I will not at this time, nor at any other time, answer it.—Answer a letter! I never could answer a letter in my life—I have written many a letter in return for letters I have received; but then—they were original matter—spurt away ! zig here; zag there; as if the devil, that my grannie (an old woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o’-wisp, or, in her more classic phrase, Spunkie, were look¬ ing over my elbow.—Happy thought that idea has engendered in my head! Spunkie —thou shalt henceforth be my symbol, signature, and tutelary genius ! Like thee, hap-step-and-loup, here-awa-there- awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hither-and-yont, ram-staih, happy- go-lucky, up tails-a’-by-the-light o'-the-moon—has been, is, and shall be, my progress through the mosses and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of ours. Come then, my guardian spirit! like thee, may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own light! and if any opaque-souled lubber of mankind complain that my elfin, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs; let the thick-headed Blunderbuss recollect that he is not Spunkie :—that Spunkie’s wanderings could not copied be; Amid these perils none durst walk but he. I have no doubt, but scholar craft may be caught, as a Scotsman catches the itch,—Toy friction. How else can you account for it that born blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, grow so wise that even they themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their own parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that degree that in a knot of country-folks who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honour of their good sense, made me factotum in the busi- GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 227 ness; one of our members, a little, wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over the leaves, to bind the booh on his bach. Johnnie took the hint; and, as our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, another in returning, Bodkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. He carried this so far that an old musty Hebrew Concordance, which we had in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by forty years’ perusal of the pages. Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory.—Yours, Spunkie. Ho. CCXLIII. TO MISS KENNEDY, EDINBURGH. Madam, —Permit me to present you with the enclosed song * as a small, though grateful tribute, for the honour of, your acquaint¬ ance. I have, in these verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the unembellished simple manner of descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to your lovers, whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfection than you really are. Poets, madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they are really poets of nature’s making, their feelings must be finer, and their taste more delicate than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn; the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of winter ; the poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of a fine woman, (by far the finest part of God’s works below,) have sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of man are strangers to.—On this last account, madam, I am, as in many other things, indebted to Mr Hamilton’s kindness in introducing me to you. Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you with pleasure; their hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with ad¬ miration. That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your heart — that the snares of villany may never beset you in the road of life —that innocence may hand you by the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, is the sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, &c., R. B. * “The Banks o’ Doon.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CCXLIY. TO MISS CRAIK.* Dumfries, Aug . 1793. Madam, —Some rather unlooked-for accidents have prevented my doing myself the honour of a second visit to Arbigland, 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 enclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind of 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 melancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were penned, so rueful a narra¬ tive 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 stron¬ ger 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 after the intrigues of butterflies—in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the . paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man 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. Bewitch¬ ing poetry is like bewitching woman; she has in all ages been ac¬ cused of misleading mankind from the councils of wisdom 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 our happiness on earth is not worthy the name—that even the holy hermit’s solitary prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter * Miss Helen Craik, of Arbiglancl, had merit both as a poetess and novelist: her ballads may be compared with those of Macneil, and her novels, amid much gvaphic force, had a seasoning of the satiric, which rendered them acceptable to all who understood their allusions. She' died some years ago at Allonby: she was much of an enthusiast, and lived estranged from her family for a long period of her life.—C unningham. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 229 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! R. B. No. CCXLV. TO LADY GLENCAIRN.* My Lady, —The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beauti¬ ful verses have given him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could use those -old verses which please me more in their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I ever saw :— “If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand. “My tongue to my mouth’s roof let cleave, If I do thee forget, Jerusalem, and thee above My chief joy do not set.” When I am tempted to do anything improper, I dare not, because I look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. How and then, when I have the* honour to be called to the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by calling to remem¬ brance that I am patronised by the noble house of Glencairn : and at gala-times, such as New-year’s day, a christening, or the kirn- night, when my punchbowl is brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with,— The Countess of Glencairn ! My good woman, with the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries, My Lord! and so the toast goes on until I end with Lady Harriet's little angel ,+■ whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write. When I received your ladyship’s letter, I was just in the act of transcribing for you some verses I have lately composed; and meant to have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those fears were indeed too true; it is a bargain would have ruined me, but for the lucky circumstance of my having an Excise commission. People may talk as they please of the ignominy of the Excise; fifty pounds a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the world; and I would much rather have it * Widow of William, thirteenth Earl of Gflencairn, and mother of the patron of Burns. f Lady Harriet Don was the daughter of Lady Glencairn. 230 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . said that my profession borrowed credit from me than that I bor¬ rowed credit from my profession. Another advantage I have in this business, is the knowledge it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled now that my lord Glencairn’s goodness has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted my noble generous patron; but after acting the part of an honest man, and supporting my family, my whole wishes and views are directed to poetic pur¬ suits. I am aware that though I were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, still, if they were of the same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners, which by far the greatest part of the audi¬ ence can only know at second hand? — I have the honour to be, your ladyship’s ever-devoted and grateful humble servant, R. B. No. CCXLYI. TO JOHN M‘MURDO, ESQ. Dumfries, Dm . 1793. Sin,—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—nor woman either. But for these damned, dirty, dog’s-ear’d little pages,* I had done myself 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 Scots songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will pro¬ bably 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 * Scottish bank-notes. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 231 King’s Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.* R. B. No. CCXLVII. TO JOHN" M'MURDO, ESQ., DRUMLANRIG. Dumfries, 1793. Will Mr M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior, now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust 1 shall ever claim as mine:—to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the ex¬ pense of tkoth.+ The Author. No. CCXLYIII. TO CAPTAIN -.+ Dumfries, Dee . 5,1793. Sir, —Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in my anxiou^ wish to be honoured with your acquaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heartfelt respect. “ He is the father of the Scottish county re¬ form, and is a man who does honour to the business at the same time that the business does honour to him,” said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was talking of your coming to this country with your corps. “ Then,” I said, “ I have a woman’s longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, ‘ Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred.’ ” In times like these, sir, when our commoners are barely able, by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings, to scrawl a frank, and when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking country call for help ? To the independent country gentleman. To him who has too deep a stake in his country * The collection of songs mentioned in this letter are not unknown to the curious in such loose lore. They were printed by an obscure bookseller when death had secured him against the indignation of Burns. It was of such com¬ positions that the poet thus entreated the world—“The author begs whoever into whose hands they may fall, that they will do him the justice not to publish what he himself thought proper to suppress.” t These words are written on the blank leaf of the poet’s works, published in two small volumes in 1793: the handwriting is bold and free—the pen seems to have been conscious that it was making a declaration of independence.— Cunningham. t Not unlikely Captain Robertson, of Lude.— Chambers. 232 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. not to be in earnest for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of man can view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption. I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept of it, sir, as a very humble, but most sincere, tribute of respect from a man who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind.—I have the honour to be, R. B. No. CCXLIX. TO MRS RIDDEL, WHO WAS ABOUT TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE EVENING AT THE DUMFRIES THEATRE. I am thinking to send my “ Address ” to some periodical pub¬ lication, 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, to give us, “The Wonder, a Woman Keeps a Secret!” to which please add, “ The Spoilt 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, assembled train Of fleet ideas, never join’d before, Where lively wit excites to gay surprise; Or folly-painting humour , grave himself, Calls laughter forth, deep-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, R. B. No. CCL. TO A LADY, IN FAVOUR OF A TLAYER’s BENEFIT. Dumfries, 1794. Madam, —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 play a most interesting one —“ The Way to Keep Him.” I have the pleasure to know Mr Gf. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: he is a poor and inodest man; claims which from their very silence have the more forcible GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 233 power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity! that from the indol¬ ence 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 enviable is— to be able “ To wipe away all; tears from all eyes.” Oh, what in¬ significant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their mag¬ nificent 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. R. B. N0. CCLI. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, with a copt op bruce’s address to his troops at bannockburh. Dumfries, Jan. 12, 1794. My Lord, —Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance with which, you have been pleased to honour me ? 1 Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with anything in history which interests my feelings as a man equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest army in Europe, to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured people ; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her. Liberty ! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable ! for never canst thou be too dearly bought! If my little ode has the honour of your lordship’s approbation, it will gratify my highest ambition.— I have the honour to be, &c., R. B. No. CCLII. TO CAPTAIN MILLER, DALSWINTON. Dear Sir, —The following ode * is on a subject which I know you by no means regard with indifference. 0 Liberty, “ Thou mak’st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv’st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.” It does me much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows with the generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, * Bruce’s Address. 234 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. that I could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject, which I really think is in my best manner. I have the honour to be, dear sir, &c., R. B. No. CCLIII. TO MBS RIDDEL.* Dear Madam, —1 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 lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capi¬ tulations 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. Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer 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 respect¬ ful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c., R. B. No. CCLIV. TO THE SAME. I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, 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 wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a damned 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 * The following five letters to Mrs Riddel, and those marked 267-8, evidently relate to the poet’s quarrel with that lady ; but, being without date, Dr Currie has inextricably confused them. Probably No. 249 should be printed first, and the rest after an interval, as well as in a different arrangement.— Chambers. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 235 man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper ! ” If my resentment is awaked, 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. CCLY. TO THE SAME. I have this moment got the song from Syme, 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 anything 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 Woodlee; 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 R. a higher tri¬ bute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her. R. B. No. CCLYI. 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 perhaps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could anything estrange 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 ! R. B. No. CCLYII. TO THE SAME. Madam, —I return your Commonplace 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 I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you, as the most ac¬ complished of women, and the first of friends—if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing alive. 236 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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-las rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stub¬ born 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 abilities; 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 hum¬ ble servant, ft. B.* No. CCLVIII. 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 enclose you a song which I composed 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 acquaint¬ ances, the Oswald family, there is nothing charms me more than Mr Oswald’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 0.? A fine fortune; a pleasing exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright mind, and that informed, too; much beyond the usual run of young fellows of his rank and fortune : and to all this, such a wo¬ man !—but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying any¬ thing adequate: in my song, I 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 per¬ formance, I in my first fervour thought of sending it to Mrs Oswald, 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 ser¬ vility which my soul abhors. B. B. No. CCLIX. TO MISS --. Dumfries, 1704. Madam,— Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just * The offended lady was soothed by this letter, and forgave any offence the poet had given her. f This gentleman held the office of distributor of stamps at Dumfries. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 237 esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in iny breast, as'I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the friend of my soul and his amiable connexions ! the wrench at my heart to think that he has gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world! and the cutting reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, er4 it took its flight! These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish.—However, yoii also may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine; sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. To oppose these prejudices, which have been raised against me, is not the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not hov? to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree cal¬ culate, and against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who c^n estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the un¬ thinking mischief of precipitate folly? 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 contumelious 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 some degree of estimation. With the sincerest esteem, I have the honour to be, madam, &c., E B. * Ho. CCLX. TO MR CUMNIMGHAM. Feb. 26, 1794. Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the 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 ? GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 238 For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incur¬ able taint of hypochondria, which poisons'my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times—losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear—have so irritated me that my feelings at times could not be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would haire been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments which, however the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am con¬ vinced, original and component parts’ of the human soul; those senses of the mind —if I may be allowed the expression—which con¬ nect 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 undiscerning many ; or at the most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything of, and with which they are fools if they give them¬ selves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irre- ligion, 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 en¬ joyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ar¬ dent, glowing heart; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature and through nature up to nature’s God. His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson- GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 239 “These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God.—The rolling year Is full of Thee and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask, what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition—that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and ap¬ proving God. R. B. No. CCLXI. TO THE EAEL OF GLENCAIRN. May 1794. My Lord,— When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and on the titlepage of the book I do myself the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity: he introduced my rustic muse to the par¬ tiality of my country; and to him I owe all. My sense of his good¬ ness, and the anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my respect for the living, (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess not the same dignity of roan which was your noble brother’s characteristic feature,) I had destined a copy for the Earl of Glencaim. I learnt just now that you are in town :—allow me to present it you. I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the world of letters, that professions of respect from an author, par¬ ticularly from a poet to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lord¬ ship’s name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the up¬ rightness of an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however humble—’tis all I have to give—of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, my lord,—’tis ail I have to ask of you— that you will do me the honour to accept of it.—I have the honour to be, R. B. No. CCLXII. TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, ESQ. Dumfries, June 21,1794. My dear Sir,— My long projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two 240 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. or three o’clock. I shall be happy to take a draught of M‘Kune’s best with you. Collector Syme will be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to Ker- roughtree, and let me remind you of your kind promise to accom¬ pany me there; I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your honourables and right honourables.—Yours sincerely, R. B.* No. CCLXIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Castle Douglas, June 25, 1794. Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.—Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard’s favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been so ex¬ ceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken. I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington’s birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus “ Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; "Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immingled with the mighty dead 1 Beneath the hallow’d turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep.” With the additions of “That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, Braved usurpation’s boldest daring! t One quench’d in darkness, like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.” (See Fragment on Liberty, p. 210) You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. R. B. * The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows what is felt about Burns in far distant lands. “ Given to me by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1801. A. Fraser.” “Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Fraser’s widow by me, Thomas Rankine.” “Transmitted to Archibald Hastie, Esq., London: March 27th, 1824, from Bombay.” f Sir William Wallace. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 241 No. CCLXIY. TO MR JAMES JOHNSON. Dumfries, 1794 My dear Friend, —You should have heard from me long ago; hut over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow trees. I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment. I send you by my friend, Mr Wallace, forty-one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish in any other way, what would you think of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of G-lenriddel’s, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks ‘on the songs. A copy of this kind, I shall leave with you, the edi¬ tor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.* I have got a Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it once was the dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad.—Our friend Clarke has done indeed well! ’tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with anything that has pleased me so much. You know I am no connoisseur: but that I am an amateur, will be allowed me. R.B. No. CCLXV. TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., OF DALSWINTON. Dumfries, Nov. 1794 Dear Sir, —Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely ' do I thank you for it; but, in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and family of chil¬ dren, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services : I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued. My prospect in the Excise is something; at least, it is, eneum- * Bnvns’s anxiety with regard to the correctness of his writings was very great. Being questioned as to his mode of composition, he replied. “All my poetry is the effect of easy composition, hut of laborious correction.”— Cromek. 242 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. bered as I am with, the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a- score of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with. In the meantime, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and un¬ known to me. Nay, if Mr Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him a bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of some news¬ paper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr Perry shall be welcome ; and all my reward shall be his treating me with his paper, which, by the by, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.*—With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, dear sir, R. B. No. CCLXVI. TO MR SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN., DUMFRIES. Sunday Morning. Dear Sir, —I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Capt.-made use of to me, had I had nobody’s welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a drunken squabble. Further, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night’s business may be misrepresented in the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mr Burns’s welfare, with the task of waiting, as soon as possible, on every gentle¬ man who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious toast ? “ May our success in the present w T ar be equal to the justice of our cause ” •—a toast that the most outfageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. * In a conversation with his friend Mr Perry, (the proprietor of the Morning Chronicle,) Mr Miller represented to that gentleman the insufficiency of Burns’s salary to answer the imperious demands of a numerous family. In their sym¬ pathy for his misfortunes, and in the'.r regret that his talents were nearly lost to the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed on the plan of settling him in Lon¬ don. To accomplish this most desirable object, Mr Perry, very spiritedly, made the poet a handsome offer of an annual stipend forthe exercise of his talents in his newspaper. Burns’s reasons for refusing this offer are stated in the present letter.—.O kombk. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 243 I request and beg that this morning you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as Mr-, should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done. R. B. No. CCLXVII. TO MRS RIDDEL. SUPPOSES HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE DEAD TO THE LIVING. Dumfries, 1795. Madam, —I daresay that 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, as 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 pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is Recollection, with a whip of 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 my conduct last night so much injured, I think it 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 apology. Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I have to apologise. 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 damned 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 ! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were in¬ voluntary—that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts—that it was not jn my nature to be brutal to any one—that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me—but— 244 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Regret! Remorse ! Shame! ye three hellhounds 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, R. B. No. CCLXVIIL , TO MRS RIDDEL. Dumfries, 1795. Mr Burns’s compliments to Mrs Riddel—is much obliged to her for her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr B. being at present acting as supervisor of Excise, a department that occupies his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs R.’s beautiful song, “ To thee, loved Nith ”— which it so well deserves.* When “ Anacharsis’ Travels ” come to hand, which Mrs Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public library, Mr B. will feel honoured by the indulgence of a perusal of them before presentation : it is a book he has never yet seen, and the regulations of the library allow too little leisure for deliberate reading. Friday Evening. P.S .— Mr Burns will be much obliged to Mrs Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen. Mo. CCLXIX. TO MISS FONTENELLE. Dumfries, 1795. Madam, —In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of our pleasures are positively our benefactors. To you, madam, * In the song alluded to, there are some fine verses :— ‘‘And now your banks and bonnie braes But waken sad remembrance' smart: The very shades I held most dear Now strike fresh anguish to my heart: Deserted bower! where are they now ? Ah! where the garlands that I wove With faithful care—each morn to deck The altars of ungrateful love 1 “ The flowers of spring how gay they bloom’d When last with him I wander’d here, The flowers of spring are pass’d away For wintry horrors dark and drear. Ton osier’d stream, by whose lone banks My songs have lull’d him oft to rest, Is now in icy fetters lock’d— Cold as my false love’s frozen breast.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . *45 on our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would insure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents would insure admiration to the plainest figure. This, madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or interested; I pay it from the same honest im¬ pulse that the sublime of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties give me delight. W ill the foregoing lines * be of any service to you in your ap¬ proaching benefit night ? If they will, I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore: I know they have no great merit; but though they should add but little to the enter¬ tainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of an oppor¬ tunity to declare how much I have the honour to be, &c., R. B. No. CCLXX. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dec. 15,1795. My dear Friend, —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 sympathise 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 terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks: me and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread cloes 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 com¬ petent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency 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— “ 0 that I had ne’er been married, I would never had nae care ; Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, They cry crowdie evermair. * See “Address spoken by Miss JTontenelle,” p. 216 246 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Crowdie ance ; crowdie twice ; Orowdie three times in a day; An ye crowdie ony mair, Ye ’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.” December 24. We have had a brilliant theatre here this season; only, as all other business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical complaint of the country, want of cash. I mentioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows—(See p. 216 .) 25 th, Christmas Morning. This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes; accept mine —so Heaven hear me as they are sincere!—that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author, “ The Man pf Feeling,” “ May the great Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest! ” How 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 ennobles 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 after¬ wards 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 did not care to destroy; I discovered many of these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend’s library. As I wrote always flb you the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, about the commence¬ ment of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. It. B. Ho. CCLXXI. TO MR ALEXAHDER FIHDLATER, SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. Sir, —Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not have troubled you with the collector’s one, but for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr Erskine promised me to make it right, if you will have the goodness to show him how. As T have no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alterations being very considerable from what it was GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 247 formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this scheme I send you, when I come to face up my new books. So much for schemes .— And that no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a stranger ; to seduce a young girl, or rob a hen-roost; to subvert liberty, or bribe an exciseman ; to disturb the general assembly, or annoy a gossiping; to overthrow the credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old songs ; to oppose your wishes, or frustrate my hopes — may prosper —is the sincere wish and prayer of R. B. ¥0. CCLXXII. TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE* Dumfries, 1795. Sir,—Y ou will see by your subscribers’ list that I have been about nine months of that number. I am sorry to inform you that in that time seven or eight of your papers either have never been sent me, or else have never reached me. To be deprived of any one number of the first newspaper in Great Britain for information, ability, and independence, is what I can ill brook and bear; but to be deprived of that most admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, when he made the great, though ineffectual attempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too true) “ to save a sinking state ” —this was a loss that I neither can nor will forgive you.—That paper, sir, never reached me; but I demand it of you. I am a Briton ; and must be interested in the cause of liberty : —-I am a man ; and the rights of human nature cannot be indifferent to me. However, do not let me mislead you: I am not a man in that situation of life which, as your subscriber, can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to whom SITUATION OF life alone is the criterion of man. —I am but a plain tradesman, in this distant, obscure country town: but that humble domicile in which I shelter my wife and children is the Castellum of a Briton ; and that scanty, hard-earned income which supports them is as truly my property as the most magnificent fortune of the most puissant member of your house of nobles. These, sir, are my sentiments; and to them I subscribe my name: and, were I a man of ability and consequence enough to address the public, with that name should they appear.—I am, &c.i* * James Perry, a native of Aberdeen. t “This letter,” saysCromek, “owes its origin to the following circumstance:— A neighbour of the poet at Dumfries called on him and complained that he had been greatly disappointed in the irregular delivery of the Morning Chronicle. Burns asked, ‘ Why do not you write to the editors of the paper V ‘ Good God, sir, can I presume to write to the learned editors of a newspaper?’ ‘Well, if you are afraid of writing to the editors of a newspaper, 1 am not; and, if you think proper, I ’ll draw up a sketch of a letter which you may copy.’ “ Burns tore a leaf from his excise-book, and instantly produced the sketch which I have transcribed, and which is here printed. The poor man thanked him, and took the letter home. However, that caution which the watchfulness R 248 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CCLXXIII. TO COLONEL W. DUNBAR.* I am not gone to Elysiuta, most noble Colonel, but am still here in this sublunary world, serving my God by propagating his image, and honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects. Many happy returns of the season await toy friend ! May the thorns of care never beset his path ! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the bloodhounds of misfortune never trace his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the Bard! Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee! R. B. No. CCLXXIY. TO MR HERON OF HERON. Dumfries, 1795. Sin,—I enclose you some copies of a couple of political ballads; one of which, I believe, you have never seen.f Would to Heaven I could make you master of as many votes in the Stewartry—but— “ Who does the utmost that he can, Does well, acts nobly—angels could no more.” In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have sent them among friends all about the country. To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto which has not only outraged virtue, but violated common decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry iniquity below their daring;—to unmask their flagitiousness to the broadest day—to deliver such over to their merited fate—is surely not merely innocent, but laudable; is not only propriety, but virtue. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule ! I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my inte¬ rests in a letter which Mr Syme showed me. At present, my situa- of his enemies had taught him to exercise prompted him to the prudence of beg¬ ging a friend to wait on the person for whom it was written, and request the iavour to have it returned. This request was complied with, and the paper never appeared in print.” * William Dunbar was an Edinburgh friend of the poet’s; and the title of Colonel here given refers to his position in “the Crochallan Eencibles,” a club of choice spirits. f For these ballads, which related to Mr Heron’s contest for the representation of the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, see p. 484 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 249 tion in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The statement is this—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 0/ course. Then a fbiend 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 hundred and twenty to two hundred a year; but the busi¬ ness is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the col¬ lector’s list; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A colleetorship varies much, from better than two hundred a year, to near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list; and have, besides, a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competency, 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 benevolence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to subscribe myself, R. B. No. CCLXXV. TO MRS DUNLOP, IN LONDON. Dumfries, Dec . 20,1795. 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 this may find you and yours in prospering 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 poetry, sermon or song.—In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publica¬ tion of Scottish songs, which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does over the English. Dec . 29. Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the j capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of j GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE . 250 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 during 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 already I begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening 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 on early days religion strongly impressed on my mind. I 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 foundation 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. Jan. 12. Yotr 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 daresay 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 anybody but Dr Moore.—By the by, 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 my laziness. He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last publication.* R. B. No. CCLXXVI. ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. Sie,—W hile pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with * The novel entitled “Edward.” GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 251 venal approbation, but with fraternal condolence; not as what you are just now, or for some time have been; but as what in all proba¬ bility you will shortly be.—We shall have the merit of not deserting our friends in the day of their calamity, and you will have the satis¬ faction of perusing at least one honest address. You are well ac¬ quainted with the dissection of human nature; nor do you need the assistance of a fellow-creature’s bosom to inform you that man is always a selfish, often a perfidious, being.—This assertion, however the hasty conclusions of superficial observation may doubt of it, or \ the raw inexperience of youth may deny it, those who make the fatal experiment we have done will feel.—You are a statesman, and con¬ sequently are not ignorant of the traffic of these corporation compli¬ ments.—The little great man who drives the borough to market, and the very great man who buys the borough in that market, they two do the whole business; and, you well know, they likewise have their price. With that sullen disdain which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best they are the compliments of a man’s friends on the morning of his execution: they take a decent farewell; resign you to your fate; and hurry away from your approaching hour. If fame say true, and omens be not very much mistaken, you are about to make your exit from that world where the sun of gladness gilds the paths of prosperous men; permit us, great sir, with the sympathy of fellow-feeling, to hail your passage to the realms of ruin. Whether the sentiment proceed from the selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial; but to point out to a child of misfortune those who are still more unhappy is to give him some degree of posi¬ tive enjoyment. In this light, sir, our downfall may be again useful to you :—Though not exactly in the same way, it is not perhaps the first time it has gratified your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly despiteful.—At an age wheq others are the votai’ies of pleasure, or underlings in business, you had attained the highest wish of a British statesman; and with the ordinary date of human life, what a prospect was before you! Deeply rooted in Royal Favour, you overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, which follow ministerial sunshine through every clime of political faith and manners, flocked to your branches; and the beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys,) crowded under your shade. “But behold a watcher, a holy One, came down from heaven, and cried aloud, and said thus : Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches ;”"shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit; let the beasts get away from under it, and the fowls from his branches! ” A blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those terrible accidents which j peculiarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and , laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate.—An ancient nation that for many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle for independence with her much more powerful neighbour, at last agrees to an union which should ever after make them one people. In consideration of 252 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. certain circumstances, it was covenanted that the former should enjoy a stipulated alleviation in her share of the public burdens, particularly in that branch of the revenue called the Excise. This just privilege has of late given great umbrage to some interested, powerful individuals of the-more potent part of the empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what they dared not openly to attack, from the dread which they f yet entertained of the spirit of thteir ancient enemies. In this conspiracy we fell; nor did we alone suffer—our country was deeply wounded. A number of (we will say) respectable indi¬ viduals, largely engaged in trade, where we were not only useful, but absolutely necessary, to our country in her dearest interests; we, with all that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed without remorse to the infernal deity of political expediency! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition. Your foes, sir, were avowed; were too brave to take an ungenerous advantage; you fell in the face of day.—On the con¬ trary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived to make their guilt appear the villany of a nation. Your downfall only drags with you your private friends and partisans : in our misery are more or less involved the most numerous and most valuable part of the community—all those who immediately depend on the cultivation of the soil, from the landlord of a province down to his lowest hind. Allow us, sir, yet further, just to hint at another rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions of adversity; the gratulations of an approving conscience.—In a certain great assembly, of which you are a distinguished member, panegyrics on your private virtues have so often wounded your delicacy that we shall not distress you with anything on the subject. There is, however, one part of your public conduct which our feelings will not permit us to pass in silence; \ our gratitude must trespass on your modesty; we mean, worthy sir, your whole behaviour to the Scots Distillers.—In evil hours,' when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the sense, let that, sir, coma like a healing angel, and speak the peace to your soul which the world can neither give nor take away.—We have the honour to be, sir, your sympathising fellow-sufferers, and grateful humble servants. John Baeleycoen —Prseses* No. CCLXXVII. TO THE HON. THE PROYOST BAILIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL OP DUMFRIES. Gentlemen, —The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably filled the various departments of your schools as to * This ironical address was found among the papers of the poet. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 2 S3 make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones that education I wish, at the high school fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me. Some years ago your good town did me the honour of making me an honorary Burgess.—Will you allow me to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools ? If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your devoted humble servant, R. B.* No. CCLXXVIII. TO MBS RIDDEL. Dumfries, Jan. 20,1796. 1 cannot express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer perusal of “ Anarcharsis.” 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 “ Anarcharsis ” is an indispensable desideratum 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 advertise¬ ments I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanzas I intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. R. B. No. CCLXXIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, Jan. 31,1796. These many months you have been two packets 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 plea¬ sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that * The Provost and Bailies complied at once with the humble request of the poet. f The child died at Mauchline. 254 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. at a distance, too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay tlie last duties to her. I had scarcely begun 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, • And shuts, for ever shuts ! life’s doubtful day.” R. B. No. CCLXXX. TO MRS RIDDEL, WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTHDAY ASSEMBLY OH THAT DAY TO SHOW HIS LOYALTY. Dumfries, June 4,1796. I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt 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 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 to¬ gether do if you can, and oblige lepauvre miserable* R. B. * Mr Cunningham says “This is the last letter which Burns addressed to the beautiful and accomplished Mrs Riddel. In addition to the composition of a very admirable memoir of the poet, that lady bestirred herself much in rousing his friends both in Scotland and England to raise a monument at Dumfries to his memory. She subscribed largely herself: she induced others to do the same, and she corresponded with both Banks and Flaxman on the subject of designs. The following letter will suffice to show the reader that Mrs Riddel had forgiven the bard for all his lampoons, and was earnest in doing his memory honour:”— Richmond, May 20,1799. Sift,—In answer to yours of the 10th of last month, I will trouble you with a few lines on the subject of the bard’s monument, having corresponded with several persons (Dr Currie, &c.) respecting it, whose judgment is very far prefer¬ able to mine, and we all agree that the first tiling to be done is to collect what money can be got for that purpose, in which we will all do what service we can, as soon as the posthumous works are published ; but those who are at all saddled with that business must get it off their hands before they commence another undertaking. Perhaps an application, or at any rate the consulting with Mr Flaxman on the subject of the design, &c., might answer better from and with persons he is already acquainted with, and more heads than one should be called in counsel on the occasion. If, therefore, you or the other gentlemen concerned in this project tiling it proper, I will-talk it over with Mr Flaxman and some other artists, friends of his, whom I know, and Mr F. can than let you GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CCLXXXI. TO MR CLARKE, SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. Dumfries, June 26, 1796. My dear Clarke, —Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the worst. As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself if I were not; but Burns’s poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones—helpless orphans !—there I am weak as a woman’s tear. Enough of this! ’Tis half of my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remem¬ brance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again is, I am afraid, highly improbable. R. B. No. CCLXXXII. TO MR JAMES JOHNSON, EDINBURGH. Dumfries, July 4,1796. How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume ? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me ! Per¬ sonal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. You are a good, worthy honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world—because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given ns, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness know his ideas on the subject. The monument should be characteristic of him to whom it is raised, and the artist must somehow be made acquainted with him and his works, which it is possible he may not be at present. The inscription Should be first rate. I think either Itoscoe or Dr Darwin would contribute their talents for the purpose, and it could not be given into better hands. I have no names to add to your list; but whenever that for the posthumous works is dosed, I will set to work in earnest. Pray remember me to Mr Syme when you see him, from whom, I know not why, I never hear now .—I am. sir, your humble servant, 256 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more important concerns than study¬ ing the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment ! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can. Let me hear from you as soon as convenient.—Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy that to future ages your publication will be the text¬ book and standard of Scottish song and music. I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the, Scots Musical Museum. If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.*—Yours ever, R. B. No. CCLXXXII1. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Brow, Sea-Bathing Quarters, July 7,1796. 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 circle 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 occa¬ sionally 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 thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters—with a wife and five children at home, on £35? I mention 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 grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poete —if I die not of disease, I must perish * In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of wiiich lie was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed, gratuitously, not less than 184 original, altered, and corrected songs! The editor has seen 180 transcribed by his own hand for the Museum.— Cromek. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 257 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 designation of Alex¬ ander Cunningham .Burns. My last was James Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility.—Farewell. E. B. No. CCLXXXIV. TO ME GILBEET BUENS. July 10,1796. Dear Brother, —It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend’s house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children: if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much thought¬ lessness as to expense when I came to town, that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Eemember me to my mother.—Yours, E. B. No. CCLXXXV. TO MES BUENS. Baow,t Thursday. My dearest Loye, —I delayed writing unjtil 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 all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the chil¬ dren. I will see you on Sunday.—Your affectionate husband, E. B. * Mr Cunningham very properly says:—It is truly painful to mention—and with indignation we record it—that the poet’s humble request of the continu¬ ance of his full salary wa3 not granted! “The Commissioners,” says Currie, “were guilty of no such weakness.” To be merciful was no part of their duty. f One evening during Burns’s stay at the Brow, he was visited by two young ladies who lived in the neighbourhood and who sympathised in his sufferings. During their stay, the sun setting on the western hills, threw a strong light upon him through the window : a child perceived this, and proceeded to draw the curtain. “Let me look at the sun, my love,” said the sinking poet ; “ it will be long before he will shine for me again! ” 258 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. No. CCLXXXVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Brow, Saturday, July 12, 1796. Madam, —I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circum¬ stances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that hourn 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 entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!! * R. B. No. CCLXXXVII. TO MR JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE. Dumfries, July 12. My dear Cousin, —When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so-good as to accommo¬ date me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds ? 0 James ! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me ! Alas! I am not used to beg ! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease: guess, then, my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, 0 do not disappoint me : but strong necessity’s curst command. I have been thinking over and over my brother’s affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; -—but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall [require] your advice. * “Burns had, however, the pleasure,” says Currie, “of receiving a satis¬ factory explanation of his friend’s silence, and an assurance 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 letters 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 bo felt that a few of this excellent lady’s epistles have not served to enrich and adorn the collection. The above letter is supposed to be the last production of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st of the month, nine days after¬ wards.” There are, however, others of a date still later. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 259 Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;—save me from the horrors of a jail! My compliments to my friend James, and to alb the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible, I dare notlopk it over again. Farewell.* R. B. t James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds the moment he received his letter, though he could ill spare the money, and concealed his kindness from the world, till, on reading the life and letters of the poet, he was constrained, in support of his own good name, to conceal it no longer. I was informed by my friend, Dr Burness, that his grandfather, now in his eighty-fourth year, was touched by the dubious way in which I had left the subject, in the poet’s life, and felt that he was liable to the imputation of coldness of heart. In a matter of such delicacy, I could not ask the family, and accordingly had left it as I found it, without comment or remark. The following letters will make all as clear as day, and right my venerable friend in a matter respecting which he cannot be but anxious.— Allan Cunningham. TO MR BURNESS, MONTROSE. Sib,—A t the desire of Mrs Bums, I have to acquaint you with the melancholy and much regretted event of your friend’s death. He expired on the morning of the 21st, about five o’clock. The situation of the unfortunate Mrs Burns and her charming boys, your feeling heart can easily paint. It is, however, much to her consolation that a few of his friends, particularly Mr John Syme, col¬ lector of the stamps, and Dr William Maxwell, both gentlemen of the first respectability and connexions, have stepped forward with their assistance and advice; and I think there can be no doubt but that a very handsome provision will be raised for the widow and family. The former of these gentlemen has written to most of the Edinburgh professors with whom either he or Mr Burns were acquainted, and to several other particular friends. You will easily excuse your not having sooner an answer to your very kind letter, with an acknow¬ ledgment of the contents, for, at the time it was received, Mr Burns was totally unable either to write or dictate a letter, and Mrs Burns wished to defer answer¬ ing it till she saw what turn affairs took. I am, with much respect, your most obedient and very humble servant, John Lewabs. Dumfries, July 23, 1796. TO MRS ROBERT BURNS, DUMFRIES. My deab Cousin, —It was with much concern I received the melancholy news of the death of your husband. Little did I expect, when I had the pleasure of seeing you and him, that a change so sudden would have happened. I sincerely sympathise with you in your affliction, and will be very ready to do anything in my power to alleviate it. I am sensible that the education of his family was the object nearest to my cousin’s heart, and I hope you will make it your study to follow up his wish by carefully attending to that object, so far as may be possible for you ; or, if you think of parting with your son Robert, and will allow me to take charge of him, I will endeavour to discharge towards him the duty of a father and educate him with my own sons. I am happy to hear that something is to be done for you and the family; but as that may take some time to carry into effect, I beg you will accept of the enclosed five pounds to supply your present necessities. My friend mentioned to me that any little thing he had was in the hands of his brother Gilbert, and that the payment of it, at present, would be hard upon him ; I have therefore to entreat that, so far as your circumstances will permit, you will use lenity in settling with him. I have further to request that you will offer my best thanks to Mr Lewars for his very friendly letter to me on this melancholy event, with my sincere wishes that such a warm heart as his may never want a friend. 260 general correspondence. No. CCLXXXYIII. TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. Brow, Wednesday Morning, July 16,1796. My dear Sir, —It would [be] doing high, injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great bene¬ fits from it already; but, alas ! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer this week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a tide week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry. So, God bless you. R. B. No. CCLXXXIX. TO JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE* Dumfries, July 18, 1796. My dear Sir, —Do, for Heaven’s sake, send Mrs Armour here immediately. My wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation for her to be in, poor girl, without a friend! I returned from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost persuade me that I am better, but I think and feel that my strength is so gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me.f—Your son-in-law, R. B. I shall be glad to hear of your welfare, and your resolution in regard to your son, and I remain, deai; cousin, your affectionate friend, James Burness. Montrose, July 29,1796. TO MR BURNESS, MONTROSE. Dear Sir, —I was duly favoured with your letter of the 29th July. Your goodness is such as to render it wholly out of my power to make any suitable acknowledgment, or to express what I feel for so much kindness. With regard to my son Robert, I cannot as yet determine; the gentlemen here (particularly Dr Maxwell and Mr Syme, who have so much interested themselves for me and the family) do not wish that I should come to any resolution as to parting with any of them, and I own my own feelings rather incline me to keep them with me. I think they will be a comfort to me, and my most agreeable companions; but should any of them ever leave me, you, sir, would be, of all others, the gentleman under whose charge I should wish to see any of them, and I am perfectly sensible of your very obliging offer. Since Mr Lewars wrote you, I have got a young son, who, as well as myself, is doing well. What you mention about my brother, Mr Gilbert Burns, is what accords with my own opinion, and every respect shall be paid to your advice.—I am, dear sir, with the greatest respect and regard, your very much obliged friend, Dumfries, Aug. 3, 1796. Jean Burns. * The father of Mrs Burns. t This is the last of all the compositions of the great poet of Scotland, being written only three days before his death.— Cunningham. 1834. CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS WITH GEORGE THOMSON. CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS WITH GEORGE THOMSON. In 1792 George Thomson announced the work which was hence¬ forward to associate his,name with that of Robert Burns in the memory of his countrymen ; he entitled it, “ A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs for the Voice : to which are Added, Introduc¬ tory and Concluding Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Pianoforte and Violin, by Pleyel and Koseluck, with Select and Characteristic Verses by the most Admired Scottish Poets.” As Burns was the only poet of the period who could worthily assist him in his ambitious undertaking, he was immediately applied to, and he responded to the call with the utmost enthusiasm. We Bhall allow Mr Thomson to speak for himself as to his own personal history and his connexion with the poet—the latter at one time a Bubject of fierce discussion. The letter we reprint was addressed to Mr Robert Chambers, and first appeared in the “ Land of Burns— “ Trustees’ Office, Edinburgh, March 29, 1838. “ Dear Sir, —To your request that I should furnish you with a few particulars respecting my personal history, I really know not well what to say, because my life has been too unimportant to merit much notice. It is in connexion with national music and song, and my correspondence on that subject with Burns chiefly, that I can have any reasonable hope of being occasionally spoken of. I shall therefore content myself with a brief sketch of what belongs to my personal history, and then proceed to the subject of Scottish music and Burns. “ I was born at Limekilns, in Fife, about the year 1759, as I was informed, for I can scarce believe I am so old. My father taught a school there, and having been invited in that capacity to the town of Banff, he carried me thither in my very early years, instructed me in the elementary branches of knowledge, and sent me to learn the dead languages at what was called the grammar school. He CORRESPONDENCE WITH THOMSON. 263 had a hard struggle to maintain an increasing family, and, after trying some mercantile means of enlarging his income without suc¬ cess, he moved with his family to Edinburgh when I was about seventeen. In a short time I got into a writer to the signet’s office as a clerk, and remained in that capacity with him, and another W.S., till the year 1780, when, through the influence of Mr John Home, author of ‘Douglas/ with one of the members of the Honour¬ able Board of Trustees, I was recommended to that Board, and became their junior clerk. Hot long after, upon the death of their principal clerk, I succeeded to his situation, Mr Robert Arbuthnot being then their secretary; under whom, and afterwards under Sir William, his son and successor, I have served the Board for upwards of half a century; enjoying their fullest confidence, and the entire approbation of both secretaries, whose gentlemanly manners and kind dispositions were such (for I never saw a frown on their brows, nor heard an angry word escape from their lips) that I can say, with heartfelt gratitude to their memory, and to all my superiors, in this the 58th year of my clerkship, that I never have felt the word servitude to mean anything in the least mortifying or unplea¬ sant, but quite the reverse. “ In my twenty-fifth year, I married Miss Miller, whose father was a lieutenant in the 50th Regiment, and her mother the daughter of a most respectable gentleman in Berwickshire, George Peter, Esq., of Chapel, and this was the wisest act of my life. She is happily still living, and has presented me with six daughters and two sons, the elder of the two being now a lieutenant-colonel of Engineers, and the other an assistant-commissary-general. “ From my boyhood I had a passion for the sister arts of music and painting, which I have ever since continued to cherish in the society of the ablest professors of both arts. Having studied the violin, it was my custom, after the hours of business, to con over our Scottish melodies, and to devour the choruses of Handel’s oratorios; in which, when performed at St Cecilia’s Hall, I generally took a part, along with a few other gentlemen, Mr Alexander Wight, one of the most eminent counsel at the bar, Mr Gilbert Innes of Stow, Mr Jphn Russel, W.S., Mr John Hutton, &c.; it being then not uncommon for grave amateurs to assist at the St Cecilia concerts, one of the most interesting and liberal musical institutions that ever existed in Scotland, or indeed in any country. I had so much delight in singing those matchless choruses, and in practising the violin quar¬ tettes of Pleyel and Haydn that it was with joy I hailed the hour when, like the young amateur in the good old Scotch song, I could hie me hame to my Cremona, and enjoy Haydn’s admirable fancies. ‘ I still was pleased where’er I went ; and when I was alone, I screw’d my pegs and pleased myself with John o’ Badenyon/ “ At the St Cecilia concerts I heard Scottish songs sung in a style of excellence far surpassing any idea which I had previously had of their beauty, and that, too, from Italians, Signor Tenducci the one. 264 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS and Signora Domenica Corri the other. Tenducci’s ' I ’ll never leave thee,’ and ‘ Braes o’ Ballenden,’ and the Signora’s ‘ Ewebughts, Marion,’ and ‘ YValy, waly,’ so delighted every hearer, that in the most crowded room not a whisper was to be heard, so entirely did they rivet the attention and admiration of the audience. Tenducci’s singing was full of passion, feeling, and taste; and, what we hear very rarely from singers, his articulation of the words was no less perfect than his expression of the music. It was in consequence of my hearing him and Signora Corri sing a number of our songs so charmingly, that I conceived the idea of collecting all our best melo¬ dies and songs, and of pbtaining accompaniments to them worthy of their merit. “ On examining with great attention the various collections on which I could by any means lay my hands, I found them all more or less exceptionable, a sad mixture of good and evil, the pure and the impure. The melodies in general were without any symphonies to introduce and conclude them ; and the accompaniments (for the piano only) meagre and commonplace:—while the verses united with the melodies were in a great many instances coarse and vulgar, the productions of a rude age, and such as could not be tolerated or sung in good society. “Many copies of the same melody both in print and manuscript, differing more or less from each other, came under my view : and after a minute comparison of copies, and hearing them sung over and over by such of my fair friends as I knew to be most conversant with them, I chose that set or copy of each air which I found the most simple and beautiful. “ For obtaining accompaniments to the airs, and also symphonies to introduce and conclude each air—a most interesting appendage to the airs that had not before graced any of the collections— I turned my eyes first on Pleyel, whose compositions were remark¬ ably popular and pleasing : and afterwards, when I had resolved to extend my work into a complete collection of all the airs that were worthy of preservation, I divided them into different portions, and sent them from time to time to Haydn, to Beethoven, to Weber, Hummell, &c., the greatest musicians then flourishing in Europe. These artists, to my inexpressible satisfaction, proceeded con amove with their respective portions of the work, and in the symphonies, which are original and characteristic creations of their own, as well as in their judicious and delicate accompaniments for the pianoforte, and for the violin, flute, and violoncello, they exceeded my most sanguine expectations, and obtained the decided approval of the best judges. Their compositions have been px-onouneed by the Edinburgh Review to be wholly unrivalled for originality and beauty. “ The poetry became next the subject of my anxious consideration, and engaged me in a far more extensive correspondence than I had ever anticipated, which occupied nearly the whole of my leisure for many years. For, although a small portion of the melodies had WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 265 I long been united with excellent songs, yet a much greater number stood matched'with such unworthy associates as to render a divorce and a, new union absolutely necessary. “ Fortunately for the melodies, I turned my eyes towards Kobert Burns, who no sooner was informed of my plan and wishes, than, with all the frankness, generosity, and enthusiasm which marked his character, he undertook to write whatever songs I wanted for my work; but in answer to my promise of remuneration, he de¬ clared, in the most emphatic terms, that he would receive nothing of the kind. He proceeded with the utmost alacrity to execute what he had undertaken, and from the year 1792 till the time of his death in 1796, I continued to receive his exquisitely-beautiful compositions for the melodies I had sent him from time to time : and, in order that nothing should be wanting which might suit my work, he empowered me to make use of all the other songs that he had written for Johnson’s Scots Musical Museum, &c. My work thus contains above one hundred and twenty of his inimitable songs; besides many of uncommon beauty that I obtained from Thomas Campbell, Professor Smyth, Sir Walter Scott, Joanna Baillie, and other admired poets: together with the best songs of the olden time. “ Upon my publishing the first twenty-five melodies with Pleyel’s symphonies and accompaniments, and songs by different authors, six of Burns’s songs being of the number, (and those six were all I published in his lifetime,) I, of course, sent a copy of this half volume to the poet; and as a mark of my gratitude for his exces¬ sive kindness, I ventured, with all possible delicacy, to send him a small pecuniary present, notwithstanding what he had said on the subject. He retained it after much hesitation, but wrote me (Letter XXIV.) that, if I presumed to repeat it, he would, on the least motion of it, indignantly spurn what was past, and commence entire stranger to me. Who that reads the letter above referred to, and the first one which the poet sent me, can think I have deserved the abuse which anonymous scribblers have poured upon me for not endeavouring to remunerate the poet ? If I had dared to go further than I did, in sending him money, is it not perfectly clear that he would have deemed it an insult, and ceased to write another song for me ? Had I been a selfish or avaricious man, I had a fair opportunity, upon the death of the poet, to put money in my pocket; for I might then have published, for my own behoof, all the beautiful lyrics he had written for me, the original manuscripts of which were in my possession. But instead of doing this, I was no sooner informed that the friends of the poet’s family had come to a resolution to collect his works, and to publish them for the benefit of the family, and that they thought it of importance to include my MSS., as being likely, from their number, their novelty, and beauty, to prove an attraction to subscribers, than I felt it at once my duty to put them in possession of all the songs and of the correspondence between 266 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS the poet and myself, and accordingly, through Mr John Syme of Ryedale, I transmitted the whole to Dr Currie, who had been pre¬ vailed on, immensely for the advantage of Mrs Burns and her chil¬ dren, to take on himself the task of editor. “ For thus surrendering the manuscripts, I received both ver¬ bally and in writing, the warm thanks of the trustees for the family, Mr John Syme and Mr Gilbert Burns; who considered what I had done as a fair return for the poet’s generosity of conduct to me. “ If anything more were wanting to set me right, with respect to the, anonymous calumnies circulated to my prejudice in regard to the poet, I have it in my power to refer to a most respectable testimonial which, to my very agreeable surprise, was sent me by Professor Josiah Walker, one of the poet’s biographers : and, had I not been reluctant to obtrude myself on the public, 1 should long since have given it publicity. The professor wrote me as follows :—• “ ‘ Perth, April 14, 1811. “ ‘ Dear Sir, —Before I left Edinburgh, I sent a copy of my account of Burns to Lord Woodhouselee; and since my return I have had a letter from his lordship, which, among other passages, contains one that I cannot withhold from you ! He writes thus : —“ I am glad that you have embraced the occasion which lay in your way of doing full justice to Mr George Thomson, who, I agree with you in thinking, was most harshly and illiberally treated by an anonymous dull calumniator. I have always regarded Mr Thom¬ son as a man of great worth and most respectable character : and I have every reason to believe that poor Burns felt himself as much indebted to his good counsels and active friendship as a man, as the public is sensible he was to his good taste and judgment as a critic!” “ ‘ Of the unbiassed opinion of such a highly respectable gentleman and accomplished scholar as Lord Woodhouselee, I certainly feel not a little proud: it is of itself more than sufficient to silence the calumnies by which I have been assailed, first, anonymously, and afterwards, to my great surprise, by some writers who might have been expected to possess sufficient judgment to see the matter in its true light. ‘ G. T.’ ” “ To this letter of my excellent friend, Mr Thomson,” says Cham¬ bers, “little can be added. His work, the labour of his lifetime, has long been held the classical depository of Scottish melody and song, and is extensively known. His own character, in the city where he has spent so many years, has ever stood high. It was scarcely necessary that Mr Thomson should enter into a defence of himself against the inconsiderate charges which have been brought against him. “ When Burns refused remuneration from one whom he knew to be, like himself, of the generation of Apollo, rather than of Plutus, WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 267 and while his musical friend was only entering upon a task, the re¬ sults of which no one could tell, how can Mr Thomson be fairly blamed? “ If a moderate success ultimately crowned his enterprise and toil —and the success has probably been much more moderate than Mr Thomson’s assailants suppose —long after the poor bard was beyond the reach of money and all superior consolations, who can envy it, or who can say that it offers any offence to the manes of the un- happy poet ? The charge was indeed never preferred but in ignor¬ ance, and would be totally unworthy of notice, if ignorant parties were still apt to be imposed upon by it.” No. I. G. THOMSON TO BUENS. Edinburgh, September 1792. Sir, —For some years past I have, with a friend or two, em¬ ployed many leisure houi'3 in selecting and collating the most favourite of our national melodies for publication. We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to put ac¬ companiments to these, and also to compose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both public and private. To render this work perfect we are desirous to have the poetry improved wherever it seems unworthy of the music; and that it is so in many instances is allowed by every one conversant with our musical collections. The editors of these seem in general to have depended on the music proving an excuse for the verses; and hence some charming melodies are united to mere nonsense and doggerel, while others are accommodated with rhymes, so loose and indelicate as cannot be sung in decent com¬ pany. To remove this reproach would be an easy task to the author of the “ Cotter’s Saturday Night; ” and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present the public with a collec¬ tion infinitely more interesting than any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of taste, whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate accompaniments, or characteristic verses.—We will esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to demand for it.— Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are re¬ solved to spare neither pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me frankly, then, whether you will devote your leisure to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular melodies which I am prepared to send you. A few songs, exceptionable only in some of their verses, I will likewise submit to your consideration ; 268 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS leaving it to you either to mend these, or make new songs in their stead. It is superfluous to assure you that I have no intention to displace any of the sterling old songs; those only will be removed which appear quite silly, or absolutely indecent. Even these shall he all examined by Mr Burns, and, if he is of opinion that any of them are deserving of the music, in such cases no divorce shall take place. Relying on the letter accompanying this, to be forgiven for the liberty I have taken in addressing you, I am, with great esteem, sir, you most obedient humble servant, G. Thomson. Mo. II. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Dumfries, 1 6th Sept. 1792. Sir,—I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying ' with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with all the small por¬ tion of abilities I have strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm.—Only, don’t hurry me: “Deil tak the hind¬ most ” is by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance—will you let me have a list of your airs with the first line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an opportunity of suggesting any altera¬ tion. that may occur to me? You know ’tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers to approve or reject at your pleasure for your own publication.—Apro¬ pos ! if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible. *Tweedside!”—“Ah ! the poor shepherd’s mournful fate!”—“Ah! Chloris, could I'now but sit,” &c., you cannot mend; but such insipid stuff as “ To Fanny fair could I impart,” &c., usually set to “ The Mill, Mill, 0 ! ” is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already appeared, a!nd would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the fur¬ ther prosecution of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments—I say amendments; for I will not alter except where I myself at least think that I amend. As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price : for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c., would be downright prostitu WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 2<5 9 tion* of soul! A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. In’the rustic phrase of the season, “ Gude speed the wark ! ”—I am, sir, your very humble servant, R. Burns. P.S .—I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be known as little as possible. No. in. . G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Oct . 13,1792. Dear Sir, —I received with much satisfaction your pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm with which you have entered into our undertaking. We have now no doubt of being able to produce a collection highly deserving of public attention in all-respects. I agree with you in thinking English verses that have merit very eligible wherever new verses are necessary; because the English becomes every year more and more the language of Scotland; but if you mean that no English verses except those by Scottish authors ought to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from you. I should consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to make room for English verses; but if we can select a few excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such merely because the authors were bom south of the Tweed ? Our sweet air, “ My Nannie, O,” which in the collections is joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, “ While some for pleasure pawn their health,” answers so finely to Dr Percy’s beautiful song, “ 0 Nancy, wilt thou go with me ? ” that one would think he wrote it on purpose for the air. However, it is not at all our wish to confine you to English verses: you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegantly express it; and moreover we will patiently await your own time. One thing only I beg, which is, that however gay and sportive the muse may be, she may always be decent. Let her not write what beauty would blush to speak, nor wound that charming delicacy which forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the song to be the most proper vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits: simplicity, 1 believe, should be its prominent feature; but in some of our songs the writers have confounded simplicity' with coarseness and vulgarity; although between the one and the other, as Dr Beattie ■well observes, there is as great a difference as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or * We have been informed that Burns marked his loathing of remuneration by the use of even a stronger term than this, which was substituted by the original editor.— Chambers. 270 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS pathetic complaint, is best suited to our artless melodies; and more interesting, indeed, in all songs, than the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. With these trite observations, I send you eleven of the songs for which it is my wish to substitute.others of your writing. I shall soon transmit the rest, and at the same time a prospectus of the whole collection; and you may believe we will receive any hints that you are so kind as to give for improving the work with the greatest pleasure and thankfulness.—I remain, dear sir, &c., G. Thomson. No. IY. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Friday Night. My dear Sir, —Let me tell you that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have, all but one, the faults you remark in them; but who shall mend the matter ? Who shall rise up and say—Go to, I will make a better ? For instance, on reading, over “ The Lea-Rig,” I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough :—[See “ My ain kind dearie, O,” p. 407.] Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr Percy’s ballad to the air, “ Nannie', 0,” is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs there is a pastoral sim¬ plicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) that my ballad of “ Nannie, O ! ” might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don’t let it enter into your head that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased or offended at in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assi¬ duity. In the printed copy of my “ Nannie, 0,” the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it—• “Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.” Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 271 I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; hut I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments to honest Allan, Gude be wi’ ye, &c., R. B. Saturday Morning. As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my, conveyance goes away, I will give you “ Nannie, 0 ! ” at length. Your remarks on “Ewe-bughts, Marion,” are just; still it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs; and, what with many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it. In iny very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. [See “ Will you go to the Indies, my Mary?” p. 323.] It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of “Ewe-bughtsbut it will fill up this page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in aftertimes to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. “ Gala Water,” and “ Auld Rob Morris,” I think, will most pro¬ bably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opinidtrete, but cordi¬ ally to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. No. Y. BURNS TO'G. THOMSON. Nov. 8 , 1792 . If you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythm us in many of our airs^ and a necessity for adapt¬ ing syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuper¬ able difficulties. For instance, in the air, “ My wife’s a wanton wee thing,” if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following [“My wife’s a winsome wee thing,” p. 407] were made extempore to it; and though, on further study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink. I have just been looking over the “ Collier’s Bonny Dodder;” 272 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie (afterwards Mrs Cuming of Logie) as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the “ Collier Lassie,”—fall cn and welcome. [See “ Bonnie Lesley,” p. 392.] I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. How¬ ever, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishcnour. —Farewell, &c., R. B. No. YI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Nov. 14,1792. My dear Sir, — I agree with you that the song, “ Katherine Ogie,” is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it; but the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing senti¬ ment into the piece. The foregoing song [“Highland Mary,” p. 408] pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner: you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, ’tis the still glow¬ ing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition. I have partly taken your idea of “ Auld Rob Morris.” I have adopted the first two verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, saws ceremonie, make what use you choose of the productions. —Adieu, &c., R. B. No. YII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. Dear Sir, — I was j ust going to write to you, that on meeting with your Nannie, I had fallen violently in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the charming rustic to me in the dress you wish her to appear before the public. She does you great credit, and will soon be admitted into the best company. I regret that your song for the “ Lea-Rig ” is so short; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleasing: so that, if the singer stops at the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well possessed. Although a dash of our native tongue and manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 273 able to present a considerable number of the very Flowers of Eng¬ lish Song, well adapted to these melodies, which, in England at least, will be the means of recommending them to still greater attention than they have procured there. But, you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall in the first place have verses wholly by Scottish poets; and that those of English writers shall follow as additional songs, for the choice of the singer. What you say of the “ Ewe-bughts ” is just; I admire it, and never meant to supplant it.—All I requested was, that you would try your hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are apparently no part of the original song; but this I do not urge, because the song is of sufficient length, though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. You must not think I ex¬ pect all the songs to be of superlative merit: that were an unreason¬ able expectation. I am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed well, at all times. I am highly pleased with your humorous and amorous rhapsody on “Bonnie Lesley;” it is a thousand times better than the “ Collier’s Lassie.” “ The deil he cou’d na scaith thee,” &c., is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you not think, however, that the names of such old heroes as Alexander sound rather queer, unless in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? Instead of the line, “ And never made anitlier,” I would humbly suggest, “ And ne’er made sic anither,” and I would fain have you substitute some other line for “ Return to Caledonie,” in the last verse, because I think this alteration of the orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. Of the other song—“ My wife’s a winsome wee thing,” I think the first eight lines very good: but I do not admire the other eight, because four of them are a bare repetition of the first verse. I have been trying to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better than the following: do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love- letter, whip it up in your own way:— O leeze me on my wee thing, My toonnie blithesome wee thing; Sae lang ’s I hae my wee thing, I’ll think my lot divine. Though warld’s care we share o’t, And may see meikle mail* o’t, Wi’ her I’ll blithely bear it, And ne’er a word repine. You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself of the liberty, which you condescend to allow me, by speaking freely what I think. Be as¬ sured, it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of any poem or picture I see : my first and chief object is to discover and be de¬ lighted with the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, what, perhaps, you have written in haste, I may happen to observe careless lines, the re-perusal of which might lead you to improve them. The wren will often see what has been overlooked by the eagle.—I remain yours faithfully, &e., Gr. T. 274 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS P.S. —Your verses upon “ Highland Mary” are just come to hand; they breathe the genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever. Such verses, united to such an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story of your Mary: you always seem inspired when you write of her. Ho. VIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Dumfries, Dec. 1,1792. Youk alterations of my “ Nannie, 0,” are perfectly right. So are those of “My wife’s a winsome wee thing.” Your alteration of the second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear sir, with the freedom which characterises our correspondence, I must not, cannot, alter “ Bonnie Lesley.” You are right, the word “Alexander” makes the line a little uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that “ he went forth conquering and to conquer.” ‘ 1 Eor nature made her what she is, And never made anither.” (Such a person as she is.) This is, in my opinion, more poetical than “ne’er made sic ani¬ ther.” However, it is immaterial: make it either way. “ Caledonie,” I agree with you, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. The “Lea-Rig” is as follows.—(Here the poet repeats the first two stanzas, and adds an additional one.) I am interrupted.—Yours, &c. No. IX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. December 4,1792. The foregoing [“ Auld Rob Morris,” p. 409, and “ Duncan Gray,” p. 409J I submit, my dear sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them, or condemn them, as seemeth good in your sight. “ Duncan Gray ” is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. No. X. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Jan. 1793. Many returns of the season to-you, my dear sir. How comes on your publication ? will these two foregoing [“ 0 poortith, cauld, WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 275 and restless love,” p. 422, and “ Gala Water,” p. 423] be of any service to you ? I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade may sug¬ gest useful hints that escape men of much superior parts and en¬ dowments in other things. If you meet with my dear and much-valued Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the compliments of the season.—Yours, &c. No. XI. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Jan. 20,1793. You make me happy, my dear sir, and thousands will be happy to see the charming songs you have sent me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and may you long continue, among the sons and ' daughters of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour yourself. The last four songs with which you favoured me, viz., “ Auld Rob Morris,” “ Duncan Gray,” “ Gala Water,” and “ Cauld Kail,” are admirable. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to everybody. The distracted lover in “ Auld Rob,” and the happy shepherdess in “ Gala Water,” exhibit an excellent contrast: they speak from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. The number of songs which I had originally in view was limited; but I now resolve to include every Scotch air and song worth singing; leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to which the publishers of omnium-gatheram are welcome. I would rather be the editor of a collection from which nothing could be taken away, than of one to which nothing could be added. W T e intend presenting the sub¬ scribers with two beautiful stroke engravings; the one characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of the lively, songs; and I have Dr Beattie’s promise of an essay upon the subject of our national music, if his health will permit him to write it. As a number of our songs have doubtless been called forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless damsels, there must be many curious anec¬ dotes relating to them. The late Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee, I believe, knew more of this than anybody; for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary a taste for poetry, besides being a man of the world, and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say it has been solely managed by me, and we had several long conversations about it when it was in embryo. If I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each song, and the incident which occasioned the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, will you send me any information of this sort, as well with regard to your own songs, as the old ones ? 27 6 , CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral kind, will he joined the delicate accompaniments, &c., of Pleyel. To those of the comic and humorous class, I think accompaniments scarcely neces¬ sary; they are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the woods, ren¬ ders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I propose adding ba3s accompaniments, because then they are fitted either for singing, or for instrumental performance, when there happens to be no singer. I mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr Clarke, to set the bass to these, which he assures me he will do con amove, and with much greater attention than he ever bestowed on anything of the kind. But for this last class of airs I will not attempt to find more than one set of verses. That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started I know not how many difficulties about writing for the airs I sent to him, because of the peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one I have yet got from him, being for the fine air “ Lord Gregory.” The Scots verses, printed with that air, are taken from the middle of an old ballad, called “The Lass of Lochroyan,” which I do not admire. I have set down the air, therefore, as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour: might not the best of these be included in our volume of comic songs ? POSTSCRIPT. FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. Me Thomson has been so obliging as to give me a perusal of your songs. “ Highland Mary ” is most enchantingly pathetic, and “Duncan Gray ” possesses native genuine humour : “ Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn,” is a line of itself that should make you im¬ mortal. I sometimes hear of you from our mutual friend Cun¬ ningham, w T ho is a most excellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of your unpub¬ lished productions, religious and amorous; I know from experi¬ ence how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever' money he asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall not betray your confidence.-—I am, your hearty admirer, Andrew Erskine. No. XII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Jan. 28, 1793. _ I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. Dr Beattie’s 1 essay will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 277 up an appendix to the Doctor’s essay, containing my stock of anec¬ dotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr Tytler’s anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast that, in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, “ Lochaber” and the “Braes of Ballenden ” excepted. So far as the locality either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but w r ould it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, particularly “ The sow’s tail to Geordie,” as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs ? If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phra¬ seology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever. The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His “ Gregory ” is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. [See the ballad of “ Lord Gregory,” p. 424.] Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon. R. B. No. XIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. March 20,1793. My dear Sir, —The song prefixed [“ Mary Morison”] is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impos¬ sible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. Wliat is become of the list. See., of your songs? I shall be out of all temper witlvyou by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else. R. B. 278 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. XIY. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, April 2,1793. I will not recognise the title you give yourself, “ the prince of indolent correspondents;” but if the adjective were taken away, I think the title would then fit you exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes with respect to most of the songs: these will be a literary curiosity. I now send you my list of the songs, which I believe will be found nearly complete. I have put down the first lines of all the English songs which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you, better adapted to the character of the airs, pray mention them, when you favour me with your strictures upon everything eJSS^relating to the work. Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with his sympho¬ nies and accompaniments added to them. I wish you were here, that I might serve up some of them to you with your own verses, by way of desert after dinner. There is so much delightful fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the accompani¬ ments—they are, indeed, beyond all praise. I am very much pleased with the several last productions of your muse: your “ Lord Gregory,” in my estimation, is more interest¬ ing than Peter’s, beautiful as his is. Your “Here awa, Willie,” must undergo some alterations to suit the air. Mr Erskine and I have been conning it over : he will suggest what is necessary to make them a fit match. The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased, both with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has already written four songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send for your perusal. G. T. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. April 7,1793. Thank you, my dear sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to bal¬ lads, your book, &c., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby¬ horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby’s; so I ’ll e’en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post!) and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, “ Sae merry as we a’ hae been,” and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be “ Good night, and joy be wi’ you a’!” So much ( WITH GEORGE THOMSON. ' 279 for my last words: now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at random on looking over your list. The first lines of “ The last time I came o’er the moor,” and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion—pardon me, revered shade of Rafnsay ! the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. “For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,” is a charmiug song; but “ Logan Burn and Logan Braes” are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I’ll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may clas3 among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of “Logan Water” (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty:— “Now my dear lad maun face his faes, Tar, far frae me and Logan braes.” “ My Patie is a lover gay ” is unequal. “ His mind is never muddy, ” is a muddy expression indeed. “Then I’ll resign and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony I ” This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, “Rigs of Barley,” to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can mend it and thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. “ The Lass o’ Patie’s Mill ” | is one of Ramsay’s best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend, Mr Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair’s Statistical volumes are two claims; one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The following anec¬ dote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe:— Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out to¬ gether, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irvine Water, still called “ Patie’s Mill,” where a bonnie lass was “tedding hay, bareheaded, on the green.” My lord observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. “ One day I heard Mary say,” is a fine song; but, for consistency’s sake, alter the name “Adonis.” Were there ever such banns pub¬ lished as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary ? I agree with you that my song, “ There's nought but care on every hand,” is much superior to “ Poortith cauld.” The original song, “ The Mill, Mill, O,” though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inad¬ missible ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. “ The banks of the Dee ” is, you know, literally, 280 correspondence of burns “ Langolee,” to slow time. The song is well enough, but has come false imagery in it; for instance, ‘ 1 And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.” In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a night¬ ingale seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always com¬ paratively flat. If I could hit on another stanza, equal to “ The small birds rejoice,” &c. I do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. “John Anderson, my Jo,” the song to this tune in Johnson’s Museum is my composition, and I think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very complete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are “ Tullochgorum,” “ Lumps o’ puddin’,” “Tibbie Fowler,” and several others, which, in my humble judg¬ ment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one senti¬ mental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl’s singing. It is called “ Craigieburn Wood;” and in the opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scot¬ tish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. “ Shepherds, I have lost my love !” is to me a heavenly air—what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a good while ago, but in its original state it is not quite a lady’s song. I enclose an altered, not amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow. Mr Erskine’s songs are all pretty, but his “ Lone Vale” is divine. —Yours, &c., R. B. Let me know just how you like these random hints. No. XVI. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, April 1793. I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that balladmaking continues to be your hobbyhorse.—Great pity ’twould be were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away for many a year, and “witch the world with your horsemanship.” I know there are a good many lively songs of merit that I have not put down in the list sent you; but I have them all in my eye.—“ My Patie is a lover gay,” though a little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing song, and I humbly think we ought not to dis¬ place or alter it; except the last stanza- WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 281 No. XVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. April 1793. I have yours, my dear sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your former letter in my desultory way of saying whatever comes uppermost. The business of many of our tunes, wanting at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. “ There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander through the blooming heather,” you may alter to “ Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, Ye wander,” &c. My song, “ Here awa, there awa,” as amended by Mr Erskine, I entirely approve of, and return you. Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know.I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad; I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces : still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr W. proposes doing with “ The last time I came o’er the moor.” Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own; but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house,—by Heaven, ’twould be sacrilege ! I grant that Mr W.’s version is an improvement; but I know Mr W. well, and esteem him much; let him mend the song as the Highlander mended his gun : he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. I do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in “ The Lass o’ Patie’s Mill” must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if' we can take the same liberty with “ Corn rigs are bonnie.” Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. “ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ” you must leave with me yet a while. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, “ Poortith cauld and restless love.” At anyrate, my other song, “ Green grow the Rashes ” will never suit. That song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name; which, of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm. 282 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS I send a song on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit “ Bonnie Dundee.” I send you also a ballad to the “ Mill, Mill, 0.” “ The last time I came o’er the moor ” I would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay’s be the English set. You shall hear 4 from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly; but your learned lugs would per¬ haps be displeased with the very feature for which X like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air, called “ Jackie Hume’s Lament ? ” I have a song of con¬ siderable merit to that air. I ’ll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson’s Museum. I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce .—Adieu ! R. B. Ho. XVIII BURNS TO Gr. THOMSON. April 1793. My dear Sir,— I had scarcely put my last letter into the post- office, when I took up the subject of “ The last time I came o’er the moor,” and ere I slept drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other, occa¬ sion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is flattered when you give my songs a place in your elegant and superb work; but to be of service to the work is my first wish. As I have often told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine. One hint let me give you—whatever Mr Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that very eccen¬ tricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect. R. B. No. XIX. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edixbuhgh, April 26,1793. I heartily thank you, my dear sir, for your last two letters, and the songs which accompanied them. I am always both instructed and entertained by your observations; and the frankness with which you speak out your mind is to me highly agreeable. It -is very pos¬ sible I may not have the true idea of simplicity in composition. I confess there are several songs, of Allan Ramsay’s for example, WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 283 that I think silly enough, which another person, more conversant than I have been with country people, would perhaps call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes of simple nature will not please generally, if copied precisely as they are. The poet, like the, painter, must select what will form an agreeable, as well as a natural' picture. On this subject it were easy to enlarge; but at present suffice it to say that I consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a most essen¬ tial quality in composition, and the groundwork of beauty in all the arts. I will gladly appropriate your most interesting new ballad, “ When wild war’s deadly blast,” &c., to the “ Mill, Mill, 0,” as well as the two other songs to their respective airs; but the third and fourth lines of the first verse must undergo some little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! With the airs which he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as he pleases, but that has nothing to. do with the songs. P./S .—I wish you would do as you proposed with your “ Bigs of Barley.” If the loose sentiments are thrashed out of it, I will find an air for it; but as to this there is no hurry. G. T. No. XX. BUBNS TO G. THOMSON. June 1793. Wheu I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads. My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling: but the total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to your last commands. I cannot alter the disputed lines in the “ Mill, Mill, 0.” What you think a defect, I esteem as a positive beauty: so you see how doctors differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands. You know Fraser, the hautboy player in Edinburgh—he is here, instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this country. Among many of his airs that please me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the name of “ The Quaker's Wife,” and which I remember a grandaunt of mine used to sing, by the name of “ Liggeram Cosh, my bonny wee lass.” Mr Fraser plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, whiph I here sub¬ join, and enclose Fraser’s set of the tune. [See “ Blithe hae I been,” p. 429.] If they hit your fancy they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson’s Museum. I think the song is not in my -worst manner. I should wish to hear how this pleases you. B. B. 284 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. XXI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. June 25,1793. Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble pas¬ sions? In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air of “ Logan Water,” and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public de¬ stroyer ; and overwhelmed with private distress, the consequence of a country’s ruin. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit:—[“ Logan Braes,” p. 430.] Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wither¬ spoon’s collection of Scots song3 ? Air —“ Hughie Graham.” “ Oh gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa’; And I mysel a drap o’ dew, Into her bonny breast to fa’! “Oh, there beyond expression blest, I’d feast on beauty a’ the night; Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Tillfley’d awa by Phoebus’ light.” This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess; but, if worthy of insertion at all they might be first in place; as every poet, who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke :— Oh were my love yon lilac fair Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I would sing on wanton wing. When youtlifu’ May its bloom renew’d. R. B. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 285 No. XXII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Monday , July 1, 1793. I am extremely sorry, my good sir, that anything should happen to unhinge you. The times are terribly out of tune, and when harmony will be restored, Heaven knows. The first book of songs, just published, will be despatched to you along with this. Let me be favoured with your opinion of it, frankly and freely. I shall certainly give a place to the song you have written for the “Quaker’s "Wife;” it is quite enchanting. Pray will you return the list of songs, with such airs added to it as you think ought to be included. The business now rests entirely on myself, the gentle¬ man who originally agreed to join the speculation having requested to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot be. The superior excel¬ lence of the work will create a general demand for it, as soon as it is properly known. And, were the sale even slower than it promises to be, I should be somewhat compensated for my labour by the pleasure I shall receive from the music. I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite new songs you are sending me; but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it afterwards, when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven ! if you do, our correspondence is at an end : and, though this would be no loss to you, it would mar the publication, which, under your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable and interest¬ ing. Wednesday Morning. I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the old frag¬ ment, and for your excellent song to “ Logan Water: ” Thomson’s truly elegant one will follow for the English singer. Your apos¬ trophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks it. G. T. No. XXIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. _ July 2,1793. My dear Sir, —I have just finished the following ballad:— [“ There was a lass, and she was fair,” p. 431,] and, as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. Mr Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs Burns’s woodnote wild, is very fond of it; and has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a place 286 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS in your collection, please return it. The song you may keep, as I re¬ member it. I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean the name at full; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. The heroine of the foregoing is Mis3 M-, daughter to Mr M-■, of D-, one of your subscribers. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager. R. B. No. XXIY. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. July 1793. I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to re¬ turn it would savour of affectation; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear, by that Honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns’s Integrity— on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you! Burns’s character for generosity of sentiment and independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which the cold un¬ feeling ore can supply: at least, I will take care that such a char¬ acter he shall deserve. Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written : only your partiality to me has made you say too much : however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps con¬ tradictory. “ The Flowers o’ the Forest” is charming as a poem; and should be, and must be, set to the notes, but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas, beginning “I liae seen the smiling o’ fortune beguiling,” are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author of them, who is au old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs Cockburn; I forget of what place; but from Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is “O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, Why, why torment us—poor sons of a day! ” The old ballad, “ I wish I were where Helen lies,” is silly to con- 1 temptibility. My alteration of it in Johnson is not much better. I Mr Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of WITH GEORGE THOMS OH. sS 7 them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations,—but no matter. In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have com¬ mitted your character and fame; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters oe Taste —all whom poesy can please, or music charm. Being a bard of Nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm that your great-grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest pride, “ This so much admired selection was the work of my an¬ cestor ! ” No. XXV. . G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, August 1, 1793. Dear Sir,—I had the pleasure of receiving your last two letters, and am happy to find you are quite pleased with the appearance of the first book. When you come to hear the songs sung and accompanied, you will be charmed with them. “The Bonny Brocket Lassie” certainly deserves better verses, and I hope you will match her. “ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,” “ Let me in this ae night,” and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse’s leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts: besides, you’ll notice that, in airs of this sort, the singer can always do greater justice to the poet than in the slower airs of “The bush aboon Traquair,” “Lord Gregory,” and the like; for, in the manner the latter are frequently sung, you must be contented with the sound without the sense. Indeed, both the airs and words are dis¬ guised by the very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which they are too often performed: they lose animation and expression alto¬ gether, and instead of speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawning ! Your ballad, “ There was a lass, and she was fair,” is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubtedly grace my collection. G. T. No. XXYI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August 1793. Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages in my song of “ Logan Water,’’ is right in one instance; but it is difficult to mend it; if I can I will. The other massage you object to does not appear in the same light to me. 288 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS I have tried my hand on “ Robin Adair,” [See “Phillis the Fair,” p. 432,] and, you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it. So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I always find myself most at home. I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for “Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.” If it suits you to insert it, 1 shall be pleased, as the heroine is a favourite of mine: if not, I shall also be pleased; because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. ’Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself. R. B. No. XXVII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. August 1793. My good Sir, —I consider it one of the most agreeable cir¬ cumstances attending this publication of mine that it has procured me so many of your much-valued epistles. Pray make my acknow¬ ledgments to St Stephen for the tunes : tell him I admit the just¬ ness of his complaint on my staircase conveyed in his laconic postscript to your jew d’esprit ; which I perused more than once, without discovering exactly whether your discussion was music, astronomy, or politics : though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and the musician, offered me a bet, of two to one, you were just drowning care together; that an empty bowl was the only thing that would deeply affect you, and the only matter you could then study how to remedy ! I shall be glad to see you give “ Robin Adair ” a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with an English suit for a change, and you are well matched together. Robin’s air is excellent, though he cer¬ tainly has an out of-the-way measure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the concluding objectionable verses of “ Down the burn, Davie,” so that this most exquisite song may no longer be excluded from good company. Mr Allan has made an inimitable drawing from your “ John Anderson, my Jo,” which I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to the humorous class of songs; you will be quite charmed with it, I promise you. The old couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs Anderson, in great good-humour, is clapping John’s shoulders, while he smiles and looks at her with such glee as to show that he fully recollects the pleasant days and nights when they were “ first acqusnt.” The drawing would do honour to the pencil of Teniers. G. T. WITH GEORGE THOMS OH. 289 No. XXVIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. , August 1793. | That crinkum-crankum tune “Robin Adair” has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ven¬ tured, in this morning’s walk, one essay more. You, my dear sir, will remember»an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham’s |. story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as follows :—[See f “ Had I a cave,” p. 433] By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadal- bane’s Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well remembers his mother’s singing Gaelic songs to both “ Robin Adair” and “ Gramachree.” They certainly have more of the Scotch than the Irish taste in them. This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness; so it could not be any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them;—except, I what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go frequently errant through the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, aud so some favourite airs might be common to both. A case in point—they have lately, in Ire¬ land, published an Irish air, as they say, called “Caun du delish.” The fact is, in a publication of Corn’s a great while ago, you will find the same air, called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is “ Oran Gaoil,” and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the reverend Gaelic parson,* about these matters. R. B. No. XXIX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August 1793. My dear Sir,— “ Let me in this ae night ” I will re consider. I am glad that you are pleased- with my song, “ Had I a cave,” &c., as I liked it myself. I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the Museum in my hand; when, turning up “Allan Water,” “What numbers shall the muse repeat,” &c., as the words appeared to me'rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, i I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. [See “ By Allan stream,” p. 433-] I may be wrong; but I think it not in my worst style. You must know, 1 that in Ramsay’s “ Tea Table,” u'here the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is “Allan Water;” or, “My love Annie’s very bonny.” This last has certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the idea, and, as you will * The Gaelic parson referred to was the Rev. Joseph Robertson Macgregor. 290 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS see, have introduced the line in its place, which, I presume, it for¬ merly occupied; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. Bravo ! say I: it is a good song. Should you think so too, (not else,) you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than all the year else.—God bless you ! ■ R. B. No. XXX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August 1793. Is “ Whistle, and I ’ll come to you, my lad,” one of your airs* I admire it much; and yesterday I set the following verses to it. [See “ Oh, whistle, and I ’ll come to you, my lad,” p. 434.] Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires tne air much; but, as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. However, if the song does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in my eye is in Johnson’s Museum. Another favourite air of mine is, “ The muckin’ o’ Geordie’s byre.” When sung slow, with expression, I have wished that it had had better poetry: that I have endeavoured to supply, as follows. [See “Adown winding Nith,” p. 435.] Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to ‘‘Bonny Jean.” They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the very first grist I get from my rhyming-mill. R. B. No. XXXI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August 1793. That tune, “ Cauld Kail,” is such a favourite of yours that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses; when the muse that presides o’er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. [“ Come, let me take thee,” p. 436-] I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet simple inspirer that was by my elbow, “ smooth gliding without step,” and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila’s native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her; so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits.: WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 291 secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson’s Museum,. If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. “ The last time I came o’er the moor ” I cannot meddle with, as to mending it; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay’s words that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received. I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not made one for the fore¬ going. R. B. No. XXXII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August 1793. So much for Davie. [See “ Dainty Davie,” p. 436, which the poet enclosed.] The chorus, you know, is to the low part of the tune.—See Clarke’s set of it in the Museum. N.B .—In the Museum they have drawled out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is cursed nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, is the way. R. B. No. XXXIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Sevt 1,1793. Mx dear Sir, —Since writing you last, I have received half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond expression. The humour and fancy of “ Whistle, and I ’ll come to you, my lad,” will render it nearly as great a favourite as “Duncan Gray.” “ Come, let me take thee to my breast,” “ Adown winding Nith,” and “ By Allan stream,” &c., are full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit tli3 airs for which they are intended. “ Had I a cave on some wild distant shqre” is a striking and affecting composition. Our friend, to whose story it refers, read it with a swelling heart, I assure you.—The union we are now forming, I think, can never be broken: these songs of yours will descend w’ith the music to the latest posterity, and will be fondly cheiished so long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island. While the muse seems so propitious, I think it right to enclose a list of all the favours I have to ask of her—no fewer than twenty and three ! I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many as it is probable he will attend to: most of the remaining airs would puzzle the English poet not a little; they are of that pecu¬ liar measure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him who writes for them. G. T. 292 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. XXXIV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Sept. 1793. You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any exertion in my power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you; the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your pub¬ lication, so get a verse from him now and then : though I have no objection, as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business. You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of nature’s instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no other¬ wise than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little melodies which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whe¬ ther the old air, “ Hey, tuttie taitie,” may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Fraser’s hautboy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wan¬ derings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, [“Bruce’s Address to his Army at Bannockburn,*’ p. 437] fitted to the air that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot’s address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning. So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as He did that day !—Amen. P.S .—I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it, but I had no idea of giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recol¬ lection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke’s set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the Museum; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selec¬ tion. R. B. No. XXXV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Sept. 1793. I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begin to think my cor¬ respondence is persecution. No matter, I can’t help it; a ballad is my hobby-horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harm¬ less idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that, when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 293 bo enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells,. that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be¬ yond any useful point or post in the common race of man. The following song [“Behold the Hour,” p. 388] I have com¬ posed for “ Oran-gaoil,” the Highland air that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well !—If not, ’tis also well! E. B. XXXVI. G. THOMSON TO BUENS. Edinburgh, Sept. 5, 1793. I believe it is generally allowed that the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest merit. While you are send¬ ing me verses that even Shakespeare might be proud to own, you speak of them as if they were ordinary productions ! Your heroic ode is, to me, the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends, to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, en¬ treated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as “ Hey, tuttie taitie.” Assuredly your partiality for this tune must arise from the ideas associated in your mind by the tradition concerning it; for I never heard any person, and I have conversed again and again with the greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs •—I say, I never heard any one speak of it as worthy of notice. I have been running over the whole hundred airs of which I lately sent you the list, and I think “ Lewie Gordon ” is the most hap¬ pily adapted to your ode; at least with a very slight variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in “ Lewie Gordon ” more of the grand than the plaintive, particu¬ larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substi¬ tuting your ode in the room of “ Lewie Gordon,” which has neithei the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterise your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest upon the last line of each verse—the only line too short for the air—is as follows :— Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 2d, Chains —chains and slaverie. 3d, Let him, let him turn and flee. 4th, Let him bravely follow me. 5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 6th, Let us, let us do or die ! If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any 294 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS of its energy. The only line which I dislike in the whole of the song is, “ Welcome to your gory bed.” Would not another word be preferable to “ welcome ? ” In your next I will expect to be informed whether you agree to what I have proposed. The little alterations I submit with the greatest deference. The beauty of the verses you have made for “ Oran-gaoil ” will insure celebrity to the air. G. T. Ho. XXXVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. September 1793. I have received your list, my dear sir, and here go my observa¬ tions on it. “Down the burn, Davie.” I have this moment tried an altera¬ tion, leaving, out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus :— As down the burn they took their way, And through the flowery dale; His cheek to here he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale. With “Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew ?” Quoth Mary, “ Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you.” “ Through the wood, laddie.” I am decidedly of opinion that both in this, and “There’ll never be jaeace till Jamie comes hame,” the second or high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much better omitted in singing. “ Cowdenknowes.” Remember, in your index, that the song in pure English to this tune, beginning— “When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,” is the production of Crawford. Robert was his Christian name. “ Laddie, lie near me,” must lie by me for some time. I do not know the air; and, until I am complete master of a tune, in my own singing (such as it is,) I can never compose for it. My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression ; then choose my theme; begin one stanza— when that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or harmony with the cogi¬ tations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom; humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at intervals, on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 2 95 What cursed egotism! “ Gil Morris ” I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the air itself is never sung, and its place can be well supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For instance, “ Craigieburn wood,” and “ Roy’s Wife.” The first, beside its in¬ trinsic merit, has novelty; and the last has high merit as well as great celebrity* I have the original words of a song for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady who composed it: and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen. “ Highland laddie.” The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and the new an Italianised one. There is a third, and, what Oswald calls, the old “ Highland laddie,” which pleases me more than either of them. It is sometimes called “Jinglan Johnnie;” it being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, “I hae been at Crookieden,” &c. I would advise you, in this musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and, in the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there is no doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Probatum est. “ Auld Sir Simon,” I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place, “ The Quaker’s Wife.” “ Blithe hae I been o’er the hill,” is one of the finest songs I ever made in my life ; and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the names and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include “The bonniest lass in a’ the warld ” in your collection. “Dainty Davie,” I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to the low part of the tune; and nothing has surprised me so much as your opinion on this subject. If it will not suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. “ Fee him, Father.” I enclose you Fraser’s set of this tune when he plays it slow; in fact, he makes it the language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas in that style, merely to try if it will be any improvement. [See the song “ Thou hast left me ever?” p.438] Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make an ad¬ mirably pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which “ Patie Allan’s mither died, that was, about the back o’ midnight; ” and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, except the hautbois and the muse. “Jockey and Jenny” I would discard, and in its place would put “ There’s nae luck about the house,” which has a very pleasant air; and which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style v 296 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other, language. “ When she cam ben she bobbet,” as an air is more beautiful than either, and in the andante way would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. “ Saw ye my Father ? ” is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before last I wandered out and began a tender song, in what 1 think is its native style. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give most effect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings —“ Saw ye my Father ?” &c. My song is but just begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct English. “ Todlin’ hame.” Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been mine—that this air is highly susceptible of pathos : ac¬ cordingly, you will soon hear him at your concert try it to a song of mine in the Museum —“Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon.” One song more and I have done—“ Auld langs^ne.” The air is but mediocre; but the following song, [“Auld langsyne,” p. 350] the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air. Now, 1 suppose, I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. “ Gil Morice,” “ Tranent Muir,” “ Macpherson’s Farewell,” “ Battle of Sherriffmuir,” or, “ We ran and they ran,” (I know the author of this charming ballad, and his history,) “ Hardiknute,” “ Bar¬ bara Allan,” (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared ;) and besides do you know that I really have the old tune to which “The Cherry and the Slae” was sung; and which is mentioned as a well known air in “ Scotland’s Complaint,” a book published before poor Mary’s days ? It was then called “ The banks o’ Helicon; ” an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytleris history of Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of this kind. R. B. No. XXXVIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. September 1793. I am happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, “honour’s bed,” is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song as follows. [See “Scots wha hae,” p. 437] WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 297 N.B. —I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace “ A false usurper sinks in every foe, And liberty returns with every blow.” A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One comfort—I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night’s joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the*world to come. Amen! E. B. Ho. XXXIX. G. THOMSON TO BUENS. September 12, 1793. A thousand thanks to you, my dear sir, for your observations on the list of my songs. I am happy to find your ideas so much in unison with my own, respecting the generality of the airs, as well as the verses. About some of them we differ; but there is no disput¬ ing about hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks you make; and to re-consider the whole with attention. “ Dainty Davie ” must be sung two stanzas together, and then the chorus; ’tis the proper way. I agree with you that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of “ Fee him, Father,” when performed with feeling; but a tender cast may be given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own hu¬ morous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for “ Fee him, Father,” which you began about the back of midnight, I will publish as an additional one. Mr James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with “Fee him, Father,” and with “Todlin’ hame” also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. “Fye, let’s a’ to the bridal,” for instance, is so coarse and vulgar that I think it fit only to be sung in a company of drunken colliers: and “ Saw ye my Fa¬ ther ” appears to me both indelicate and silly. One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid saying anything to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. “Gory” presents a disagreeable imago to the mind; and to tell them, “Welcome to your gory bed,” seems rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the alternative which follows. I have shown the song to three friends of excellent taste, and each of them objected to this line, which emboldens me to 298 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS use the freedom of bringing it again under your notice. I would suggest, “ Now prepare for honour’s bed. Or for glorious victorie.” G. T. No. XL. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. September 1793. " Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?” My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in ray opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on re-considering it; as I think I have much im¬ proved it. Instead of “ soger ! hero!” I will have it “ Caledonian! on wi’ me ! ” I have scrutinised it over and over; and to the world, some way or other, it shall go as it is. At the same time, it will not in the least hurt me should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan’s verses. I have finished my song to “ Saw ye my Father; ” and in English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the ex¬ pression of the air, it is true; but, allow me to say that the j nere di¬ viding of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter: however, in that, I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular: my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as Eng¬ lish verses. Here they are—[See “ Fair Jenny,” p. 438.] Adieu, my dear sir! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure. R. B. No. XLI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. September 1793. I HAVE been turning over some volumes of songs to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find English songs. For “ Muirland Willie,” you have, in Ramsay’s “ Tea-table Mis¬ cellany,” an excellent song, beginning, “Ah, why those tears in Nelly’s eyes ?” As for “ The Collier’s Dochter,” take the following old Bacchanal. [See the song “Deluded Swain, the Pleasure,” p. 439.] The faulty line in “ Logan Water,” I mend thus :— “ How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry ?” WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 2cg The song, otherwise, will pass. As to “ M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth,” you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours in the Museum. The song begins— “ Raving winds around her blowing.” Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they were like the “ Banks of Banna,” for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charm¬ ing airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of “ Roy’s wife,” for the music’s sake, we shall not insert it. “ Deil tak the wars,” is a charming song; so is “ Saw ye my Peggie ?” “ There’s nae luck about the house ” well deserves a place. I cannot say that “ O’er the hills and far awa,” strikes me as equal to your selection. “ This is no my ain house,” is a great favourite air of mine; and, if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of “I hae laid a herrin’ in sawt?” I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty : and there are many others of the same kind, pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert, “ Fye, let’s a’ to the bridal ” to any other words than its own. What pleases me as simple and naive disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, “Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,” “Fye, let’s a’ to the bridal,” with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; while, “Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother?” de¬ lights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, “ Ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ?” pleases myself so much that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; but “Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait.” R. B. No. XLII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. October 1793. Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas! poor Erskine! * The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publication has, till now, scared me from writ¬ ing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the “ Quaker’s Wifethough, by the by, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquary, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of * The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter which he has suppressed. —Curkie. CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 3 °° “ Leiger m’ choss.” The following verses [“ My lovely Haney,” p.367], I hope will please you, as an English song to the air. Your objection to the English song I proposed for “ John Anderson, my jo,” is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit:— SONG-. By Gavin Turnbull. “ O condescend, dear charming maid, My wretched state to view ; A tender swain to love betray’d, And sad despair, by you. ** While here, all melancholy, My passion I deplore. Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, I love thee more and more. “ I heard of love, and with disdain The urchin’s power denied: I laugh’d at every lover’s pain, And mock’d them when they sigh’d. “ But how my state is alter’d! Those happy days are o’er; Bor all thy unrelenting hate, I love thee more and more. “ 0 yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! No longer let me mourn ; And, though victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn. “ Bet generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore ; AnA grateful, I shall bless thee still, And love thee more and more.” Tbe following address of Turnbull’s to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air, “ There was a lass and she was fair.” By the by, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of, mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much:— THE NIGHTINGALE. By G. Turnbull. “ Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove That ever tried the plaintive strain ; Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. “ Eor, though the muses deign to aid, And teach him smoothly to complain; Yet, Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain. “All day, with Fashion’s gaudy sons. In sport she wanders o’er the plain; Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 301 “ When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.” I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull’s, which would go charmingly to “ Lewie Gordon — LAURA. By GK Turnbull. “ Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill; Where the sweetest May-born flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; Where the linnet’s early song Echoes sweet the woods among ; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. “If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse; If I court some cool retreat, To avoid the noontide heat ; If beneath the moon’s pale ray, Through unfrequented wilds I stray ; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. “When at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compelling rod, And to fancy’s wakeful eyes Bids celestial visions rise ; While with boundless jpy I rove Through the fairy land of love : Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.” The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other oppor¬ tunity. [Gavin Turnbull was the author of a volume entitled “ Poetical Essays,” published in Glasgow, in 1788.] No. XLIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. » Nov. 7,1793. My GOOD Sib, —After so long a silence it gave me peculiar plea¬ sure to recognise your well-^nown hand, for I had begun to be ap¬ prehensive that all was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have got among the ballads once more. I have to thank you for your English song to “ Leiger m’ choss,” which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr Turnbull’s songs have doubtless considerable merit ; and, as you have the command of his manuscripts, I hope you may find out some that will answer as English songs, to the airs yet un¬ provided. G. T. 302 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. XLIY. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Dec. 1793. Tell me how you like the following verses [“ My spouse, Nancy,” p. 439] to the tune of “Jo Janet.” No. XLY. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, April 17,1794. My dear Sir, —Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the time of his receiving your admirable but melan¬ choly letter, I had not an opportunity till lately of perusing it.* How sorry I am to find Burns saying, “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ? ” while he is delighting others from one end of the island to the other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician upon his case —“ Go,” says the doctor, “ and see the. famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour.” “ Alas ! sir,” replied the patient, “ I am that unhappy Carlini.” Your plan for our meeting together pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some means or other it will soon take place ; but your Baccha¬ nalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am a miserably weak drinker! Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his talents. He has just begun a sketch from your “ Cotter’s Saturday Night,” and if it pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or en¬ grave it. In subjects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colouring is sombre ; other¬ wise, his paintings and drawings would be in greater request.t I like the music of the “Sutor’s dochter,” and will consider whether it shall be added to the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty; but your humorous English song to suit “Jo Janet,” is in¬ imitable. What think you of the air, “ Within a mile of Edin¬ burgh ?” It has always struck me as a modern English imitation, but it is said to be Oswald’s, and is so much liked that I believe I must include it. The verses are little better than namby-pamby. Do you consider it worth a stanza or two ? G. T. * A letter to Mr Cunningham, to be found in the correspondence, under the date of Feb. 25,1794. f The painter who pleased Burns and Thomson so much with his shepherds and shepherdesses was David Allan; he studied in Rome and in London, but acquired little fame from his classic efforts compared to what he achieved by his delineations of the pastoral scenes and happy peasantry of his native country. —Cunningham. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3°3 No. XLYI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. May 1794. My dear Sir, —I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed with Allan’s manner. I got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; and he pronounces Allan a mo3t original artist of great excellence. For my part, I look on Mr Allan’s choosing my favourite poem for his subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received. I am quite vexed at Pleyel’s being cooped up in France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls “The banks of Cree.” Cree is a beautiful romantic stream : and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it—[See “ Here is the Glen,” p. 449.] No. XLVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. July 1794. Is there yet no news of Pleyel ? Or is your work to be at a dead stop until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas the day! And woe is me ! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions—* ' No. XLVIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS Edinburgh, Aug. 10,1794. My dear Sir, —I owe you an apology for having so long de¬ layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. I fear it will be as you say, I shall have no more songs from Pleyel till France and we are friends; but, nevertheless, I am very desirous to be pre¬ pared with the poetry, and, as the season approaches in which your muse of Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequently gratified with the result of your amorous and tender interviews ! G. T. * A portion of this letter has been left out, for reasons that will be easily imagined. 304 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. XLIX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Aug. 30,1794. The last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of “ O’er the hills and far away,” I spun the following stanza for it, [see “ On the Seas and Far Away,” p. 449;] but whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil like the vile manufacture of the ‘spider, I leave, my dear sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it, at first; but I own that now it appears rather a flimsy business. This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. We have many sailor songs; but, as far as I at present recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of the lovelorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception—“ Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach came.” I gave you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Chris¬ tian meekness. R. B. No. L. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Sept. 16,1794. My dear Sir, —You have anticipated my opinion of “ On the seas and far away; ” I do not think it one of your very happy productions, though it certainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. The second stanza is the least to my liking, particularly “ Bullets, spare my only joy.” Confound the bullets ! It might, perhaps, be objected to the third verse, “At the starless midnight hour,” that it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought would have better suited the character of a sailor’s sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the song would be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of the first and last verses, with the choruses. No. LI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Sept. 1794. I shall withdraw my “ On the seas and far away” altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like beget¬ ting a son: you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce him to the world to try him. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3°5 For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and all; and as such, pray look over them and forgive them, and burn them. I am flattered at your adopting “ Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,” as it was owing to me that it ever saw the light. About seven years ago, I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr Clunie, who sung it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll, which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its head. [See “ Ca’ the Yowes,” p. 450.] I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit. R. B. No. LII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Sept. 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called “ Onagh’s Waterfall?” The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit: still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; and, as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, [“ She says she lo’es me best of a’,” p. 451,] to the air above mentioned, for that work. If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies. Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia’s taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always, without any hypocrisy, confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me'most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For in¬ stance, I am just now making verses for “ Rothemurche’s Rant,” an air which puts me in raptures; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, wbo is a judge that I will pit against any of you. “ Rothemurche,” he says, is an air both original and beautiful; and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth, or last part, for the song. I am but two 306 tORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS stanzas deep in the wort, and possibly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the music. I have begun anew, “ Let me in this ae night.” Do you think we ought to retain the old chorus ? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not al¬ together like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be successful or otherwise ? Should she “ let him in ” or not ? Did you not once propose “The Sow’s tail to Geordie” as an air for your work ? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknow¬ ledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs Thomson’s Christian name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you and her the hero and heroine of the little piece. God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! E. B. No. LI II. G. THOMSON TO BUENS. I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant upon her favourite poet, whose “wood notes wild” are become as enchanting as ever. “ She says she lo’es me best of a’,” is one of the plea¬ santest table songs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the song is going round. I ’ll give Cunningham a copy; he can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from undervalu¬ ing your taste for the strathspey music; on the contrary, I think it highly animating and agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the same way that rough Christians are tempered and softened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes. I am clear for having the “ Sow’s tail,” particularly as your pro¬ posed verses to it are so extremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, is a name only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs Thom¬ son’s name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Eetain Jeanie, there¬ fore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree¬ ably. Your “Ca’ the ewes” is a precious little morgeau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished and charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you whether you never seriously turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing? That is a field worthy of your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its splendour. One or two successful pieces upon the London stage would make your fortune. The rage at present is for musical WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 307 dramas: few or none of those which have appeared since the “ Duenna ” possess much poetical merit: there is little in the con¬ duct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I think you might produce a comic opera in three acts, which would live by the . poetry, at the same time that it w'ould be proper to take every assistance from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, of course, would be to our favourite Scottish airs; the rest might be left to the London composer—Storace for Drury Lane,' or Shield for Covent Garden; both of them very able and popular musicians. I believe that interest and manoeuvring are often necessary to have a drama brought on : so it may be with the namby-pamby tribe of flowery scribblers; but were you to address Mr Sheridan himself ny letter, and send him a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints upon your consideration. Mo. LIY. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Oct. 14, 1794. The last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the Scottish collections. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and considered, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I have added are enclosed. Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs I expected from him, which are, in general, elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a London collection of Scottish airs and songs, just published, by Mr Ritson, an Englishman?* I shall send you a copy. His intro¬ ductory essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading and research, but does not decide the question as to the origin of our melodies; though he shows clearly that Mr Tytler, in his in¬ genious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypo¬ thesis he wished to establish; and that his classification off the airs according to the eras when they were composed is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has no mercy; but con¬ signs him to damnation! He snarls at my publication on the score of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it, uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent a packing to make room for Peter’s. Of * He was one of the most laborious of our later antiquaries; his birth in a northern English county made him familiar with the Scottish dialect and with old ballad lore ; his education as a lawyer sharpened his faculties, and disciplined him for habits of research, while his love of all that was old, and Strange, and uncouth in literature, amounted to a passion which, in the end, overpowered his reason. He had little or no poetic feeling; he was a Jacobite, too, and a bitter one; but, by a transition not uncommon, he became a Jacobin, and, as Citizen Ritson, is yet remembered by those who had no sympathy for his researches in song.— Cunningham. 308 correspondence of burns you he speaks with some respect, but gives you 1 a passing hit or two for daring to dress qp a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest col¬ lections and best authorities : many of them, however, have such a strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by every person of taste, old or young, in town or country, that we can scarcely recognise the features of our favourites. By going to the oldest collections of our music, it does not follow thafc-we find the melodies in their original state. These melodies had been pre¬ served, we know not how long, by oral communication, before being collected and printed : and, as different persons sing the same air very differently, according to their accurate or confused recollec¬ tion of it, so, even supposing the first collectors to have possessed the industry, the taste, and discernment to choose the best they could hear, (which is far from certain,) still it must evidently be a chance whether the collections exhibit any of the melodies in the state they were first composed. In selecting the melodies for my own collection, I have been as much guided by the living as by the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, and the most generally ap¬ proved : and, without meaning any compliment to my* own capa¬ bility of choosing, or speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets will be found equally freed from vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected graces on the other. G. T. No. LV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Oct. 19, 1794. My dear Friend —By this morning’s post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to¬ day’s fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two; so, please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my favourite, “ Craigie-burn Wood,” in your selection : it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made, is one of the finest women in Scotland; and, in fact, entre nous, is in a manner, to me, what Sterne’s Eliza w r as to him—a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now don’t put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy—could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 309 ,genius of your book?—No! no!—Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song; to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs; do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning- of her eye is the .godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon ! To descend to business; if you like my idea of “ When she cam ben she bobbit,” the following stanzas of mine, [“Saw ye my Phely,” p. 455], altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas. Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. “The Posie” (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs Burns’s voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the by, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which “Roslin Castle ” is composed. The second part, in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. “ Strathallan’s Lament ” is mine : the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. “ Donocht-Head ” is not mine : I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it.* “ Whistle o’er the lave o’t ” is mine : the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and, by all the old musical people here, is believed to be the author of it. “ Andrew and his cutty gun.” The song to which this is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strath¬ more. “ How long and djeary is the night.” I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and, to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page—[See “ How lang and dreary is the night,” p. 456] Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expres¬ sion of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr What-d’ye-call- trm (llitson) has done in his London collection. * “Donocht-IIead,” which the poet praises so highly, was written by a gentle¬ man, now dead, of the name of Pickering, who lived at Newcastle. 31 o CORRESPONDENCE OF B URNS These English songs 'gravel me to death. I have not that com¬ mand of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at “• Duncan Gray,” to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance—[See “Let not woman e’er com¬ plain,” p. 457] Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with the lady whom I mentioned in the second page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and, returning home, I composed the following—[“The Lover’s Morning Salute to his Mistress,” p. 452] If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood. I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend to put it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it—[See “ The Winter of Life,” p. 465] I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson’s collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please—whether this miserable drawling hotch¬ potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence ? Ho. LYI. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Oct. 27, 1794. I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet can no more exist without his mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the ador¬ able she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often en¬ raptured the Scottish bard, that I might drink her sweet health when the toast is going round. “Craigie-bum Wood” must cer¬ tainly be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song; but, in the name of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from you. “ Oh to be lying beyond thee, dearie,” is, perhaps, a consum¬ mation to be wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the additional airs : the idea of sending them into * the world naked as they were born was ungenerous. They must all be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham in sending you Ritson’s Scottish Collection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his English Collection, which you will receive by the coach. I do not find his historical Essay on Scottish song interesting. Your WITH GEORGI THOMSON. 3 11 anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, 1 am sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from “Maggie Lauder.” She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the most exquisite glee. I am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of Ritson’s prints. P.S .—Pray what do your anecdotes say concerning '‘Maggie Lauder?” Was she a real personage, and of what rank? You would surely “ spier for her, if you ca’d at Anstruther town.” G. T. No. LVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Nov. 1794. Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your present: it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last I told you my objections to the song you had selected for “ My lodging is on the cold ground.” On my visit, the other day, to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration,) she suggested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song—[“ Chloris,” p. 453] How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral ?—■ I think it pretty well. I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of ma chere amie. I assure you I was never more in earnest in my life than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, “ Where Love is liberty, and Nature law.” Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the pas¬ sion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasure I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase. Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in x 312 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure is something similar to what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay’s “Tea-table Miscellany,” I have cut down for an English dress to your “ Daintie Davie,” as follows —[See “ The charming month of May,” p. 436] You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to “ Rothemurche’s Rantand you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing—[“ Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,” p. 458] This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well: if not, I will insert it in the Museum. R. B. No. LVIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air as “Deil tak the Wars,” to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of “ Saw ye my father;” by heavens, the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernised into the Scottish language, is originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low'imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius, Tom D’Urfey; so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song, by Sheridan, in the “ Duenna,” to this air, which is out of sight superior to D’Urfey’s. It begins— “When sable night each drooping plant restoring.” The air, if I understand ttie expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. Now for my English song to “ Nancy’s to the Greenwood,” &c.— [See “Farewell, thou stream,” p. 458] There is an air, “ The Caledonian Hunt’s Delight,” to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnston,—•“ Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon; ” this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air ? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr James Miller, writer in your good town,—a gentleman whom, possibly, you know,—was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer¬ tain it is, that in a few days, Mr Miller produced the rudiments WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 313 of an air, which Mr Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question, ltitson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air ;—nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess in¬ formed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country was a baronet’s lady of her acquaintance who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them. I thank you for admitting “ Craigie-burn Wood,” and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a new “ Craigie-burn Wood” altogether. My heart is much in the theme. I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; ’tis dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious re¬ quest is doubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson’s volumes. The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little»proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for, when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over. . R. B. No. LIX. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Sov. 15,1794. My good Sir,—S ince receiving your last, I have had another interview with Mr Clarke, and a long consultation. He thinks the “Caledonian Hunt” is more Bacchanalian than amorous in it 3 nature, and recommends it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray, did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first part of the air is generally low, and suited for a man’s voice, and the second part, in many instances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song, thus performed, makes an agreeable variety. 314 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS but tew of ours are written in this form : I wish you would think of it in some of those that remain. The only one of the kind you have sent me is admirable, and will be a universal favourite. Your verses for “ Rothemurche” are so sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for “ Deil tak the Wars,” so passionately ten¬ der, that I have sung myself into raptures with them. Your song for “ My lodging is on the cold ground,” is likewise a diamond of the first water; I am quite dazzled and delighted with it. Some of your Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxsn hair, from your partiality for this colour; else we differ about it; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, and reading that she had lint-white locks ! “ Farewell, thou stream that winding flows,” I think excellent, but it is much too serious to come after “Nancy:” at least it would . seem an incongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish, and melancholy English, verses! The more that the two sets of verses resemble each other in their general character the better. Those you have manufactured for “ Dainty Davie ” will answer , charmingly. I am happy to find you have begun your anecdotes. I care not how long they be, for it is impossible that anything from your pen can be tedious. Let me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling me when you wish to present any of your friends with, the songs : the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to a pinch of snuff. No. LX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. * JSov. 19,1794. You see, my dear sir, what a punctual correspondent I am; though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old— [See “ 0 Philly, happy be that day,” p. 459 ] Tell me, honestly, how you like it; and point out whatever you think faulty. I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name, Philly ; but it is the common abbrevation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for anything except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mis- WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 315 taken vulgarity for simplicity: whereas, simplicity is as much iloignee from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other. I agree with you, as to the air “ Craigie-burn Wood,” that a chorus Would, in some degree, spoil the effect; and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with “ Rothemurclie; ” there, as in “Roy’s Wife of Aldi- valloch,” a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with “Roy’s Wife” as well as “Rothe¬ murche.” In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e’en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting-note in both tunes has, I think, an effect that no regularity could coun¬ terbalance the want of. Try and compare with Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you ? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild originality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. “ The Caledonian Hunt ” is so charming that it would make any subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, “ Todlin’ Hame ” is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; and “ Andrew and his Cutty Gun” is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air I like much—“Lumps o’ pudding.” [See “Contented wi’ Little,” p. 460.] If you do not relish the air, I will send it to Johnson. R. B. No. LXI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Since yesterday’s penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an English song to “Roy's Wife.” You will allow me that, in this instance, my English corresponds in senti¬ ment with the Scottish. [See “ Cansb thou leave me thus, my Katy?” p. 461.] Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my 3*6 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of ap¬ plause from somebody. Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another to be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have at last gotten one ; but it is a very rude instrument: it is composed of three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham; the horn, which is a common Highland cow’s horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and lastly, an oaten reed, exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd boy have, when the corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back ventige, like the common .flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds were wont to use in that country. However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. “ Pride in poets is nae sin,” and, I will say it, that, I look on Mr Allan and Mr Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish cos¬ tume in the world. Ho. LXII. G. THOMSON TO BUENS. Nov. 29,1794. I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not only the most punc¬ tual, but the most delectable, correspondent I ever met with. To attempt flattering you never entered my head; the truth is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, you have, all along, condescended to invite my criticism with so much courtesy that it ceases to be won¬ derful if I have sometimes given myself the aira of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise: all the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef-d'oeuvre. “Lumps of pudding” shall certainly make one of my family dishes : you have cooked it so capitally that it will please all palates. Do give us a few more of this cast, when you find yourself in good spirits ; -these convivial WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 317 Bongs are more wanted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Besides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to everybody. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our best songs are unknown : it is provoking to every admirer of genius. I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad, “ The Soldier’s Return,” to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most interesting point of time appears to me, when she recog¬ nises her ain dear Willy, “ She gazed, she reddened like a rose.” The three lines immediately following are, no doubt, more im¬ pressive on the reader’s feelings; but were the painter to fix on these, then you ’ll observe the animation and anxiety of her coun¬ tenance is gone, and he could only represent her fainting in the soldier’s arms. But I submit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. Allan desires me to thank you for your accurate description of the stock and horn, and for the very gratifying compliment you pay him, in considering him worthy of standing in a niche, by the side of Burns, in the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the rude instru¬ ment you describe, so does not want you to send it; but wishes to know whether you believe it to have ever been generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capable of any¬ thing but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says, he remem¬ bers to have heard one in his younger days (made of wood instead of your bone), and that the sound was abominable. Do not, I beseech you, return any books. G. T. Ho. LXIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Dec. 1794. It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do anything to forward or add to the value of, your book; and, as I agree with you that the’ Jacobite song in the Museum, to “ There ’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,” would not so well consort with Peter Pindar’s excellent love song to that air. I have just framed for you the fol¬ lowing—[“My Nannie’s awa,” p. 390.] How does this please you?—As to the point of time for the ex¬ pression, in your proposed print from my “Sodger’s Return,” it must certainly be at —“ She gazed.” The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal.—In great haste, but in great truth, yours, , R. B. 3 i8 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS No. LXIY. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Jan. 1795. I fear for my songs; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and, as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c., of these said rhyming folks. A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither sub¬ ject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme— [See “ Is there for honest poverty,” p. 482.] I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for “ Craigie-burn Wood ?” [See “ Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn,” p. 393.] Farewell! God bless you. R. B. No. LXY. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, Jan. 30, 1795. My dear Sir, —I thank you heartily for “ Nannie’s awa,” as well as for “Craigie-burn,” which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very forcibly; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, “For a’ that,” shall undoubtedly be included in my list. G. T. No. LXYI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Fa. 1795. Here is another trial at your favourite air. [See “0 Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ?” p. 483.] I do not know whether it will do. R. B. No. LXYII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Ecclefechan, Felt. 7, 1795. My dear Thomson, —You cannot have any idea of the predicar ment in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as super- WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3 T 9 visor, (in which capacity I have acted of late,) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village.* I have gone forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have impeded my progress : I have tried to “gae back the gate I cam again,” but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man, (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed,) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service ! I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; and, Heaven knows, at present I have not capacity. Do you know an air—I am sure you must know it—“We ’ll gang nae mair to yon town?” I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye, to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. It. B. . Ho. LXVIII. G. THOMSOH TO BURNS. Feb. 25,1795. I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two epistles, one contain¬ ing “ Let me in this ae night; ” and the other from Ecclefechan, proving that, drunk or sober, your “mind is never muddy.” You have displayed great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that other¬ wise would have attached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands, very much. I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for “ 0 wat ye wha’s in yon town.” G. T. No. LXIX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. May 1795. Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song— [“Address to the Woodlark,” p. 492-] * Ecclefechan is a little thriving village in Annandale. The poet paid it many a visit, friendly and official, and even brought its almost unpronounceable name into a couple of songs.— Cunningham, 320 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS How do you like the foregoing? [“ On Chloris being ill,” p. 492.] The Irish air, “ Humours of Glen,” is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the “ Poor soldier,” there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows—[See the song entitled, “ Caledonia,” p. 468, and “ ’Twas na her bonnie blue ee,” p. 495, which accompanied the three former.] Let me hear from you. R. B. No. LXX. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. You must not think, my good sir, that I have any intention to enhance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the “ Cotter’s Saturday Night ” is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan’s pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not quite pleased with it. The figure intended for your portrait I think strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece interesting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs Burns finds you out among the figures. I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have read your pathetic “Address to the Wood-lark,” your elegant panegy¬ ric on “ Caledonia,” and your affecting verses on “ Chloris’s illness.” Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song, to “ Laddie, lie near me,” though not equal to these, is very pleas¬ ing. No. LXXI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders. [The poet had enclosed the two songs, “ How cruel are thy parents,” p. 496, and “Mark yonder Pomp,” p. 494.] Your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetising, pro¬ vided that the strait-jacket of criticism don’t cure me. If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating portion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant’s phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment “ holding high converse ” with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a pro¬ saic dog as you are. R. B. No. LXXII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. May 1795. Tew thousand thanks for your elegant present; though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 321 by any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle that the very joiner’s apprentice whom Mrs Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, who has hon¬ oured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat’s tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, damn’d, wee, rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu’ mischief, which, even at twa days’ auld, I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicol; after a certain friend of mine who is one of the masters of a grammar school in a city which shall be nameless. Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me in a manner intro¬ duced me—I mean a well-known military and literary character, Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned ? R. B. Mo. LXXIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. May 13, 1795. It gives me great pleasure to find that you are all so well satisfied with Mr Allan’s production. The chance resemblance of your little fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so very early, and suggested whom he should be named after, is curious enough. I am acquainted with that person, who is a prodigy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though no saint. You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me. I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and respechyou, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfected without you. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again, by speaking of obligation. I like your two last songs very much, and am happy to find you are in such a high fit of poetising. Long may it last! Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to Mallet’s superlative ballad of “ William and Margaret,” and is to give it to me, to be enrolled among the elect, G. T. Mo. LXXIV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. In' “ Whistle, and I’ll come to ye, my lad,” the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement:— 322 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS O whistle, and I ’ll come to ye, my lad, O whistle, and I ’ll come to ye, my lad; Though father, and mother, and a’ should gae mad, Thy Jeanie will venture wi’ ye, my lad. In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light¬ ning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare ! [See the song entitled, “ This is no my ain lassie,” p. 497, which the poet enclosed.] Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at last if He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend, Cunningham. I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you may copy the song “ Oh, bonny was yon rosy brier.” I do not know whether I am right; but that song pleases me, and, as it is extremely probable that Clarke’s newly-roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses to the air of “ I wish my love was in a mire; ” and poor Erskine’s English lines may follow. 11. B. No. LXXY. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, August 3,1795. My dear Sir, —This will be delivered to you by a Dr Brianton, who has read your works, and pants for the honour of your ac¬ quaintance. I do not know the gentleman; but his friend, who applied to me for this introduction, being an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 1 of all acceptation. ■ My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind feasted, with your last packet—full of pleasant things indeed. What an imagina¬ tion is yours ! it is superfluous to tell you that I am delighted with all the three songs, as well as with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. I am sorry you should be induced to alter “ 0 whistle, and I ’ll come to ye, my lad,” to the prosaic line, “ Thy Jeanie will venture wi’ ye, my lad.” I must be permitted to say that I do not think the latter either reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, there¬ fore, you would, in my name, petition the charming Jeanie, whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered. I should be happy to see Mr Clarke produce a few airs to be joined to your verses.—Every body regrets his writing so very little, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray, was the resolution formed coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight vow, made over a bowl of punch with the bard ? I shall not fail to give Mr Cunningham what you have sent him. G. T. WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3 2 3 No. LXXYI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. How do you like the foregoing ? [“ Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,” p. 493] I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom ? No. LXXVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. [This letter contained “ Last May a braw Wooer,” p. 496, and the fragment beginning “Why, why, tell thy lover,” p. 494] Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, [“ Caledonian Hunt’s Delight,”] that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare. R. B. No. LXXVIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. June 3,1795. My dear Sir, —Your English verses to “ Let me in this ae night,” are tender and beautiful; and your ballad to the “ Lothian Lassie ” is a masterpiece for its humour and ncvivetS. The fragment of the “ Caledonian Hunt ” is quite suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet; but, nevertheless, for what we have received, Lord, make us thankful 1 G. T. No. LXXIX. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Fet. 5,1796. 0 Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? Or are ye wauking, I would wit? The pause you have made, my dear sir, is awful! Am I never to hear from you again ? I know and I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish “married to immortal verse.” We have several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they a,re now naturalised and reckoned our own good subjects : indeed, we have none better. 1 3 2 4 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS believe I before told you that I had been much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan: what is your opinion of this ? * G. T. No. LXXX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Feb. 17, 1796. Many thanks, my dear sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs Burns, and for my remaining volume of Peter Pindar.—• Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for. I have, already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. [See “ Hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,” p. 500] If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my bypast songs, I dislike one thing; the name Chloris—I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady; but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose.—What you once mentioned of “ flaxen locks ” is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty.—Of this also again—God bless you 1 R. B. No. LXXXI. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Your “ Hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,” is a most excellent song, and with you the subject is something new indeed. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire into an amateur of acres and guineas. I am happy to find you approve of my proposed octavo edition. Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for that work. Independently of the Iiogarthian humour with which they abound, they exhibit the character and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable felicity. In this respect, he himself says, they will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did for the “ Gentle Shepherd,” because in the etching he sees * Burns had made a pause in liis correspondence from June 1795 to February 1796; and Thomson, feeling alarm, as much for the poet’s sake as for the “dozen of Scotch and Irish airs” which he wished “wedded to immortal verse,” wrote to make inquiries.—CrasiKGHAir, WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3 2 5 clearly what he is .doing, hut not so with the aquatinta, which he could not manage to his mind. The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and natural than the Scottish figures in those etchings. G. T. No. LXXXII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. April 1796. AtAS ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! “ By Babel streams I have sat and wept,” almost ever since I wrote you last: I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson— “ Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given 2” This will be delivered to you by a Mrs Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze.* *- Like the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap, and the Mermaid in Friday Street, London, immortalised as these have been by the genius and wit of Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, and Ben Jonson, and many other of the prime spirits of their age ; so the Globe Tavern in Dumfries, the favourite haunt of our poet while resident in that town, appears to be destined to a similar acceptation in the eyes of posterity. The “ howff” of which Burns speaks was a small, comfortable tavern, situated in the mouth of the Globe close, and it held at that time the rank as third among the houses of public accommodation in Dumfries. The excellence of the drink and the attentions of the proprietor were not, however, all its attractions. “ Anna with the gowden locks ” was one of the ministering damsels of the establishment; customers loved to be served by one who was not only cheerful, but whose charms were celebrated by the Bard of Kyle. On one of the last visits paid by the poet, the wine of f,he “howff” was more than commonly strong—or, served by Anna, it went more glibly over than usual; and when he rose to be gone, he found he could do no more than keep his balance. The night was frosty and the hour late ; the poet sat down on the steps of a door between the tavern and his own house, fell asleep, and did not awaken till he was almost dead with cold. To this exposure his illness has been imputed; and no doubt it contributed, with disappointed hope and insulted pride, to bring him. to an early grave.— Cunningham. On the panes of glass in the Globe, Burns was frequently in the habit of writing many of his witty jeux d!esprit, as well as fragmentary portions of his most celebrated songs. We fear these precious relics have now been wholly abstracted by the lovers and collectors of literary rarities. John Speirs, Esq., of Elderslie, has in his possession one of these panes of glass, upon which is | written in Burns’s autograph, the following verse of “ Sae flaxen were her ring- j lets,” p. 452 •— “ Hers are the willing chains of love. By conquering Beauty’s sovereign law; But still my Chloris’ dearest charm, She says she lo’es me best of a’ 1” 326 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS I am highly delighted with Mr Allan’s etchings. “Woo’d and married an’ a’,” is admirable; the grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire “ Turnim- spike.” What I like least is “ Jenny said to Jocky.” Besides the female being in her appearance .... if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cieghorn ! I sincerely sympathise with him ! Happy am I to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoy¬ ment in this world. As for me—but that is a sad subject! R. B. No. LXXXIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. May 4,1796. I NEED not tell you, my good sir, what concern the receipt of your last gave me, and how much I sympathise in your sufferings. But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor speak the language of despair. The vigour of your constitution, I trust, will soon set you on your feet again; and then, it is to be hoped, you will see the wisdom and the necessity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your family, to your friends, and to the world. Trusting that your next will bring agreeable accounts of your con¬ valescence and returning good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, yours, G. T. P.S .—Mrs Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the gold seal* to you in good condition. No. LXXXIV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. My dear Sir, —I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired, “ Here’s a health to them that’s awa, hinny,” but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses; and I beg leave to recommend the air to your atten¬ tion once more. I have only begun it. [See the beautiful song be¬ ginning, “ Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear,” p. 421.] No. LXXXV. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. This will he delivered by a Mr Lewars, a young fellow of uncom¬ mon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have * On this gold seal the poet caused his coat of arms to he engraven, viz., a small bush; a bird singing; the legend, “woodnotes wild,” with.the motto “Better hae a wee bush than nae bield.” WITH GEORGE THOMSON. 3 2 7 leisure, if you choose, to write me by him; and if you have a spare half hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you,—and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so, when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies. I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, hut as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout: a sad business! Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him. This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you. No. LXXXVI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Brow, on the Solway Firth, July 12,1790. After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me 1 to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, I to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God’s sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. For¬ give me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds’ worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on “ Rothemurche ” this morning. The measure is so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines, they are on the other side. [See the song, “ Fairest Maid on Devon | Banks,” p. 504.] Forgive, forgive me ! No. LXXXVII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. July 14,1796. My dear Sir, —Ever since I received your melancholy letters by Mrs Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what manner I could endea¬ vour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a. pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution, I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and, with great pleasure, enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, for your sake! 328 CORRESPONDENCE WITH THOMSON. Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much trouble to you, in the present state of your health, some literary friend might be found here, who would select and arrange from your manuscripts, and take upon him the task of editor. In the meantime it could be advertised to be pub¬ lished by subscription. Do not shun this mode of obtaining the value of your labour: remember Pope published the Iliad by sub¬ scription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. You are too well convinced of the respect and friendship I bear you, to impute anything I say to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully, G. T. The verses to “ Rothemurche ” will answer finely. I am happy to see you can still tune your lyre. PREFATORY NOTE. The Clarinda of the following correspondence was a Mrs M'Lehose, who resided in General’s Entry, Potterrow—so called from a tradi¬ tion that General Monk had lodged there. Her maiden name was Agnes Craig; she was the daughter of a highly-respectable surgeon in Glasgow, and when only seventeen years of age was married to a Mr M'Lehose, a law agent. Her husband seems to have been in no way worthy of her, and a separation was the consequence. At the time Burns met her, (1787,) her husband was in the West Indies. In addition to being beautiful in person and fascinating in manner, she was something of a poetess, and more than ordinarily intelligent; need it be wondered at, then, that she made a powerful impression on the susceptible poet, who was always ready to burst into a glow, even when the lady was not so attractive as Mrs M'Lehose appears to have been. There can be no doubt of the genuine passion with which Burns inspired her; for all through the correspondence we can see that her love for the poet was leading her into acts of questionable propriety in a woman in her position, and that she felt this acutely. Bums has been blamed by several of his biographers for his con¬ nexion with Mrs M'Lehose in the face of his engagement with Jean Armour; but at the time there can be no doubt that he believed, and was justified in believing, that his engagement with her had come to an end. How slight was the impression made upon the poet by Clarinda will be seen from the speedy making up of all his differences with Jean Armour and her family, and the rapid disap¬ pearance of Clarinda from his thoughts and correspondence. Mrs M'Lehose acutely felt the poet’s forgetfulness of her, but never ceased to hold his memory in affectionate remembrance. In her private journal, written forty years after the date of her last inter- 33 ° PREFA TOR Y NOTE. view with him,-she writes :—“ 6th Dec. 1831.—This day I never can forget. Parted with Burns in the year 1791, never more to meet in this world. Oh, may we meet in heaven !” In her reply to Letter XII. of the correspondence, she says :— "Never were there two hearts formed so exactly alike as ours. Oh, j let the scenes of nature remind you of Clarinda! In winter, remem¬ ber the dark shades of her fate; in summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty on all 5 | and let spring animate you with hopes that your friend may yet j surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a spring- j time of happiness. At all events, Sylvander, the storms of life will quickly pass, and ‘one unbounded spring encircle all.’ Love there is I not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. 0 God! I must ! lay down my pen.” Mr Chambers says :—"I have heard Clarinda, ; at seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one heart that she had ever found herself able entirely to sym- i pathise with, but which had been divided from her on earth by | such pitiless obstacles.” j She died in 1841, in her eighty-second year. There is but one | opinion as to the nature of the correspondence. She can be charged with nothing more serious than the imprudence of loving and giving warm expression to her love for the poet while she was still the j wife of another. Notwithstanding this, Clarinda appears to better advantage in the correspondence- than Sylvander, and there can be no doubt as to the reality and intensity of her love and admiration for him; while his letters and after forgetfulness prove the truth of Gilbert Burns’s assertion, that he was “ constantly the victim of j some fair enslaver. One generally reigned paramount in his affec¬ tions; but as Yorick’s affections flowed out towards Madame de L- at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert wa3 frequently encountering other attractions, which formed so many under-plots iu the drama of his love.” LETTERS TO CLARINDA No. I. Thursday Evening. j Madam,—I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, : and have not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall j embrace the opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave this j town this day se’ennight, and, probably, for a couple of twelve- j months; but must ever regret that I so lately got an acquaintance 1 I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her j ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have j a good deal of poetic merit; and Miss -tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry; and I hope you will pardon my vanity in sending you the j bagatelle as a tolerably off-hand jeud’esvrit. I have several poetic i trifles, which I snail gladly leave with Miss -, or you, if they I were worth house room ; as there are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be forgotten, though at the 1 distance of nine-score miles.—I am, madam, with the highest respect, 1 your very humble servant, No. II. Saturday Evening. I can say with truth, madam, that I never met with a person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night I was to have had that very great pleasure; I was intoxicated with the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees that I can’t stir my leg; so if I don’t see you again, I shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner; I determined to cul¬ tivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion; but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving Edin¬ burgh without seeing you. I know not how to account for it—I 33 2 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but I am an odd being; some yet un¬ named feelings, things, not principles, but better than whims, carry me farther than boasted reason ever did a philosopher.—Farewell! every happiness be yours ! No. III. Friday Evening. I BEG your pardon, my dear “ Clarinda,” for the fragment scrawl I sent you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gen¬ tleman, for whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest veneration, called in just as I had begun the | second sentence, and I would not make the porter wait. I read to my j mueh-fespected friend several of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I had copied out. He began some criti- j cisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informed him they ! were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that he did j not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of such | lines : and if you know anything of Professor Gregory, you will ! neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do love you, if j possible, still better for having so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded way; but you ■ may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch expression you please, in its place. I believe there is no | holding converse, nor carrying on correspondence, with an amiable I woman, much less a gloriously amiable fine woman , without some mixture of that delicious passion, whose most devoted slave I have more than once had the honour of being—But why be hurt or offended on that account ? Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his head against an intrigue ? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of love, and add to it the gene¬ rous, the honourable sentiments of manly friendship : and I know | but one more delightful morsel, which few, few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to strawberries; ! j it not only gives the fruit a more elegant richness, but has a peculiar deliciousness of its own. j I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occa- j sion. I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if any friend should give any copies without my consent. ) You cannot imagine, Clarinda, (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of this kind,) how much store I have set by the hopes of your future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, but I wish you to see me as 1 am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a strange will-o’-wisp being; the victim, too frequently, of much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are pride and passion. The first I have endea- LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 333 voured to humanise into integrity and honour; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love, religion, or friendship—either of them, or altogether, as I happen to be inspired. ’Tis true, I never saw you but once; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once! Do not think I flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda; I have too much pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other; but of all God’s creatures I ever could approach in the beatenway of my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the most permanent im¬ pression. I say, the most permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can promise either in my prepossessions or powers. Why are you unhappy ? And why are so many of our fellow-crea¬ tures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can wish ? You have a hand all benevolent to give : Why were you denied the pleasure ? You have a heart formed—glori¬ ously formed—for all the most refined luxuries of love : Why was that heart ever wrung ? 0 Clarinda ! shall we not meet in a state, pome yet unknown state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence; and where the chill north-wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery fields of enjoyment ? If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserved most of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head; they were the wages of my labour : but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole upon the confidence of unmistrust¬ ing busy Fate, and dashed your cup of life with undeserved sorrow ? Let me know how long your stay will be out of town; I shall count the hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your seeing me just now; and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edinburgh adieu. Lord, why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look back with the pang of unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner: all last winter, these three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost! Perhaps, though, ’twas better for my peace. You see I am either above, or incapable of, dis¬ simulation. I believe it is want of that particular genius. I despise design, because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. I am interrupted. — Adieu ! my dear Clarinda ! Sylvander. No. IY. You are right, my dear Clarinda: a friendly correspondence goes for nothing, except one writes his or her undisguised sentiments. Yours please me for their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours, which I assure you, is to me a high recommendation. Your religious sentiments, madgm-Ir^y^re,^ some suspicious evidence, from someuym^orame.-Iearnea thatl despise or ridicule so sacredly important a SifiSfeP&k 1 refclJ rehgflffljyou have, my Clarinda, much misconstrired your friend.—“I am not mad. 334 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. most noble Festus! ” Have you ever met a perfect character ? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps tired with, and shocked at, a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies ; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and statedly pious—I say statedly, because the most unaffected devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character—I join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But let me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a secret pride in these en¬ dowments and emendations ? Have I nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regular neighbours ? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and numberless modifications of indistinct selfishness, which “\re so near our own eyes that we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and which the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the ordinary observer ? My definition of worth is short; truth and humanity respecting our fellow-creatures; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, will one day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of unbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. Where I found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightly mention, any attendant flaws—flaws, the marks, the consequences, of human nature. I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong imagination and keen sensibility must derive from religion, particu- j larly if a little in the shade of misfortune : but I own I cannot, with¬ out a marked grudge, see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming, a woman as my friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a circumstance that would put it in the power of somebody (happy somebody !) to divide her attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. You will not easily persuade me that you have not a gramma¬ tical knowledge of the English language. So far from being inaccu- j rate, you are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except j one, whom I wish you knew. Your last verses to me have so delighted me that I have got an excellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see j them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, a work publishing by a j friend of mine in this town. I want four stanzas; you gave me | but three, and one of them alluded to an expression in my former j letter ; so I have taken your first two verses, with a slight altera- j tion in the second, and have added a third; but you must help me to a fourth. Here they are: the latter half of the first stanza j would have been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it. “ Talk not of Love, it gives me pain, For Love has been my foe; He bound me with an iron chain, And sunk me deep in woe. LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 335 “ But Friendship’s pure and lasting joys My heart was form’d to prove ; There, welcome, win, and wear the prize, But never talk of love. “ Tour friendship much can make me blest, Oh why that bliss destroy! Why urge the odious [only] one request, You know I must [will] deny.” The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a light inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your choice, and have left two words for your determination. The air is “ The banks of Spey,” and is most beautiful. To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a much valued old friend. If I could be sure of find¬ ing you at home, (and I will send one of the chairmen to call,) I would spend from five to six o’clock with you, as I go past. I can¬ not do more at this time, as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss - as I return home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will spend another evening with you, at any rate, before I leave town. Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of your faults. I am ignorant what they are ; but I am sure they roust be such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental accomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous nar¬ row soul who would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have, any other way than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse minds are not aware how much they injure the keenly feeling tie of bosom-friendship, when, in their foolish offi¬ ciousness, they mention what nobody cares for recollecting. People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a certain intrinsic dig¬ nity that fires at being trifled with, or lowered, or even too nearly approached. You need make no apology for long letters : I am even with you. Many happy new years to you, charming Clarinda! I can’t dissem¬ ble, were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as I have done, and does not love you, deserves to be damn’d for his stupidity ! He who loves you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damn’d for his villany ! Adieu. Sylvandjsr. P.S .—What would you think of this for a fourth stanza ? Tour thought, if love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought, Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend 1 sought. No. Y. Monday Evening, 11 o'clock Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it-; and before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart 33 6 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. danced with rapture: but behold, ’twas some fool who had taken it into his head to turn poet, and made me an offering of the first- fruits of his nonsense. “ It is not poetry, but prose run mad.” Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr Elphinstone, who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet ?—The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose notes. I was sitting in the shop of a merchant of my acquaintance, waiting somebody; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion of it; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did. [See p. 278.] I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday even¬ ing. Next week I must sing “ The night is my departing night The morn’s the day I maun awa; There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine, But wishes that I were awa! What I hae done for lack o’ wit, I never, never can reca’; I hope ye ’re a’ my friends as yet, G-uid night, and joy be wi’ you a’!” If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace ! I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of incoherence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics !) in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart “ reigns and revels.” “ What art thou, Love 1 whence are those charms. That thus thou bear’st a universal rule ? For thee the soldier quits his arms, The king turns slave, the wise man fool. In vain we chase thee from the field, And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke : Next tide of blood, alas ! we yield ; And all those high resolves are broke !” I like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one’s ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one’s feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures, at¬ tending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied form in verse which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his Muse— “ Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, Thou found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so.” My limb has been so well to-day that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street.—Adieu. Sylvander. No. VI. Saturday Noon. Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, like the “ten righ¬ teous persons in Sodom,” save the rest of the vapid, tiresome miser- LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 337 able months and years of life. One of these hours, my dear Clarinda blessed me with yesternight. “ One well spent hour, In such a tender circumstance for friends, Is better than an age of common time! ’’--Thomson. My favourite feature in Milton’s Satan is his manly fortitude in Supporting what cannot be remedied—in short, the wild broken fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a favourite hero of mine. I mentioned to you my letter to Dr Moore, giving an account of my life; it is truth, every word of it; and will give you the just idea of a man whom you have honoured with your friendship. I am afraid you will hardly be able to make sense of so torn a piece. —Your verses I shall muse on deliciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind’s eye, in my heart’s core; they will be in time enough for a week to come. I am truly happy your headache is better. Oh, how can pain or evil be so daringly, unfeelingly, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form ! My little fellow is all my namesake.—Write me soon. My every strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda! Sylvander. I know not what I have written—I am pestered with people around me. No. VII. Sunday Night. The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indis¬ position, to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me all this evening, to write to my dear Clarinda, but— “ Fools rushed on fools, as waves succeed to waves.” I cursed them in my soul; they sacrilegiously disturbed my meditations on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man ! A little alarm last night and to-day, that I am mortal, has made euch a revolution on my spirits! There is no philosophy, no di¬ vinity, comes half so home to the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. ’Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can scarcely hold up my head; but I am happy you do not know it, you would be so uneasy. Sylvander. Monday Morning. I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole ; but I have a horrid languor on my spirits. “ Sick of the world, and all its joys, My soul in pining sadness mourns; Dark scenes of woe my mind employs, The past and present in their turns.” 33 * LETTERS TO CLARINDA. Have you ever met with a saying of the great, and likewise good, Mr Locke, author of the famous Essay on the Human Understand¬ ing ? He wrote a letter to a friend, directing it “ not to be delivered till after my decease it ended thus—“ I know you loved me when living, and will preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with you.—J. Locke.” Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life! I think I may. Thou almighty Preserver of men! thy friendship, which hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure it shall, all the future days and nights of my life, be my steady care ! The idea of my Clarinda follows— “ Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mix’d with God’s, her loved idea lies.” But I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence, and the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps “such things are ; ” one honest man I have great hopes from that way: but who, except a romance writer, would think on a love that could promise for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too, with slender hopes of fruition? For my own part, I can say to myself in both requisitions, “ Thou art the man ! ” I dare, in cool resolve I dare, declare myself that friend, and that lover. If womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is; and feel I shall be miserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, nor one sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess, superior to any woman I ever saw : her exalted mind, aided a little, perhaps, by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiasm. May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wednesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I tremble for censorious remark, for your sake; but in extraordinary cases, may not usual and useful precaution be a little dispensed with ? Three evenings, three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past; I dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss-’s to-morrow evening; ’twill be a farewell call. I have written out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last half-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is that thing called imagination! We have no ideas almost at all of another world; but I have often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed by small alterations—alterations that we can fully enter into, in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I, just as we are at present; the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our minds; and imagine our bodies free from pain and the necessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and easily within our reach; imagine further, that we were set free from the laws of gravitation, - LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 339 which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without in¬ convenience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of creation, what a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love ! I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a volup¬ tuous Mohammedan; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond anything we call bliss here below; nay, it would be a para¬ dise congenial to you too. Don’t you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; or surveying a comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark the passing pomp of a travelling monarch; or in a shady bower of Mercury or "Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready spontaneous language of our souls! Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so is it of mine: what incentives then to, and powers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being, whose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so per¬ vaded, so inspired, every sense and feeling!—By this time, I dare say you will be blessing the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper! Sylvander. No. VIII. Tuesday Night. I am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm J for religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are lukewarm in that most important of all things, “ 0 my soul, come not thou into their secrets! ”—I feel myself deeply interested in your good opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my be¬ lief. He, who is our Author and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be (not for his sake in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts) the object of our reverential awe and grateful adoration : He is Almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other sort of devotion.- “He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to everlasting life;” consequently it must be in every one’s power to embrace his offer of “ everlasting life; ” otherwise he could not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth, and charity, though it does not merit heaven, yet is an absolutely necessary pre-requisite, without which heaven can neither be obtained nor enjoyed; and, by divine promise, such a mind shall never fail of attaining “ everlast¬ ing life:” hence the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable, extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for enjoy¬ ing it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to himself, into tho hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, whose relation to him we LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 34 ° cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is a guide and Saviour; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jamie Dean’s grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire; “ Lord, grant that we may lead a guid life ! for a guid life rnaks a guid end, at least it helps weel! ” I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, “ Talk not of love,” &c., for indeed he has “ plunged me deep in woe 1 ” Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, “ In the companion, the friend, and the mistress.” One indeed I could except— One, before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the first of women! Her name is indelibly written in my heart’s core—but I dare not look in on it—a degree of agony would be the consequence. 0 thou per¬ fidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion—thou mayest, thou dost, poison my peace, but thou shalt not taint my honour—I would not, for a single moment, give an asylum to the most distant imagination that would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my existence.-May she be as ha'ppy as she deserves? And if my tenderest, faithfullest friendship can add to her bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom! Don’t guess at these ravings! I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. It has been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours’ bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me but the Port.- One -’Tis now “witching time of night;” and whatever is out of joint in the fore¬ going scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells; for I can’t look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don’t care for to-morrow’s criticisms on it. You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels at¬ tend and guard you as constantly and faithfully as my good wishes do! “ Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.” John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my pillow to-night! Oh, for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature 1 Good night, my dearest Clarinda l Sylvandee. No. IX. Thursday, Woon. I am certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you don’t look to the proper story for a poet’s lodging— “Where speculation roosted near the sky." LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 341 I could almost have thrown myself over for very vexation. Why didn’t you look higher ! It has spoiled my peace for this day. To be so near my charming Clarinda; to miss her look when it was searching for me—I am sure the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever. You have converted me, Clarinda. (I shall love that name while I live : there is heavenly music in it.) Booth and Amelia I know well.* Your sentiments on that subject, as they are on every sub¬ ject, are just and noble. “ To be feelingly alive to kindness, and to unkindness,” is a charming female character. What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only know for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has almost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been as usual, in my zenith, I had certainly blabbed something that would have pointed out to you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of me, something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was merely chance, or kind stars, that it did not, I had been undone ! ’ You would never have written me, except perhaps once more ! Oh, I could curse circum¬ stances, and the coarse tie of human laws, which keep fast what com¬ mon sense would loose, and which bars that happiness itself cannot give—happiness which otherwise Love and Honour would warrant! But hold 1 —I shall make no more “ hairbreadth ’scapes.” My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both strong and eternal. I told you I had but one male friend : I have but two female. I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandishments of flattery and courtship. ... I register in my heart’s core— . . . Miss N-can tell how divine she is. She is worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the highest compliment I can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda! Remember ' Sylvander. No. X. Saturday Morning Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may, perhaps, distrust me, when I say ’tis also my favourite topic ; but mine is the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a contro¬ versial divinity; as I firmly believe that every honest upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don’t send them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. “ Reverence thyself” is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I think I told you Lord Bolingbroke’s saying to Swift—“Adieu, * An allusion to Melding’s “ Amelia.” LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 342 dear Swift, with all thy faults I love thee entirely; make an effort to love me with all mine.” A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friendship ! I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, Clarinda—you merit it all! Perhaps, too, I scorn dis¬ simulation ! I could fondly love you: judge then, what a madden¬ ing sting your reproach would be. “ Oh ! I have sins to Heaven, but none to you 1 ”—With what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the fly. I hope to be able to see you on foot, about the middle of next week. I am interrupted—perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me—but I wont anticipate blame. O Clarinda! did you know how dear to me is your look of kindness, your smile of approbation! you would not, either in prose or verse, risk a censorious remark. “Curst be the verse, how well soe’er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe l” Sylvandeb. No. XI Tuesday Morning. I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest Clarinda, without sending you half a line, by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, ’twas the sin of ignorance. Could you think that I intended to hurt you by any¬ thing I said yesternight ? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, yourdelicacy, your sensibility.—Oh, why should such glorious qualifications be the fruitful source of woe! You have “ murdered sleep ” to me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea that you were unhappy : and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic misery that I would almost be persuaded you were not well this morning. “ If I unwittingly have offended, Impute it not.” “ But while we live, But one short hour, perhaps, between us two, Bet there be peace.” If Mary is not gone by the time this reaches you, give her my best compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of tho noblest love. I send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm that would protect from injury, or restore to rest that bosom- chord, tremblingly alive all o’er,” on which hangs your peace of Eiind. I thought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love— love strong as even you can feel—love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of virtue, and all the pride of honour ; I thought Buch a love would make you happy—will I be mistaken ? I can no more for hurry .... LETTERS TO CLAR 1 NDA .. 343 No. XII. Sunday Morning. I HAVE just been before tbe tbrone o my God, Clarinda ; accord¬ ing to my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next devote myself to you. Yesterday night I was happy—happi¬ ness “ that the world cannot give.” I kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by a sacred guard.—Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to bestow, your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country; and he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that “the earth owns.”—To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, can bestow. Sunday Evening. You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance ! and what a placid calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of friendship, and the fond throes of love! Out upon the tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of lowering resentment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the immortal part of man ! If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects of them, it would be something in their favour; but these miserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love ; do thou give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man’s cup ! —Is it a draught of joy ?—warm and open my heart to share it with cordial unenvying rejoicing! Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ?—melt my heart with sincerely sympathetic woe ! Above all, do thou give me the manly mind, that resolutely exemplifies in life and manners those sentiments which I would wish to be thought to possess ! The friend of my. soul—there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there, may the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch and ani¬ mate my every thought and imagination! Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of Religion, your darling topic ? “ ; Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright! 'Tis this, that gilds the horrors of our night; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; ’Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels its dart; Within the breast bids purest rapture rise. Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skie3.” 344 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with them that I have them by me, copied at school. Good night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda! Sylvandeb. No. XIII. I "Was on the way, my Love, to meet you, (I never do things by halves,) when I got your card. M-goes out of town to-morrow morning to see a brother of his who is newly arrived from-. I am determined that he and I shall call on you together; so, look you, lest I should never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night; -and you may put off tea till about seven ; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, “ an the beast be to the fore, an the branks bide hale,” expect the humblest of your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying only half an hour, “ foraught we ken.” I could suffer the lash of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment: all else is of the stuff and stocks of stones. Sylvandeb. No. XIV. Thursday Morning. “ Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.” I HAVE been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who for i native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms have few, very, very few parallels among her sex; why, or how she should fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairum scairum poet, whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill humour. One time I conjectured that, as Fortune is the most capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot’s sake, to see how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as, “ Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doipg so again; you have cast her rather in the shades of life; there is a certain poet of my making; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind which no woman of any age ever more deserved, and which few rhymesters of this age are better able to confer.” LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 345 Evening, 9 o'cl ode. I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter—pretty hearty after a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I have been with Mr Schetki, the musician, and he has set it * finely.-1 have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this world. Sylvander. No. XV. Saturday Morning. There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of Love and Friendship give such delight as in the pensive hours of what our favourite, Thomson, calls “ Philosophic Melan¬ choly.” The sportive insects who bask in the sunshine of prosperity: or the worms that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth —they need no Clarinda : they would despise Sylvander—if they durst. The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they need a resting-place to their souls: unnoticed, often condemned by the world; in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as We are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. “’Tis this, my Friend, that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night.” I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, “ the dark postern of time long elaps’d; ” and, you will easily guess, ’twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtless¬ ness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple; what strength, what proportion in some parts ! what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of mercies, and said, “ Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son ! ”-1 rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. “ The future,” said I to myself, “is still before me; ” there let me “ On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man ! ” “ I have difficulties many to encounter,” said I; “ but they are not absolutely insuperable : and where is firmness of mind shown but in exertion ? mere declamation is bombastic rant.” Besides, wherever I am, or in whatever situation I may be— “’Tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy !" ‘Clarinda, mistress of my soul,” p. 154 346 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. Saturday Night— half after Ten. What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever-dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul: but you have refined, you have exalted it: you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and a stronger relish for piety.—Clarinda, first of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you ; if ever your lovely image is effaced from my soul, “ May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; And find no earth that’s base enough to bury me 1” What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every day children of the world ! ’tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields and forests: but where Sentiment and Fancy unite their sweets; where Taste and Delicacy refine; where Wit adds the flavour, and Goodness gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender endearment—Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, in all the luxury of mutual love. Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised! Not in all its very richest colouring. Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious picture— Innocence Look’d gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath, And pour’d her cup luxuriant; mantling high, The sparkling heavenly vintage—love and bliss! Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature’s making, two of • Nature’s noblest productions ! when they drink together of the same cup of love and bliss—attempt not, ye coarser stuff of human nature profanely to measure enjoyment ye never can know !—Good night, my dear Clarinda! ■ Sylvander. No. XVI. My ever-dearest Clarinda, —I make a numerous dinner party wait me while I read yours, and write this. Do not require that I should cease to love you, to adore you in my soul—’tis to me im¬ possible—your peace and happiness are to me dearer than my soul —name the terms on which you wish to see me, to correspond with me, and you have them—I must love, pine, mourn, and adore in secret —this you must not deny me—you will ever be to me— “ Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart 1” I have not patience to read the puritanic scrawl.—Vile sophis¬ try !—Ye heavens ! thou God of nature! thou Redeemer of man¬ kind ! ye look down with approving eyes on a passion inspired by the purest flame, and guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour; but LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 347 the half-inch soul of an unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian bigot cannot forgive anything above his dungeon bosom and foggy head. Farewell ; I ’ll be with you to-morrow evening—and be at rest in your mind—I will be yours in the way you think most to your hap¬ piness ! I dare not proceed—I love, and will love you, and will with joyous confidence approach the throne of the Almighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, and will despise the scum of sentiment, and the mist of sophistry. Sylvander. No. XVII. Tuesday Evening. That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted; but I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. 0 Clarinda ! why will you wound my soul, by hint¬ ing that last night must have lessened my opinion of you ? True, I was “ behind the scenes with you; ” but what did I see ? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love, and pity. These I saw.— I saw the noblest immortal soul creation ever showed me. I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with one friend hurts you, if you cannot tell every tittle of it to another. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Reli¬ gion, can be anything else than an object of His divine approba¬ tion ? I have mentioned, in some of my former scrawls, Saturday even¬ ing next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel! how soon must we part! and when can we meet again! I looked forward on the horrid interval with tearful eyes ! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner! I fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too short to make that lasting impression on your heart I could wish. Sylvander. No. XVIII. “ I AM distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan.” I have suffered, Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad per¬ usal : I dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend, God forgive me ! But, Clarinda, be comforted : let us raise the tone of our feelings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-crea¬ ture who leaves us, who spurns us without just cause, though once our bosom friend—up with a little honest pride—let him go! How 348 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen you ? that we had never met ? No ! I never will. But have I thrown you friendless ?—there is almost distraction in that thought. Father of mercies! against Thee often have I sinned; through Thy grace I will endeavour to do so no more! She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights! Strengthen her tender noble mind, firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to bear! Make me worthy of that friendship she honours me with. May my attachment to her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life! 0 Almighty Goodness, hear me ! Be to her at all times, particularly in the hour of distress or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide and Guard. “How are Thy servants blest, 0 Lord, How sure is their defence ? Eternal Wisdom is their guide. Their help, Omnipotence ! ” Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you ! To-night I shall be with you : as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you. Stlvander. No. XIX. Two o'clock. I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless negligence of the penny post. Clarinda, matters are grown very seri¬ ous with us ; then seriously hear me, and hear me, Heaven—I met you, my dear .... by far- the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, I loved you at first sight; the longer I am acquainted with you, the more innate amiableness and worth I discover in you.—You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake: but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship; if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship; if a love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion—if all these can make anything like a com¬ pensation for the evil I have occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to your enjoyments—so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in his hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! I esteem you, I love you as a friend; I admire you, I love you j as a woman, beyond any one in all the circle of creation; I know I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for your sake. Expect me at eight; and believe me to be ever, my dearest madam, yours most entirely, Sylyandeb. LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 349 No. XX. When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate face— “On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man.” Or, as the same author finely says in another place— “ Let thy soul spring up, And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee.” I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look forward; in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out of the possibility of seeing you: till then, I shall write you often, but visit you seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the present moment is the worst: the lenient hand of Time is daily and hourly either lightening the burden, or making us insen¬ sible to the weight. None of these friends, I mean Mr —— and the other gentleman, can hurt your worldly support, and for their friendship, in a little time you will learn to be easy, and, by and by, to be happy without it. A decent means of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one firm trusty friend—can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy ? These are yours. To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight; probably for the last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of these two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the man, I do not think they are entitled to any in¬ formation. As to their jealousy and spying, I despise them.—Adieu, my dearest madam! Sylvandeb. No. XXI. Glasgow, Monday Evening, 9 o'clock. The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the attraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another the stronger is the attractive force; in my system, every mile-stone that marked my progress from Clarinda awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love ? Is your heart ill at ease ? I fear it. —God forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace which is more precious to me than my own. Be assured I shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all my thoughts—“be that hour darkness! let the shadows of death cover it! let it not be numbered in the hours of the day! ” “ When. I forget the darling theme, Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more 1 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! ” 35 © LETTERS TO CLARINDA. I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain ; * guess my pleasure.—To meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me; and here are we three spending the evening. I arrived here too late to write by post; but I ’ll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the fly, under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. I would write you a long letter, but for the present circumstance of my friend. Adieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to propose your health by way of grace-drink. Sylvandeb. No. XXII. Cumnock, March 2,1783. I hope, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda will not think my silence, for now a long week, has been in any degree owing to my forgetfulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I wrote you; and am here, returning from Dumfries¬ shire, at an inn, the post-office of the place, with just so longtime as my horse eats his corn, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation almost equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch’s mandate, when he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the venerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not broken the decree, at least not thrice a day. I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy in¬ telligent farmer, my father’s friend and my own, has been with me on the spot: he thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of the lands, much better pleased with them. I won’t mention this in writing to anybody but you and-. Don’t accuse me of being fickle : I have the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the one most likely to procure me indepen¬ dence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. I long to see you: your image is omnipresent to me ; nay, I am convinced I would soon idolatrise it most seriously; so much do absence and memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you—at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home to-night, to find a letter from you at the post-office in Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear hand since I left Edinburgh—a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell me, first of womankind ! will my warmest attach¬ ment, my sincerest friendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensation for the sacrifices you make for my sake ! If they will, they are yours. If I settle on the farm I propose, I am just a day and a half’s ride from Edinburgh. We will meet—don’t you say, “perhaps too often!’’ * His early friend, Kichard Brown, of Irvine. LETTERS TO CL A RIND A. 351 Farewell, my fair, my charming poetess! May all good things ever attend you ! I am ever, my dearest madam, yours, Sylvander. No. XXIII. Mossgiel, March 7, 1788. Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkind¬ ness, a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles excepted, that I believe I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have often allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the influence of female excellence. Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my passion ? You, my love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are the usual recurrences of life; your future views are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest madam, make a little allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short visit to a country full of friends, relations, and early inti¬ mates ? Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebodings, hopes, and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employment, his very existence, through future life ? Now that, not my apology, but my defence, is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification—would to Heaven you could in my adoption too ! I mean an adoption beneath the stars—an adoption where I might revel in the immediate beams of “ She, the bright sun of all her sex. ” I would not have you, my dear madam, so much hurt at Miss -’s coldness. ’Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness—we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property : and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly ours,let us eitherpity their prejudices, or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will say this is self-conceit; but I call it self- knowledge. The one is the overweening opinion of a fool, w T ho fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be thought; the other is the honest justice that a ipan of sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures. I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine, which, I assure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that this 35 2 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. causes you often much disquiet.—To return to Miss ——: she is most certainly a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. But can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda ? Not even prejudice will dare to say st>. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far beyond h«r : to wit, Miss- dare make no pretence; to Clarinda’s wit, scarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Miss -was never called out, either much to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been both; and has performed her part where Miss -would have sunk at the bare idea. Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan—“ Lord, send us a guid conceit o’ oursel!” Or, in the words of the auld sang, “ Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, And I’ll never mind any such foes.” There is an error in the commerce of intimacy . . .. way of exchange, have not an equivalent to give us; and, what is still worse, have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who is qualified to deal with us on our own terms; but that is a rarity. With almost everybody we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase—“ To gie sic like as we get. ” For this reason one should try to erect a kind of bank or storehouse in one’s own mind; or, as the Psalmist says, “We should commune with our own hearts, and be still.” This is exactly. No. XXIV. I own myself guilty, Clarinda; I should have written you last week; but when you recollect, my dearest madam, that yours of this night’s post is only the third I have got from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. I have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a letter, except I have time and possession of my faculties so as to do some justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. For instanoe, yesterday I dined at a friend’s at some distance; the savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl:—this day—sick—headache—low spirit—mise¬ rable—fasting, except for a draught of water or small beer: now eight o’clock at night—only able to crawl ten minutes’ walk into Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasurable hope of hearing from the mistress of my soul. But, truce with all this ! When I sit down to write to you, all is harmony and peace. A hundred times a-day do I figure you, before LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 353 your taper, your book, or work laid aside, as I get within the room. How happy have I been! and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the life of man, is sacred to happiness! I could moralise to-night like a death’s head.— “ Oh, what is life, that thoughtless wish of all! A drop of honey in a draught of gall.” Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. “ None saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth, songs in the night; who teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more understanding than the fowls of the air.” Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! Give me to act up to the dignity of my nature ! Give me to feel “ another’s woeand continue with me that dear-loved friend that feels with mine ! The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man, and the well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most sub¬ stantial sources of happiness. Sylvander. No. XXV.* 1793. Before you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be informed of you how I shall write you ? “ In friendship,” you say; and I have many a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of friend¬ ship to you; but it will not do : ’tis like Jove grasping a pop¬ gun, after having wielded his thunder. When I take up the pen, recollection ruins me. Ah ! my ever dearest Clarinda ! Clarinda ! —what a host of memory’s tenderest offspring crowd on my fancy at that sound ! But I must not indulge that subject—you have for¬ bid it. I am extremely happy to learn that your precious health is re-established, and that you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfac¬ tion in existence, which health alone can give us. My old friend has indeed been kind to you. Tell him, that I envy him the power of serving you. I had a letter from him a while ago, but it was so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of his clients, that I could scarcely bear to read it, and have not yet answered it. He is a good honest fellow ; and can write a friendly letter, which would do equal honour to his head and his heart ; as a whole sheaf of his letters I have by me will witness : and though Fame does not blow her trumpet at my approach now, as she did then, when he first honoured me with his friendship, yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid in my grave, I wish to be stretched at my full length, that I may occupy every inch of ground which I have a right to. You would laugh were you to see me where I am just now!— * This letter was written after the poet’s marriage. 354 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. would to heaven you were here to laugh with me ! though I am afraid that crying would be our first employment. Here am I set, a solitary hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a soli¬ tary bottle of wine by me—as grave and as stupid as an owl—but, like that owl, still faithful to my old song. In confirmation of which, by dear Mrs Mack, here is your good health ! may the hand- waled benisons o’ Heaven bless your bonnie face; and the wretch wha skellies at your weelfare, may the auld tinkler diel get him to clout his rotten heart! Amen. You must know, my dearest madam, that these now many years, wherever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called on as a toast, I constantly give you; but as your name has never passed my lips, even to my most intimate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs Mack. This is so well known among my acquaintances that when my married lady is called for, the toast¬ master will say—“ Oh, we need not ask him who it is—here’s Mrs Mack!” I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot a round of toasts, which I call a round of Arcadian Shepherdesses; that is a round of favourite ladies, under female names celebrated in ancient song; and then you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness! In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, Point out a cens’ring world, and bid me fear; Above that world on wings of love I rise, I know its worst, and can that worst despise. “Wrong’d, injured, shunn’d, unpitied, unredrest, The mock’d quotation of the scorner’s jest,” Let Prudence’ direst bodements on me fail, Clarinda, rich reward! o’erpays them all! I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do not know if they are worth postage.—Tell me . Sylvawder. COMMONPLACE BOOKS. FIRST COMMONPLACE BOOK. BEGUN IN APRIL 1783. TO ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. My dear Sir, —In rummaging over some old papers, I lighted 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 some¬ body capable of appreciating their value. It sets off thus :—• “ Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps op Poetry, &c., by Robert Burness; —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 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 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, 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, design’d! Such was our youthful air, and shape, ami lace, Such the soft image of our youthful mind.”— Ibid. 35 6 COMMONPLACE BOOKS. April 1783. 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 encomiums that have been passed upon it. If anything on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return, of affection. August. There is certainly some connexion between love, and music, and poetry; and, therefore, I have always thought it a fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love-composition : <; As towards her cot he jogg’d along, Her name was frequent in his song.” For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. The following composition was the first of my performances, and done at an early period of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The performance is, indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am always pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had this opinion of her then—but I actually think so still, now that the spell is long since broken, and the enchantment at an end. “ Oh, once I loved a bonnie lass,” &c.* REMORSE. September. . I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most ■painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordi¬ nary 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 own follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time to have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command. March 1784. I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about * See “ My Handsome Nell,” p. 300. COMMONPLACE BOONS. 357 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, besides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us examine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty of, nor from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circum¬ stance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped because he was out of the line of such temptation; and what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world’s good opinion, because the world does not know all: I say, any man who can thus think will scan the fail¬ ings, 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 farther than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by thoughtless prodigality 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. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, written 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 conceit from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will 1 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 where Lugar flows,” &c.* March 1784. There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broken by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following:— “0 thou G-reat Being ! what thou art,” &c.f * See “ My Nannie, O,” p. 301. t See “Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish,” p. 6. 35 8 COMMONPLACE BOOKS. April. The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification; but, as tbe sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over. “ My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, 0,” &c* j^pru. 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 by, these terms do not, with propriety enough, express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but, without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent—in particular Tie 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 whose heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. August. The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the arrange¬ ment of my ideas, I must wait till further experience and nicer observation throw more light on the subject.—In the meantime, I shall set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I belong to :— “There’s nought but care on ev’ryhan’. In ev’ry hour that passes, O,” &c.f As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the above verses describe—one who spends the hours and thoughts which the vocations of the day can spare, with Ossian, Shakespeare, * See p. 306. t See “Green grow tbe Rashes, 0,” p. 312. COMMONPLACE BOOKS . 359 Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c.; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart’s-dear bonnie lass in view—I say I do not see that the turn of mind and pursuits of such a one are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue than the even lawful bust¬ ling and straining after the world’s riches and honours} and I do not see but he may gain heaven as well— which, by the by, 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 spattering all about him, gains some of life’s little 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. August. A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threat¬ ens me, first put nature on the alarm:— “O thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear I ” &c. * EGOTISMS EEOM MY OWN SENSATIONS. May. I don’t well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other, though I am, when I have a mind, pretty generally beloved, yet I never could get the art of commanding respect—I imagine it is owing to my being deficient in what Sterne calls “ that understrap¬ ping virtue of discretion.”—I am so apt to a lapsus linguce that I sometimes think the character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very much apropos to myself—that he was a com¬ pound of great talents and great folly.— N.B .—To try if I can discover the causes of this wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it. However I am pleased with the works of our Scottish poets, par¬ ticularly the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergus- son, yet I am hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods, haughs, &c., immortalised in such celebrated perform¬ ances, while my dear native country, the ancient bailieries of Oar- rick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous both in ancient and modem times for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants; a country where civil, and particularly religious, liberty have ever found their first support and their last asylum; a country, the birthplace of many * See « A Prayer in the Prospect of Deatli,” p. 9. 3 6 ° COMMONPLACE BOONS. famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious Wallace, the saviour of his country; yet, we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source and winding sweep of Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am far un¬ equal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, though no young poet, nor young soldier’s heart ever beat more fondly for fame than mine— “And if there is no other scene of being Where my insatiate wish may have its fill,— This something at my heart that heaves for room. My best, my dearest part, was made in vain.” September. There is a great irregularity in the old Scottish songs, a redun¬ dancy of syllables with respect to the exactness of accent and measure that the English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously, with the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the fine old song of “ The Mill, Mill, 0,” to give it a plain, prosaic reading, it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the song set to the same tune in Bremner’s collection of Scotch songs, which begins “ To Fanny fair could I impart,” &c., it is most exact measure, and yet, let them both be sung before a real critic, one above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,—how flat and spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely methodical, compared with the wild-warbling cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first!—This is particularly the case with all those airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people—a certain happy arrangement of old Scotch sylla¬ bles, and yet, very frequently, nothing, nor even like rhyme, a sameness of jingle, at the ends of the lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that, perhaps, it might be possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our most favourite airs, particularly that class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand rand it has often given me many a heart ache to reflect that such glorious old bards—bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature—that their very names (oh, how mortifying to a bard’s vanity!) are now “ buried among the wreck of things which were.” COMMONPLACE BOOKS. 361 0 ye illustrious names unknown ! wlio coulrl 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 unfortunate 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 woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse: she taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! September. There is a fragment in imitation of an old Scotch sqng, well known among the country ingle sides.—I cannot tell the name, neither of the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another.—By the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental that when one would' compose to them, to “ south the tune,” as our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration, and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our own Scottish poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times “When clouds in skies do come together To hide the brightness of the sun, There will surely be some pleasant weather When a’ their storms are past and gone.* October 1785. If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil’s dear-bought experience.—I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon, “ turned my eyes to behold madness and folly.” Hay, I have, with all the ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accom¬ panied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. B. B. [Here the manuscript abruptly closes .] * Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before this verse.—IB. 362 COMMONPLACE BOOKS. SECOND COMMONPLACE BOOK* BEGUN- AT EDINBURGH, APRIL 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 cartload of recollection.” I don’t know how it is with the world in general, but, with me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination with his or her own remark; and at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and pene¬ tration. 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 passes around them, except where that observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are capable of so intimate and cordial a coali¬ tion of friendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with unre¬ served confidence to another, without hazard of losing part of that respect which man deserves from man; or, from the unavoidable imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. For these reasons, I am determined to make these pages my con- * The above memoranda formed a part of the rough materials out of which Bums composed a more extended and elaborate journal, commenced in the spring of the year 1787, in which he recorded his observations on men and manners, literary anecdotes, scraps of verse, favourite passages from his letters, and not a little searching criticism. Of that valuable volume, nothing it is believed now exists, save the fragments contained in the following pages. Cromelc announces its probable fate in these words :—“On his arrival in Edin¬ burgh, Burns took lodgings with a Mrs Carfrae, in the Lawnmarket, where a person, a carpenter, then working at Leith, often called to see him. This man, in the latter part of the year 1787, or beginning of 1788, enlisted into the Company of Artificers then raising to go to Gibraltar. Just before he set off he got access to Burns’s room, in his absence, and stole the book, which contained a faithful record of everything interesting that happened to him at Edinburgh, with characteristic sketches of the different literary gentlemen to whom he had been introduced. He was written to repeatedly to restore the book, a clasped quarto, but in vain. He had even the audacity to acknowledge the theft, but he refused to part with the journal. It is supposed that he died in the year 1798, as he has not been heard of since.” COMMONPLACE BOOKS. 3 6 3 fidant. I will sketch, every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anec¬ dotes and take down remarks, in the old law pbrase, without feud or favour. Where I hit on anything 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 in serted.—In short, never did four shillings purchase so much friend¬ ship, since confidence went first to market, or honesty was set up to sale. To these seemingly invidious, but too just, ideas of human friend¬ ship, I would cheerfully make one exception—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 by 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 I I have heard and read a good deal of philosophy, benevolence, and greatness of soul: and when rounded with the flourish of decla¬ matory periods, or poured in the mellifluence of Parnassian measure, they have a tolerable effect on a musical ear ; but when all these high-sounding professions are compared with the very act and deed, as it is usually performed, I do not think there is anything in, or belonging to, human nature so badly disproportionate. In fact, were it not for a very few of our kind, among whom an honoured friend of mine—whom to you, sir, I will not name—in a distin¬ guished instance, the very existence of magnanimity, generosity, and all their kindred virtues, would be as much a question with metaphysicians as the existence of witchcrafts. The whining cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old father Smeaton, Whig minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves. 3 6 4 COMMONPLACE BOOKS. graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline .... ,—a sense¬ less rabble. I glory in being a poet, and I want to be thought a wise man. I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. “ Some folk liae a hantle o’ fauts, and I ’in but a ne’er-do-weel.” To close this melancholy reflection, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick by the title of the wabster’s grace— “Some say we’re thieves, and e’en sae are we I Some say we lie, and e’en sae do we I Gude forgi’e us ! and I hope sae will he! Up!—and to your looms, lads 1” I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honour. I take it to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, some modification of dulness. In two or three small instances, lately, I have been most shamefully out. An old man’s dying, except he has been a very benevolent char¬ acter, or in some particular situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think an event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent animal; but he is dropt into such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, ^hungry, growling, mul¬ tiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other food, that, in fact, he must lay aside his cares for others that he may look properly to himself. Poets, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of beauty. If they are really poets of Nature’s making, their feelings must be finer, and their taste more delicate than those of most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn; the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of winter,—the poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of a fine woman, (by far the finest part of God’s works below,) have sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of mankind are strangers to. COMMONPLACE BOOKS. 3 6 5 What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and happy, by their notice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of depressed worth ! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the purse. The goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessened; but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of enjoyment ? We wrap up ourselves in the cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls ! I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave; and I wish that which piety believes, and virtue deserves, may be all matter-of-fact. Strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I, likewise, in the pride of de¬ spising old women’s stories, ventured in “ the daring path Spinosa trod;” but experience of the weakness, not the strength, of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. - REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONGS & BALLADS, ANCIENT AND MODERN; WITH ANECDOTES OF THEIR AUTHORS. BY EOBEET BUENS. “ There needs na be so great a phrase, Wi’ dringing dull Italian lays, I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hundred score o’ ’em; They’re douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie; They’re douff and dowie at the best, Wi’ a’ their variorum : They’re douff and dowie at the best, Their allegroes, and a’ the rest, They cannot please a Scottish taste, Compared wi’ Tullochgorum.” Rev. John Skinner. “The following Remarks on Scottish Song,” says Cunningham, “exist in the handwriting of Burns, in an interleaved copy of the first four volumes of Johnson’s Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar’s Carse. On the death of Mrs Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bay ley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr Cromek to transcribe and pub¬ lish them in his volume of the Reliques of Burns.” 368 HE MARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr M‘Vicar, purser of the Solebay man-of-war.—This I had from Dr Blacklock. The Highland King, intended as a parody on the former, was the production of a young lady, the friend of Charles Wilson, of Edinburgh, who edited a collec¬ tion of songs, entitled “ Cecilia,” which appeared in 1779. The following are specimens of these songs:— THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. How blest that youth whom gentle fate Has destined for so fair a mate 1 Has all these wond’ring gifts in store, And each returning day brings more ; No youth so happy can be seen, Possessing thee, my Highland Queen. THE HIGHLAND KING. Jamie, the pride of a’ the green, Is just my age, e’en gay fifteen: "When first I saw him, 'twns the day That ushers in the sprightly May; Then first I felt love’s powerful sting, And sigh’d for my dear Highland King. THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. No sordid wish, nor trifling joy, Her settled calm of mind destroy , Strict honour fills her spotless soul, And adds a lustre to the whole: A matchless shape, a graceful mien, All centre in my Highland Queen. THE HIGHLAND KING. Would once the dearest boy but say >Tis you I love; come, come away TJnto the Kirk, my love, let’s hie— Oh me! in rapture I comply: And I should then have cause to sing The praises of my Highland King. BESS THE GAWKIE.* This song shows that the Scottish Muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald;f as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two * The Rev. James Muirhead, minister of Urr, in Galloway, and whose name occurs in the Heron Eallads, and others of the poet’s satirical pieces, was the author of this song. f He was a London music-seller, and published a collection of Scottish tunes, entitled, “The Caledonian’s Pocket Companion.” REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 369 gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in tbe genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this. Blithe young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi’ Jamie ? Ah, na, lass, I’ll no gang there, Nor about Jamie talc nae care, Nor about Jamie tak nae care, Bor he’s ta’en up wi’ Maggy! Bor hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see your-Jamie pass, Wi’ meikle gladness in his face, Out o’er the muir to Maggy? I wat he gae her mony a kiss, And Maggy took them ne’er amiss ; ’Tween ilka smack, pleased her with this, That Bess was but a gawkie. But whisht!—nae mair of this we ’ll speak, Bor yonder Jamie does us meet; Instead of Meg he kiss’d sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie. Oh, dear Bess, I hardly knew, When I came by, your gown’s sae new, I think you’ve got it wet wi’ dew; Quoth she, that’s like a gawkie. The lassies fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue That ever Maggy’s face he knew, Or yet ca’d Bess a gawkie. As they went o’er the muir they sang, The hills and dales with echoes rang, The hills and dales with echoes rang, Gang o’er the muir to Maggy. OH, OPEN - THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. It is somewhat singular that in Lanark, Renfrew’-, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dumfries shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of, these counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by tradition and in printed collections, “ The Lass of Lochroyan,” which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway. Oh, open the door, lord Gregory, Oh, open and let me in; The wind blows through my yellow hair, The dew draps o’er my chin. If you are the lass that I loved once, As I trow you are not she, Come gie me some of the tokens That pass’d ’tween you and me. 37 ° REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Ah, wae be to you, Gregory I An ill death may you die; You will not be the death of one, But you’ll be the death of three. Oh, don’t you mind, lord Gregory ? ’Twas down at yonder burn side We changed the ring off our fingers, And I put mine on thine. THE BANKS OF THE TWEED, THIS song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these .stric¬ tures, beg leave to distinguish by the appellation of Anglo-Scottish pro¬ ductions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt. For to visit my ewes and to see my lambs play, By the banks of the Tweed and the groves I did stray; But my Jenny, dear Jenny, how oft have I sigh’d, And have vowed endless love if you would be my bride. To the altar of Hymen, my fair one, repair, ' Where a knot of affection shall tie the fond pair, To the pipe’s sprightly notes the gay dance will we lead, And will bless the dear grove by the banks of the Tweed. THE BEDS OF SWEET BOSES. This song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print. —When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re¬ member to have heard those fanatics, the Buclianites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air. As I was a walking one morning in May, The little birds were singing delightful and gay ; The little birds were singing delightful and gay; Where I and my true love did’often sport and play, Down among’the beds of sweet roses, Where I and my true love did often sport and play, Down among the beds of sweet roses. My daddy and my mammy I oft have heard them say, That I was a naughty boy, and did often sport and play ; But I never liked in all my life a maiden that was shy, Down among the beds of sweet roses. BOSLIN CASTLE. These beautiful verses were the production of a Bichard Hewit, a young man that Dr Blackl ek (to whom I am indebted for the anec- REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 371 dote) kept for some years as an amanuensis.* I do not know who is the author of the second song to the same tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scottish music, gives the air to Oswald; hut in Oswald’s own collection of Scots tunes, when he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune. ’Twas in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin, with the morning ray, Arose and sung his rural lay. Of Nanny’s charms the shepherd sung. The hills and dales with Nanny rung J While Roslin Castle heard the swain, And echo’d back the cheerful strain. Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring With rapture warms; awake and sing! Awake and join the vocal throng Who hail the morning with a song; To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, Oh, bid her haste and come away ; In sweetest smiles herself adorn, And add new graces to the morn l Oh, hark, my love 1 on every spray Each feather’d warbler tunes his lay; 'Tis beauty fires the ravish’d throng, And love inspires the melting song : Then let my raptured notes arise, Eor beauty darts from Nanny’s eyes; And love my rising bosom warms, And fills my soul with sweet alarms. SECOND VERSION. Erom Roslin Castle’s echoing walls. Resound my shepherd’s ardent calls My Colin bids me come away, And love demands I should obey. His melting strain, and tuneful lay, So much the charms of love display, I yield—nor longer can refrain, To own my love, and bless my swain. No longer can my heart conceal The painful-pleasing flame I feel: My soul retorts the am’rous strain; And echoes back in love again. Where lurks my songster ? from what grove Does Colin pour his notes of love ? Oh, bring me to the happy bower, Where mutual love may bliss secure i Ye vocal hills, that catch the song, Repeating as it flies along, To Colin’s ears my strain convey, And say, I haste to come away. * This gentleman subsequently became Secretary to Lord Milton, (then Lord Justice-Clerk,) but the fatiguing nature of his duties in that position hurt his health, and he died in 1794. 372 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. Ye zephyrs soft, that fan the gale, Waft to my love the soothing tale : In whispers all my soul express, And tell I haste his arms to bless 1 Oh ! come, my love ! thy Colin’s lay With rapture calls, oh, come away 1 Come while the muse this wreath shall twine Around that modest brow of thine ; Oh ! hither haste, and with thee bring That beauty blooming like the spring ; Those graces that divinely shine, And charm this ravish’d breast of mine ! SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO’ SHE. This song, for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old. Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo’ she, Saw ye Johnnie cummin, Oh, saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo’ she ; Saw ye Johnnie cummin, Wi’ his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie runnin’, quo’ she ; And his-doggie runnin’ ? Pee him, father, fee him, quo’ she ; Pee him, father, fee him : Por he is a gallant lad, And a weel doin’; And a’ the wark about the house Gaes wi’ me when I see him, quo’ she; Wi’ me when I see him. What will I do wi’ him, hussy ? What will I do wi’ him ? He’s ne’er a sark upon his back, And I hae nane to gie him. I hae twa sarks into my kist. And ane o’ them I’ll gie him, And for a mark of mair fee, Dinna stand wi’ him, quo’ she; Dinna stand wi’ him. For weel do I lo’e him, quo’ she : Weel do I lo’e him : Oh, fee him, father, fee him, quo’ she; Fee him, father, fee him : He ’ll haud the pleugh, thrash i’ the bam, And lie wi’ me at e’en, quo’ she ; Lie wi’ me at e’en. CLOUT THE CALDRON. A TRADITION is mentioned in the Bee , that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say that, if he were going to he REMARK’S ON SCO TTISH SONG . 373 hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way as to hear “Clout the Caldron” played. I have met with another tradition, that the old song to this tune, Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or ony broken clianlers, was composed on one of the Kenmure family in the cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of “ The Blacksmith and his Apron,” which, from the rhythm, seems to have been a line of some old song to the tune. Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or ony broken chanlers ? Bor I’m a tinker to my trade, And newly come frae Flanders, As scant o’ siller as o’ grace, Disbanded, we’ve a bad run ; Gang tell the lady o’ the place, I’m come to clout her caldron. Madam, if ye hae wark for me, , I ’ll do’t to your contentment. And dinna care a single flie Bor ony man’s resentment: For, lady fair, though I appear To every ane a tinker, Yet to yoursel I’m bauld to tell I am a gentle jinker. Love, Jupiter into a swan Turn’d for his lovely Leda; He like a bull o’er meadows ran, To carry off Europa. Then may not I, as well as he, To cheat your Argus blinker, And win your love, like mighty Jove, Thus hide me in a tinker ? Sir, ye appear a cunning man, But this fine plot ye ’ll fail in, Bor there is neither pot nor pan Of mine ye ’ll drive a nail in. Then bind your budget on your back, And nails up in your apron, For I’ve a tinker under tack That’s used to clout my caldron. SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? This charming song is much older, and indeed superior to Pam say’s verses, The Toast,” as he calls th°m. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one ; but rrS .^ 1 has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies’ reading. The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear:— 374 REMARK'S ON SCOTTISH SONG. Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie Linkin o’er the lea ? High kilted was she, High kilted was she, High kilted was she. Her coat aboon her knee. What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken her be ? (by.) * Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song, yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be the old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire¬ side circle of our peasantry; while that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd’s mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection. Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Coming o’er the lea ? Sure a finer creature Ne’er was form’d by nature, So complete each feature, So divine is she. Oh! how Peggy charms me I Every look still warms me ; Every thought alarms me ; Lest she love nae me. Peggy doth discover Nought but charms all over ; Nature bids me love her. That’s a law to me. Who would leave a lover, To become a rover 1 No, I’ll ne’er give over, Till I happy be I Eor since love inspires me, As her beauty fires me, And her absence tires me, Nought can please but she. When I hope to gain her, Pate seems to detain her, Could I but obtain her, Happy would I be I * The following verse was added by the Ettrick Shepherd •— Maggie’s a lovely woman, She proves true to no man, She proves true to no man, And has proven false to me. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 375 I ’ll lie down before her, Bless, sigh, and adore her, With faint look implore her, Till she pity me i THE FLO WEES OF EDINBUEGH. This song is one of the many effusions of Scots Jacobitism. The title “Flowers of Edinburgh” has no manner of connexion with the present verses; so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains. By the by, it is singular enough that the Scottish Muses were all Jacobites. I have paid more attention to every description of Scots songs than perhaps any body living has done ; and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Bruns¬ wick, while there are hundreds satirising them. This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said that my heart ran before my head; and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting than . . , , . My love was once a bonny lad; He was the flower of a’ his kin; The absence of his bonny face Has rent my tender heart in twain, I day nor night find no delight— In silent tears I still complain ; And exclaim ’gainst those, my rival foes, That hae ta’en fra me my darling swain. Despair and anguish fill my breast Since I have lost my blooming rose: I sigh and moan while others rest; His absence yields me no repose. To seek my love I ’ll range and rove Through every grove and distant plain; Thus I’ll never cease, but spend my days T’ hear tidings from my darling swain. There’s nothing strange in nature’s chance. Since parents show such cruelty ; They caused my love from me to range, And know not to what destiny. The pretty kids and tender lambs May cease to sport upon the plain ; But I ’ll mourn and lament, in deep discontent, Bor the absence of my darling swain. 2 B 376 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. JAMIE GAY. Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo-Scottish piece. Of Jamie Gay it will be enough to quote the first line:— “ As Jamie Gay gang’d blithe his way.” A Scottish bard would have written :— “ As Jamie Gay gaed blithe his way.” The song was originally entitled “ The happy Meeting,” and frequently used to be sung at Banelagh with great applause. MY DEAR JOCKEY. Anotheb Anglo-Scottish production. We subjoin the first two verses of the lady’s lament:— My laddie is gane far away o’er the plain, While in sorrow behind I am forced to remain; Though blue bells and violets the hedges adorn, Though trees are in blossom and sweet blows the thorn, No pleasure they give me, in vain they look gay; , There’s nothing can please me now Jockey’s away ; Forlorn I sit singing, and this is my strain, “ Haste, haste, my dear Jockey, to me back again.” When lads and their lasses are on the green met, They dance and they sing, and they laugh and they chat * Contented and happy, with hearts full of glee, I can’t, without envy, their merriment see : Those pleasures offend me, my shepherd’s not there! No pleasure I relish that Jockey don’t share; r t makes me to sigh, I from tears scarce refrain, I wish my dear Jockey return’d back again. FYE, GAE RUB HER O’ER WF STRAE. It is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay’s beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature, and poetry, particularly songs, is always ltess or more localised (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. To this day, among people who know nothing of Ramsay’s verses, the following'is the song, and all the song that ever I heard: Gin ye meet a bonny lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 377 Fye, gae mb her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae : And gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae. “Ramsay’s spirited imitation,” says Cromek, “ of the ‘ Tides ut alta stet nive candidum, Socrate,’ of Horace, is considered as one of the happiest efforts of the author’s genius.—For an elegant critique on the poem, and a comparison of its merits with those of the original, the reader is referred to Lord Woodhouselee’s ‘Remarks on the Writings of Ramsay.’ ” Look up to Pentland’s towering tap, Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw. O’er ilka cleiigh, ilk scar, and slap, As high as ony Roman wa’. Driving their baws frae whins or tee, There are nae gowfers to be seen; Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee The byass-bouls on Tamson’s Green. Then fling on coals; and ripe the ribs, And beek the house baith but and ben; That mutchkin stowp it hauds but dribs, Then let’s get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon ; It makes a man baith gash and bauld, And heaves his soul beyond the moon. Let next day come as it thinks fit, The present minute’s only ours, On pleasure let’s employ our wit, And laugh at Fortune’s fickle powers. Be sure ye dinna quit the grip Of ilka joy, when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o’er a rung. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly tastie for a kiss; Frae her fair finger whoop a ring, As token of a future bliss. These benisons, I’m very sure, Are of the gods’ indulgent grant; Then, surly carles, whist, forbear To plague us wi’ your whining cant. Sweet youth’s a blithe and heartsome time; Then, lads and lasses, while ’tis May, Gae pu’ the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delyte, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath. And kisses, laying a’ the wyte On you, if she kep ony skaith. 373 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. “ Haith, ye’re ill-bred,” she’ll smiling say; “Ye’ll worry me, ye greedy rook;” Syne frae yer arms she ’ll rin away, And hide hersel in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want, And plainly tells you, to your face, Nineteen nay-says are half a grant. The song of “Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae” is composed of the first four lines mentioned by Burns, and the seven concluding verses of Ramsay’s spirited and elegant Scottish version of Horace’s ninth Ode, given above. THE LASS OF LIVINGSTON. The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.— It begins, “ The bonny lass o’ Livingston, Her name ye ken, ner name ye ken, And she has written in her contract, To lie her lane, to lie her lane,” Ac., Ac The modern version by Allan Ramsay is as follows :— Pain’d with her slighting Jamie’s love, Bell dropt a tear, Bell dropt a tear; The gods descended from above, Well pleased to hear, well pleased to hear. They heard the praises of the youth From her own tongue, from her own tongue, Who now converted was to truth, And thus she sung, and thus she sung : Bless’d days, when our ingenuous sex, More frank and kind, more frank and kind, Did not their loved adorers vex, But spoke their mind, but spoke theirmind. Repenting now, she promised fair, Would he return, would he return, She ne’er again would give him care, Or cause to mourn, or cause to mourn Why loved I the deserving swain, Yet still thought shame, yet still thought shames When he my yielding heart did gain, To own my flame, to own my flame. Why took I pleasure to torment, And seem too coy, and seem too coy, Which makes me now, alas ! lament My slighted joy, my slighted joy. Ye fair, while beauty’s in its spring, Own your desire, own your desire, While love’s young power, with his soft wing, Fans up the fire, fans up the fire; Oh, do not with a silly pride, Or low design, or low design, ■Refuse to be a happy bride, But answer plain, but answer plain. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 379 Thus the fair mourner ’wail’d her crime, With flowing eyes, with flowing eyes ; Glad Jamie heard her all the time With sweet surprise, with sweet surprise. Some god had led him to the grove, His mind unchanged, his mind unchanged Flew to her arms, and cried, my love, I am revenged, I am revenged. THE LAST TIME I CAME O’ER THE MOOR. Ramsay found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to he quite in the spirit of the air. “There are," says Allan Cunningham, “some fine verses in this song, though some fastidious critics pronounce them over warm : ”— The last time I came o’er the moor, I left my love behind me; Ye powers, what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me. Soon as the ruddy morn display’d, The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid In fit retreats for wooing. Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting: We kiss’d and promised time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, Even kings, when she was nigh me; In rapture I beheld her eyes. Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call’d where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where danger may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, And feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there’s not one placo To let a rival enter; Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall centre : Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her. 380 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. The next time I go o’er the moor, She shall a lover find me ; And that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind me : Then Hymen’s sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom; There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom. JOHNNIE’S GRAY BREEKS. Though this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the North of Ireland, called “ The Weaver and his Shuttle, O,” which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. When I was in my se’enteenth year, I was baith blithe and bonny, 0 ; The lads lo’ed me baith far and near ; But I lo’ed none but Johnnie, O. He gain’d my heart in twa three weeks, He spak sae blithe and kindly, 0 ; And I made him new gray breeks, That fitted him maist finely, O. He was a handsome fellow ; His humour was baith frank and free ; His bonny locks sae yellow, Like gowd they glitter’d in my ,ee ; His dimpled chin and rosy cheeks, And face sae fair and ruddy,' 0; And then a-day his gray breeks Were neither auld nor duddy, 0. But now they are threadbare worn, They ’re wider than they wont to be ; They ’re a’ tash’d-like, and unco tom. And clouted sail - on ilka knee. But gin I had a simmer’s day, As I hae had right mony, O, I’d make a web o’ new gray. To be breeks to my Johnnie, O. For he’s weel worthy o’ them, And better than I hae to gie; But I’ll take pains upo’ them, And strive frae fau’ts to keep them free To deed him weel shall be my care, And please him a’ my study, O : But he maun wear the auld pair A wee, though they be duddy, 0. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 3 81 THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.* Another, but very pretty, Anglo-Scottish piece. How blest has my time been, what joys have I known, Since wedlock’s soft bondage made Jessy my own; So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, In revels all day with the nymphrf on the green ; Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles. And meets me at night with complaisance and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and her humour bloom all the year through; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives t,o her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair, In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. THE LASS OF PATIE’S MILL. In Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localised (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the north of Scotland, and is likewise claimed by Ayrshire. The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it from John, the last Earl of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New Mills, at a place called Patie’s Mill, they were' struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song. Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song. The lass of Patie’s mill, So bonny, blithe, and gay, In spite of all my skill, Hath stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay, Bare-headed on the green, Love midst her locks did play, And wanton’d in her een. * This song was composed by Edward Moore, author of the well known tragedy of the “Gamester,” and other works. 382 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Her arms white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn, To age it would give youth, To press them with his hand Through all my spirits ran An ecstasy of bliss, When I such sweetness fand, Wrapt in a balmy kiss. Without the help of art, Like flowers which grace the wild. She did her sweets impart, Whene’er she spoke or smiled. Her looks they were so mild, Tree from affected pride, She me to love beguiled : I wish’d her for my bride. ' Oh, had I all that wealth Hopetoun’s high mountains fill. Insured long life and health. And pleasure at my will, I’d promise and fulfil, That none but bonny she, The lass o’ Patie’s Mill, Should share the same wi’ me. THE TURNIMSPIKE. There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour omitted in this set where I have placed the asterims. They tak te horse then by te head, And tere tey mak her stan’, man ; Me tell tem, me hae seen te day Tey no had sic comman’, man. A Highlander laments, in a half-serious and half-comic way, the privations which the act of parliament anent kilts has made him endure, and the miseries which turnpike roads and toll-bars have brought upon his country: — Hersell pe Highland shentleman, Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man; And mony alterations seen Amang te Lawland Whig, man First when her to the Lawlands came, Nainsell was driving cows, man ; There was nae laws about him’s nerse, About the preeks or trews, man. Nainsell did wear the philabeg, The plaid prick’t on her shoulder; The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, De pistol sharged wi’ pouder. But for whereas these cursed preeks Wherewith her nerse be lockit, Oh hon ! that e’er she saw the day 1 For a’ her houghs be prokit. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 383 Every ting in de Highlands now Pe turn’d to alteration ; The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, And tat’s te great vexation. Scotland be tum’t a Ningland now, And laws pring on de cadger; Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, But oh! she fear te sodger. Anither law came after that, Me never saw te like, man ; They mak a lang road on te crund, And ca’ him Turnimspike, man. And wow 1 she pe a pouny road, Like louden corn-rigs, man ; Where twa carts may gang on her, And no preak itheVs legs, man. They sharge a penny for ilka horse, In troth she ’ll no be sheaper, Por nought put gaen upo’ the ground, And they gie me a paper. Nae doubts, himsel maun tra her purse And pay them what hims like, man ; I’ll see a shugement on his toor ; That filthy Turnimspike, man. But I’ll awa’ to te Highland hills, Where teil a ane dare turn her, And no come near your Turnimspike* Unless it pe to purn her. HIGHLAND LADDIE. As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs of that name. That which I take to he the oldest is to be found in the Musical Museum, beginning “I hae been at Crookieden.” One reason for my thinking so is that Oswald has it in his collection by the name of “ The auld Highland Laddie.” It is also known by the name of “ Jinglan Johnnie,” which is a well-known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jaco¬ bite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of “Highland Laddie,” while everybody knows “Jinglan Johnnie.” The song begins Jinglan John, the meikle man, He met wi’ a lass was blithe and bonny. Another “ Highland Laddie” is also in the Museum, vol. v., which I take to be Ramsay’s original, as he has borrowed the chorus—“Oh, my bonny Highland lad,” Ac. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus, and has humour in its composition; it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song. It begins 3^4 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. As I cam o’er Caimey-Mount, And down amang the blooming heather, Kindly stood the milking-shiel, To shelter frae the stormy weather. Oh, my bonny Highland lad, My winsome, weel-fard Highland laddie ; Wha wad mind the wind and rain, Sae weel row’d in his tartan plaidie? Now Phoebus blinkit on the bent, And o’er the knowes the lambs were bleating; But he wan my heart’s consent To be his ain at the neist meeting. Oh, my bonny Highland lad, My winsome, weel-fard Highland laddie ; Wha wad mind the wind and rain, Sae weel row’d in his tartan plaidie ? This air and the common “Highland Laddie” seem only to he dif¬ ferent sets. Another “Highland Laddie,” also in the Museum, vol. v., is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. One of these old songs to it only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines :— Whare hae ye been a’ day, Bonny laddie, Highland laddie ? Down the back o’ Bell’s brae, Courtin’ Maggie, courtin’ Maggie. Another* of this name is Dr Arne’s beautiful air called the new “Highland Laddie.” THE GENTLE SWAIN. To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses is downright prostitution of common sense! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. The Scottish version, written by Mr Mayne, commences thus Jeanie’s heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony yet, Her sang was aye, Of a’ I see. Commend me to my Johnnie yet. Bor air and late he has sic a gate To mak a body cheery, that 1 wish to be, before I die, His ain kind dearie yet. HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no means a bad one. The following is a specimen:— REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 3§5 The fields -were green, the hills were gay, And birds were singing on each spray, When Colin met me in the grove, And told me tender tales of love. Was ever swain so blithe as he, So kind, so faithful and so free ? In spite of all my friends could say, Young Cplin stole my heart away. FAIREST OF THE FAIR. It is too barefaced to take Dr Percy’s charming song, and, by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.—I was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have prevented such an impudent absurdity. The following is a complete copy of Percy’s beautiful lines:—. O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown ? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck’d with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? O Nancy, when thou ’rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? Say, canst thou face the parching ray. Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear; Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy! canst thou love so true. Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe ? Say, should disease or pain befall, , Wilt thou assume the nurse’s care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wflt thou o’er his breathless clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair? “ This,” writes Bums, “is perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English tanguage.” 386 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THE BLAITHRIE O’T. The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing. 0 "Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand To sing you a song which you did me command ; But my memory’s so bad, I had almost forgot That you call’d it the gear and the blaithrie o ’t. I ’ll not sing about confusion, delusion, nor pride, I ’ll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride; For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o’t. Though my lassie hae nae scarlets nor silks to put on, We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne; I wad rather hae my lassie, though she cam in her smock, Than a princess wi’ the gear and the blaithrie o’t. Though we hae nae horses nor menzie * at command; We will toil on our foot, and we’ll work wi’ our hand; And when wearied without rest, we ’ll find it sweet in any spot, And we ’ll value not the gear and the blaithrie o’t. If we hae ony babies, we ’ll count them as lent; Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ; For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but a groat Than the miser wi’ his gear and the blaithrie o’t. I ’ll not meddle wi’ the affair^ o’ the kirk or the queen; They ’re nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim ; On your kirk I ’ll ne’er encroach, but I’ll hold it still remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o’t. MAY EYE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. “Kate of Aberdeen” is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, de¬ serves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunning¬ ham one Sunday , as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native county, his reverence repri¬ manded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, “as he had no dinner to eat but what lay at the bottom of that pool I” This, Mr Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true. * Menzie = Retinue, followers. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 387 The silver moon’s enamour’d beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy Sleep, Where you ’ve so seldom been, Whilst I May’s wakeful vigils keep With Kate of Aberdeen 1 The nymphs and swains expectant wait, In primrose chaplets gay, Till mom unbars her golden gate, And gives the promised May. The nymphs and swains shall all declare The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen! I’ll tune my pipe to playful notes, And rouse yon nodding grove ; Till new-waked birds distend their throats, And hail the maid I love. At her approach, the lark mistakes, And quits the new-dress’d green : Fond bird i ’tis not the morning breaks ; ’Tis Kate of Aberdeen I Now blithesome o’ev the dewy mead, Where elves disportive play : The festal dance young shepherds lead, Or sing their love-tuned lay. Till May in morning robe draws nigh, And claims a Virgin Queen; The nymphs and swains, exulting, cry, Here’s Kate of Aberdeen 1 TWEED-SIDE. IN Ramsay’s Tea-talle Miscellany, he tells ns that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance, which songs are marked with the letters D. C., &c.—Old Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C. in «ae Tea-table were the composition of a Mr Crawford, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France. As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ram¬ say, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed-side is Mr Crawford’s, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Crawford 5 the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family,* after¬ wards married to a Mr John Ritchie. • In a copy of Cromek’s Reliques of Burns there is the following note on this passage in Sir Walter Scott’s handwriting:—“Miss Mary Lillias Scott was the eldest daughter of John Scott of Harden, and well known in the fashionable world by the nick-name of Cadie Scott, I believe, because she went to a masked ball in such a disguise. I remember licr, an old lady, distinguished for elegant 388 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed-side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which I still recollect the first— When Maggy and I was acquaint, I carried my noddle fu’ high; Nae lintwhite on a’ the green plain, Nor gowdspink, sae happy as I: But I saw her sae fair, aDd I lo’ed : I woo’d, but I cam nae great speed; So now I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.* * The following is Crawford’s song, which is still popular What beauties doth Flora disclose! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed I Yet Mary’s, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fahcy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure do yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird and sweet cooing dove With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the. mead, Let us see how the primroses spring, We’ll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather’d folks sing. How does my love pass the long day f Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray ? While happily she lies asleep ? Tweed’s murmurs should lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I’d steal an ambrosial kiss. ’Tis she does the virgin excel, No beauty with her may compare ; Love’s graces around her do dwell. She’s fairest, where thousands are fair, manners and high spirit, though struggling under the disadvantages of a narrow income, as her father’s estate, being entailed on heirs male, went to another branch of the Harden family, then called the High Chester family. I have heard a hundred times, from those Who lived at the period, that Tweed-side, and the song called Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, were both written upon this much-admired lady, and could add much proof on the subject, did space permit.” * The following is the other stanza:— To Maggy my love I did tell, Saut tears did my passion express ; Alas i for I lo’ed her o’er well, And the women lo’e sic a man less. Her heart it was frozen and cauld, Her pride had my ruin decreed ; Therefore I will wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. REMARKS OK SCOTTISH SONG .. 389 Say, charmer, where do thy flock stray ? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Is it on the sweet wending Tay, Or pleasanter banks of the Tweed 1 THE POSIE. It appears evident to me that Oswald composed his “ Roslin Castle” on the modulation of this air.* *—In the second part of Oswald’s, in the three first bars, he has eifher hit on a wonderful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed, the three first bars of the old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl’s voice, had no great merit.—The following is a specimen:— There was a pretty may, 1 and a milkin’ she went, Wi’ her red rosy cheeks and her coal black hair; And she has met a young man a cornin’ o’er the bent, With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. Oh, where are ye goin’, my ain pretty may, Wi’ thy red rosy cheeks and thy coal black hair ? Unto the yowes a milkin’, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. What if I gang alang wi’ thee, my ain pretty may, Wi’ thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hair? Wad I be aught the T?arse o’ that, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. MARY'S DREAM. The Mary here alluded to is generally supposed to be Miss Mary M‘Ghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr John Lowe,’h who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey’s Ghost.—I have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.—By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love affair. 1 Maid. * This is a mistake—Oswald was not the composer of Koslin Castle, t He was a native of Kenmore in Calloway, and was employed as a tutor in the family of M’Ghie of Airds, about 1770, when the incident recorded in the song occurred. Miss Mary M‘Ghie, a daughter of his employer’s, having been betrothed to a young gentleman of the name of Miller, who was at this time un¬ fortunately lost at sea, Lowe commemorated the melancholy event in the above beautiful song. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, where he made an unfortunate marriage, the grief occasioned by which drove him into dissipated habits that brought him to an early grave. 39 ° REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. The moon had climb’d the highest hill Which rises o’er the source of Dee And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When, soft and low, a voice she heard, Saying, “ Mary, weep no more for me I” She from her pillow gently raised Her head to ask who there might be; She saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale and hollow ee: O Mary dear! cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea; Far, far from thee I sleep in death,— So, Mary, weep no more for me! Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss’d upon the raging main, And long we strove our bark to save. But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chill’d my blood, My heart was fill’d with love for thee ; The storm is past, and I at rest, So, Mary, weep no more for me 0 maiden dear, thyself prepare, We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and 1 shall part no more. Loud crow’d the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me I” THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. BY MB DUDGEON. This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer’s son in Berwickshire. Up amang yon cliffy rocks. Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats, Lilting o’er her native notes. Hark, she sings, Young Sandie’s kind, And he’s promised aye to lo’e me, Here’s a brooch, I ne’er shall tine, Till he’s fairly married to me. Drive away, ye drone Time, And bring about our bridal day. Sandy herds a flock o’ sheep, Aften does he blaw the whistle, In a strain sae vastly sweet, Lam’ies listening dare na bleat; REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 391 He’s as fleet’s the mountain roe, Hardy as the Highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping aye his flock together; But wi’ plaid and bare houghs He braves the bleakest northern blast. Brawly he can dance and sing, Canty glee or Highland cronach : Nane can ever match his fling, At a reel, or round a ring; Wightly can he wield a rung, In a brawl he’s aye the bangster; A’ his praise can ne’er be sung By the langest winded sangster. Sangs that sing o’ Sandy, Seexn short, though they were e’er sae lang. I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN' A MIRE. I NEVEH heard more of the words of this old song than the title. The old song began with these characteristic words:— 1 wish my love were in a mire, That I might pu’ her out again. The verses in the Museum are merely a translation from Sappho by Ambrose hillips Blest as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while, So softly speak and sweetly smile. ’Twas this bereaved my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast, For while I gazed, in transport toss’d, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glow’d, the subtle flame Ban quick through all my vital frame; O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d ; My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d ; My feeble pulse forgot to play: I fainted—sunk—and died away. ALLAN WATER. This Allan Water, wliich the composer of the music has honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water in Strath-, allan. 392 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. What numbers shall the Muse repeat, What verse be found to praise my Annie; On her ten thousand graces wait, Each swain admires and owns she’s bonny. Since first she strode the happy plain, She set each youthful heart on fire; Each nymph does to her swain complain, That Annie kindles new desire. This lovely, darling, dearest care, This new delight, this charming Annie, Like summer’s dawn she’s fresh and fair, When Flora’s fragrant breezes fan ye. All day the am’rous youths convene, Joyous they sport and play before her; All night, when she no more is seen, In joyful dreams they still adore her. Among the crowd Amyntor came, He look’d, he loved, he bow’d to Annie ; His rising sighs express his flame, His words were few, his wishes many. With Bmiles the lovely maid replied, Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye ? Alas ! your love must be denied', This destined breast can ne’er relieve ye. Young Damon came with Cupid’s art, His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling ; He stole away my virgin heart; Cease, poor Amyntor! cease bewailing. Some brighter beauty you may find; On yonder plain the' nymphs are many; Then choose some heart that’s unconfined, And leave to Damon his own Annie, THESE’S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.* This is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other, language.—The two lines, And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by anything I ever heard or read; and the lines, The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw, are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay’s days. About the year 1771, or 1772, it came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period. * William Julius Mickle, a native of Langholm, on the Borders, and well known as the translator of Camoens’s immortal poem, “The Lusiad,” was the author of this song. He was bom in 1734, and died in 1788. •a § _____ - REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 393 There’s nae luck about the house, There’s nae luck at a’; There’s little pleasure in the house, When our guidman’s awa’. And are you sure the news is true ? And do you say he’s weel ? Is this a time to speak of wark ? Ye jades, lay by your wheel! Is this a time to spin a thread, When Colin’s at the door ? Reach me my cloak, I’ll to the quay, And see him come ashore. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop’s satin gown; For I maun tell the bailie’s wife That Colin’s in the town. My turken slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue ; ’Tis a’ to pleasure my guidman, For he’s baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown, And Jock his Sunday coat ; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; ’Tis a’ to pleasure my guidman. For he’s been lang awa’. There’s twa fat hens upo’ the coop, Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; ' And mak the table neat and trim; Let every thing be braw ; For who kens how my Colin fared When he was far awa’. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air, His very foot hath music in’t, As he comes up the stair. And shall I see his face again t And shall I hear him speak t I’m downright giddy wi’ the thought, In truth I’m like to greet. If Colin’s weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave ; And gin I live to mak him sae, I’m blest aboon the lave. And shall I see his face again ? &c. TAEEY WOO. a very pretty song; but I fancy that the following first half¬ well as the tune itself, is much older than the rest of the words. 394 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Oh, tarry woo is ill to spin, Card it weel e’er ye begin; Card it weel and draw it sma’, Tarry woo’s the best of a’. GEAMACHEEE. The song of Gramachree was composed by Mr Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the “ Molly,” who is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr Poe sent the first manuscript of these most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its core ! Put as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do in this collection. As down on Banna’s banks I stray’d, One evening in May, The little birds in blithest notes Made vocal every spray : They sang their little notes of love; They sang them o’er and o’er, Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. The daisy pied, and all the sweets The’dawn of nature yields ; The primrose pale, the violet blue, Lay scatter’d o’er the fields ; Such fragrance in the bosom lies Of her whom I adore, Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. I laid me down upon a bank, Bewailing my sad fate, That doom’d me thus the slave of love, And cruel Molly’s hate. How can she break the honest heart That wears her in its core ! Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. You said you loved me, Molly dear; Alj ! why did I believe ? Yes, who could think such tender words Were meant but to deceive ? That love was all I ask’d on earth, Nay, Heaven could give no more, Ah ! gramachree mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. Oh ! had I all the flocks that graze. On yonder yellow hill; Or low’d for md the num’rous herds, That yon green pastures fill; With her I love I’d gladly share My kine and fleecy store, All! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 395 Two turtle doves above my head, Sat courting on a bough ; I envy’d them their happiness, To see them bill and coo; Such fondness once for me she show’d, But now, alas ! ’tis o’er ; Ah ! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, Thy loss I still shall moan ; Whilst life remains in Strephon’s heart, ’Twill beat for thee alone. Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee Its choicest blessings pour ! Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge, Mo Molly Astore. THE COLLIER’S BONNY LASSIE. The first half stanza is much, older than the days of Ramsay.— The old words began thus :— The collier has a dochter, and, oh. she’s wonder bonny; A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands and money. She wad nae hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady ; But she wad hae a collier, the colour o’ her daddie. The verses in the Museum are very pretty; but Allan Ramsay’s songs have always nature to recommend them The Collier has a daughter, And oh, she’s wonder bonny 1 A laird he was that sought her, Rich baith in land and money. The tutors watch’d'the motion Of this young honest lover, But love is like the ocean; Wha can its deeps discover ? He had the heart to please ye, And was by a’ respected. His airs sat round him easy, Genteel, but unaffected. The Collier’s bonny lassie, Pair as the new-blown lily, Aye sweet and never saucy, Secured the heart of Willie • He loved beyond expression, The charms that were about her, And panted for possession, His life was dull without her. After mature resolving, Close to his breast he held her In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell’d her— 39 6 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. “ My bonny Collier’s daughter Let naethiijig discompose ye, ’Tis no your scanty tocher Shall ever gar me lose ye : For I have gear in plenty, And love says 'tis my duty To ware what Heaven has lent me, Upon your wit and beauty.” MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O. The old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these inserted; which were mostly composed by poor Fergussou, in one of his merry humours. The old words began thus:— I’ll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, I’ll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. Although the night were ne’er sae wat, And I were ne’er sae weary, O, I’ll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. The following are Fergusson’s verses Nae herds wi’ kent and collie there Shall ever come to fear ye, O, But laverocks whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, 0 ! While others herd their lambs and ewes, And toil for world’s gear, my jo, Upon the lee my pleasure grows, Wi’ you, my kind dearie, 0 ! Will ye gang o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O ? And cuddle there sae kindly wi’ me, My kind dearie, 0 ? At thorny dike, and birkin tree, We’ll daff, and ne’er be weary, 0 ! They’ll sing ill e’en frae you and me, Mine ain kind dearie, 0 ! MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. Mb Robertson, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dryhope, and married into the Harden family. Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir Francis Elliot of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield. There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 397 attention, and it strongly marks the predatory spirit of the times. The father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for some time after the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas moon.* Allan Ramsay’s version is as follows:— Happy’s the love which meets return, When in soft flame souls equal burn ; But words are wanting to discover The torments of a hapless lover. Ye registers of heaven, relate, If looking o’er the rolls of fate, Did you there see me mark’d to marrow, Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow. Ah, no ! her form’s too heavenly fair, Her love the gods alone must share ; While mortals with despair explore her, And at a distance due adore her. O lovely maid ! my doubts beguile, Revive and bless me with a smile : Alas, if not, you’ll soon debar a Sighing swain on the banks of Yarrow. Be hush’d, ye fears! I ’ll not despair, My Mary’s tender as she’s fair; Then I ’ll go tell her all mine anguish, She is too good to let me languish ; With success crown’d, I ’ll not envy The folks who dwell above the sky ; When Mary Scott’s become my marrow, We’ll make a paradise of Yarrow. DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. I have been informed that the tune of “Down the Bum, Davie,” was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough- hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. When trees did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom’d fair to see; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh’d in her ee ; Blithe Davie’s blinks her heart did move, To speak her mind thus free, “ Gang down the burn, Davie, love, And I shall follow thee.” Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwalt on yon burn side, And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride ; * The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-reavers on the Borders began of yore their nightly depredations. 398 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Her cheeks were rosy, red and white, Her een were bonny blue ; Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As down the burn they took their way, What tender tales they said ! His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And with her bosom play’d ; Till baith at length impatient grown To'be mair fully blest, In yonder vale they lean’d them down— Love only saw the rest. What pass’d I guess was harmless play, And naething sure unmeet; Tor ganging hame, I heard them say, They liked a walk sae sweet ; And that they aften should return Sic pleasure to renew. Quoth Mary, “ Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you.” BLINK O’ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY. The old words, all that I remember, are,— Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night; It rains, it hails, it thunders, The moon she gies nae light: It’s a’ for the sake o’ sweet Betty That ever I tint my way; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee Until it be break o’ day. Oh, Betty will bake my bread. And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my love, When I come over the dale ; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me, And while I hae life, dear lassie. My ain sweet Betty thou’s be.” THE BLITHESOME BRIDAL.* I FIND the “Blithesome Bridal” in James Watson’s collection of Scots Poems printed at Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub- ! lisher says, is the first of its. nature which has been published in our j own native Scots dialect—it is now extremely scarce. * There appears to be some dubiety about the authorship of this humorous ballad, it having been assigned to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane and Francis Sempill of Beltrees. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 399 The entire song is much too long for quotation ; but the following verses, de¬ scribing the guests who were to be presented the dishes to be provided for them, will convey a very fair idea of its merit Come, fye, let us a’ to the wedding, For there will be lilting there, For Jock will be married to Maggie, The lass wi’ the gowden hair. And there will be lang kail and castocks, And bannocks o’ barley-meal ; And there will be guid saut herring, To relish a cog o’ guid ale. And there will be Sandy the sutor, And Will wi’ the meikle mou, And there will be Tam the blutter, With Andrew the tinkler, I trow; And there will be bow-legg’d Robie, With thumbless Katie’s gudeman, And there will be blue-cheek’d Dobbie, And Laurie, the laird of the land. . And there will be sow-libber Patie, And plookie-faced Wat o’ the mill J Capper-nosed Francis and Q-ibbie, That wons i’ the howe o’ the hill; And there will be Alister Sibbie, Wha in wi’ black Bessie did mool. With snivelling Lillie and Tibbie, The lass that stands aft on the stool. And there will be fadges and brochan, * Wi’ routh o’ gude gabbocks o’ skate; Powsowdie and drammock and crowdie, And caller nowt feet on a plate ; And there will be partans and buckies, And whitings and speldings anew; With singed sheep heads and a haggis. And scadlips to sup till ye spew. And there will be lapper’d milk kebbuck, And sowens, and carles, and laps ; Wi’ swats and well-scraped paunches, And brandy in stoups and in caps ; And there will be meal-kail and porridge Wi’ skirk to sup till ye rive, And roasts to roast on a brander, Of flewks that were taken alive. Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle. And a mill o’ guid sneeshin to prie, When weary wi’ eating and drinking, We ’ll rise up and dance till we die; Then fye let’s a’ to the bridal, For there will be lilting there. For Jock ’ll be married to Maggie, The lass wi’ the gowden hair. 400 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. JOHN HAY’S BONNY LASSIE. JOHN Hay’s “Bonny Lassie” was the daughter of John Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and the late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the years 1720 and 1740. She’s fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora, When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-morrow; The sward o’ the mead, enamell’d wi’ daisies, Look wither’d and dead when twinn’d of her graces. But if she appear where verdures invite her, The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter; ’Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, Her smiles and bright een set my spirits a-glowing. THE BONNY BRUCKET LASSIE. The first two lines of this song are all of it that is old. The rest of' the song, as well as those songs in the Museum marked T., are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon : a mortal, who, though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of-God, and Solomon- the-son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths of Elliot’s pompous Encyclopedia Britan- nica, which he composed at half-a-guinea a week! The bonny brucket lassie, She’s blue beneath the een j She was the fairest lassie That danced on the green : A lad he lo’ed her dearly, She did his love return ; But he his vows has broken, And left her for to mourn. “ My shape,” says she, “was handsome, My face was fair and clean; But now I ’in bonny bracket, And blue beneath the een : My eyes were bright and sparkling, Before that they turn’d blue; But now they ’re dull with weeping, And a’, my love, for you. « Oh, could I live in darkness, Or hide me in the sea, Since my love is unfaithful, And has forsaken me. No other love I suffer’d Within my breast to dwell; In nought have I offended. But loving him too well.” REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 4 ° 1 Her lover heard her mourning, As by he chanced to pass ; And press’d unto his bosom The lovely brocket lass. “ My dear,” said he, “ cease grieving, Since that your love is true, My bonny brocket lassie, I’ll faithful prove to you.” SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HAE BEEN. This song is beautiful.—The chorus in particular is truly pathetic. 3 never could learn anything of its author. CHORUS. Sab merry as we twa hae been, Sae merry as we twa hae been; My heart it is like for to break, When I think on the days we hae seen. A lass that was laden with care Sat heavily under a thorn; I listen’d a while for to hear, When thus she began for to mourn : Whene’er my dear shepherd was there, The birds did melodiously sing. And cold nipping winter did wear A face that resembled the spring. Our flocks feeding close by his side, He gently pressing my hand, I view’d the wide world in its pride, And laugh’d at the pomp of command. “ My dear,” he would oft to me say, “ What makes you hard-hearted to me t ' Oh! why do you thus turn away Prom him who is dying for thee ? ” But now he is far from my sight, Perhaps a deceiver may prove, Which makes me lament day and night, That ever I granted my love. At eve, when the rest of the folk Were merrily seated to spin, I set myself under an oak, And heavily sigh’d for him. THE BANKS OF FORTH. This air is Oswald’s. “ Here’s anither—it’s no a Scots tune, but it passes for ane—Oswald made it himsel, I reckon. He has cheated mony a ane, but he canna cheat Wandering Willie.”— Sie Walter Scott. 402 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. The following is the song as given in the Museum .*•— Ye sylvan powers that rule the plain, Where sweetly winding Fortha glides. Conduct me to those banks again, Since there my charming Mary bides. Those banks that breathe their vernal sweets, Where every smiling beauty meets ; Where Mary’s charms adorn the plain, And cheer the heart of every swain. Oft in the thick embowering groves, Where birds their music chirp aloud, Alternately we sung our loves, And Fortha’s fair meanders view’d. The meadows wore a general smile, Love was our banquet all the while ; The lovely prospect charm’d the eye. To where the ocean met the sky. Once on the grassy bank reclined Where Forth ran by in murmurs deep, It was my happy chance to find The charming Mary lull’d asleep; My heart then leap’d with inward bliss, I softly stoop’d, and stole a kiss ; She waked, she blush’d, and gently blamed, “Why, Damon! are you not ashamed ?” Ye sylvan powers, ye rural gods, To whom we swains our cares impart, Restore me to those blest- abodes, And ease, oh 1 ease my love-sick heart 1 Those happy days again restore, When Mary and I shall part no more; When she shall fill these longing arms, And crown my bliss with all her charms. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. This is another beautiful song of Mr Crawford’s composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shows the old “Bush which, when I saw it in the year 1787, was composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair lias planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls “ The new Bush.” Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I ’ll tell how Peggy grieves me; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas ! she ne’er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded never move her; The bonny bush aboon Traquair, Was where I first did love her. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4°3 That day she smiled and made me glad, No maid seem’d ever kinder ; I thought mysel the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her. I tried to soothe my amorous flame In words that I thought tender; If more there pass’d, I’m not to blame, I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The fields we then frequented; If e’er we meet, she shows disdain, She looks as ne’er acquainted. The bonny bush bloom’d fair in May, Its sweets I ’ll aye remember ; But now her frowns make it decay; It fades as in December. Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? Oil! make her partner in my pains; Then let her smiles relieve me. If not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender ; I’ll leave the bush aboon Traquair, To lonely wilds I ’ll wander. CEOMLET’S LILT. The following interesting account of this plaintive dirge was com¬ municated to Mr Kiddel by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq., pf Wood- houselee:— “ In the latter end of the 16th century, the Chisholms were proprie¬ tors of the estate of Cromleck, (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to the daughter of Stirling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch. “ At that time the opportunities of meeting between,the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education. At that period the most of our young men of family sought J a fortune or found a grave in France. Cromleck, when he went abroad I to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monastery of Dunblane, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen’s charms. He art¬ fully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromleck j and, by misinterpreting, or keeping up the letters and messages in¬ trusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connexion was broken off betwixt them : Helen was inconsolable, and Cromleck has left behind him, in the ballad called ‘ Cromlet’s Lilt,’ a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 4°4 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. “When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen’s sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate; but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother, with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was prob¬ ably very well pleased to get her off his hands—she submitted rather than consented to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that after three gentle raps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, she heard Cromleck’s voice, crying, ‘ O Helen, Helen, mind me !’ Cromleck soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered—her marriage annulled — and Helen became Lady Cromleck.” N.B.— Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty-one children, was daughter of Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybar- dine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 years. The following is a copy of this ballad as it appears in the Museum Since all thy vows, false maid, Are blown to air, And my poor heart betray’d To sad despair, Into some wilderness, My grief I will express, And thy hard-heartedness, 0 cruel fair 1 Have I not graven our loves On every tree In yonder spreading groves, Though false thou be I Was not a solemn oath Plighted betwixt us both— Thou thy faith, I my troth— Constant to be ? Some gloomy place I’ll find, Some doleful shade, Where neither sun nor wind E’er entrance had: Into that hollow cave, There will I sigh and rave, Because thou dost behave So faithlessly. Wild fruit shall be my meat, I’ll drink the spring, Cold earth shall be my seat; Eor covering, I ’ll have the starry sky My head to canopy, Until my soul on high Shall spread its wing. I ’ll have no funeral fire, Nor tears for me ; No grave do I desire Nor obsequy. REMARKS OK SCOTTISH SONG. The courteous redbreast he With leaves will cover me, And sing my elegy With doleful voice. And when a ghost I am I’ll visit thee, 0 thou deceitful dame, Whose cruelty Has kill’d the fondest heart That e’er felt Cupid’s dart, And never can desert From loving thee. MY DEARIE, IE THOU DIE. Anotheb beautiful song of Crawford’s. Love never more shall give me pain, My fancy’s fix’d on thee, Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, My Peggy, if thou die. Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, Thy love’s so true to me, Without thee I can never live, My dearie, if thou die. If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray ? In dreary dreams the night I’ll waste, In sighs, the silent day. I ne’er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see ; Then I ’ll renounce all woman-kind, My Peggy, after thee. No new-blown beauty fires my heart, With Cupid’s raving rage ; But thine, which can such sweets impart, Must all the world engage. ’Twas this that like the morning sun Gave joy and life to me; And when its destined day is done, With Peggy let me die. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And in such pleasure share ; You who its faithful flames approve. With pity view the fair: Restore my Peggy’s wonted charms, Those charms so dear to me 1 Oh! never rob them from these arms! I’m lost if Peggy die. 4°5 4°6 REMARKS OK SCOTTISH SONG. SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. The old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collec¬ tions, is much prettier than this; but somebody, I believe it was Ramsay,* * took it into his head to clear it of some seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull. The Museum, version is as follows:— The night her silent sables wore And gloomy were the skies, Of glittering stars appear’d no more Than those in Nelly’s eyes. When to her father’s door I came, Where I had often been, I begg’d my fair, my lovely dame, To rise and let me in. But she, with accents all divine, Did my fond suit reprove, And while she chid my rash design, She but inflamed my love. Her beauty oft had pleased before, While her bright eyes did roll ; But virtue only had the power To charm my very soul. Oh, who would cruelly deceive, Or from such beauty part I I loved her so, I could not leave The charmer of my heart. My eager fondness I obey’d, Resolved she should be mine, Till Hymen to my arms convey’d My treasure so divine. Now happy in my Nelly’s love, Transporting is my joy, No greater blessing can" I prove, So blest a man am I. Bor beauty may a while retain. The conquer’d flattering mart, But virtue only is the chain Holds, never to depart. WILL YE GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, 1 MARION? ' I AM not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song appar- 1 Sheep-folds. * “No, no; it was not Ramsay. The song still remains in his Tea-Table Mis¬ cellany, and the Orpheus Caledonius, and even in Herd’s Collection, in its pri¬ mitive state of indelicacy. The verses in the Museum were retouched by an able and masterly hand, who has thus presented us with a song at once chaste and elegant, without a single idea to crimson the cheek of modesty, or cause one I Jiang to the innocent heart.”—S te.nhouse. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4°7 ently as ancient as “ Ewe-bughts, .Marion,” which sings to the same time, and is evidently of the North—it begins thus :— The Lord o’ Gordon had three dochters, Mary, Marget, and Jean, They wad na stay at bonny Castle Gordon, But awa’ to Aberdeen. The old ballad begins thus Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, And wear in the sheep wi’ m,e ? The sun shines sweet, my Marion, But nae half sae sweet as thee. O Marion’s a bonny lass, And the blithe blink’s in her ee; And fain wad I marry Marion, Gin Marion wad marry me. LEWIE GORDON; This air is a proof how one of our Scotch tunes comes to he com¬ posed out of another. I have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed—“Tune—‘Tarry Woo’ ”—of which tune a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.—To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line, “ Though his back be at the wa’,” must be very striking. It needs not a Jacobite prejudice to be affected with this song. The supposed author of “Lewie Gordon” was a Mr Gedde3, priest at Shenval in the Ainzie. Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, And the lad I maunna name ; Though his back be at the wa’, Here’s to him that’s far awa’ 1 Oh hon I my Highland man! Oh, my bonny Highland man; Weel would I my true-love ken, Amang ten thousand Highland men. Oh, to see his tartan trews, Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel’d shoes; Philabeg aboon his knee ; That’s the lad that I’ll gang wi’! Oh, hon I &c. The princely youth that I do mean Is fitted for to be king ; On his breast he wears a star, You’d take him for the god of war. Oh, hon 1 &c. Oh, to see this princely one Seated on a royal throne I 408 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Disasters a’ would disappear. Then begins the Jub’lee year! Oh, honl &c. Lord Lewie Gordon, younger brother to the Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment for the Young Chevalier in the affair of 1745-6, and acquitted him¬ self with great gallantry and judgment. He died in 1754. THE WAUKING O’ THE FATJLD. There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to he the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that name in the Gentle Shepherd. It begins “ Oh, will ye speak at our town, As ye come frae the fauld,” &c. I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit and humour. The following is Bamsay’s version My Peggie is a young thing, Just enter’d in her teens ; Pair as the day, and sweet as May, Pair as the day, and always gay, My Peggie is a young thing, And I’m not very auld ; Yet well I like to meet her at The wauking o’ the fauld. My Peggie speaks sae sweetly • Whene’er we meet alane ; I wish nae mail- to lay my care, I wish nae mail- of a’ that’s rare. My Peggie speaks sae sweetly, To a’ the lave I’m cauld ; But she gars a’ my spirits glow At waulking o’ the fauld. My Peggie smiles sae kindly Whene’er I whisper love, That I look down on a’ the town, That I look down upon a crown. My Peggie smiles sae kindly, It makes me blithe and bauld; And naething gies me sic delight As waulking o’ the fauld. My Peggie sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play; By a’ the rest it is confess’d, By a’ the rest, that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale o’ sense, At waulking o’ the fauld. REMARK'S ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4°9 OH ONO CHRIO.* Dr Blacklock informed me tnat this song was composed on the in¬ famous massacre at Glencoe. Oh ! was not I a weary wight! Maid, wife/and widow in one night! When in my soft and yielding arms, Oh! when most I thought him free from harms, Even at the dead time of the night They broke my bower, and slew my knight. With ae lock of his jet-black hair I ’ll tie my heart for evermair; Nae sly-tongued youth, nor flattering swain, ’ Shall e’er untie this knot again; Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, Nor pant for aught save heavep and thee. I’LL NEVER LEAVE THEE. This is another of Crawford’s songs, but I do not think in his hap¬ piest manner. What an absurdity to join such names as Adonis and Mary together! One day I heard Mary say, IIow shall I leave thee; Stay, dearest Adonis, stay, Why wilt thou grieve me ? CORN-RIGS ARE BONNY. All the old words that ever I could meet to this air were the fol¬ lowing, which seem to have been an old chorus:— ✓ Oh, corn-rigs and rye-rigs, Oh, corn-rigs are bonny; And, where’er you meet a bonny lass, Preen up her cockernony. BIDE YE YET. There is a beautiful song to this tune, beginning, “Alas, my son, you little know,” which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, of Dumfries. ■* A vitiated pronunciation of “Ochoin och rie ”—a Gaelic exclamation ex¬ pressive of deep sorrow and affliction. 410 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Alas ! my son, you little lcnoxv The sorrows that from wedlock flow; Farewell to every day of ease When you have got a wife to please. Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye little ken what’s to betide ye yet J The half o’ that will gane ye yet, Gif a wayward wife obtain ye yet. Your hopes are high, your wisdom small, Woe has not had you in its thrall ; The black cow on your foot ne’er trod, Which gars you sing along the road. Sae bide ye yet, &c. Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, She ’ll drive at you, my bonny chiel. And send you headlang to the deil. Sae bide ye yet, &c. When I, like you, was young and free, I valued not the proudest she; Like you, my boast was bold and vain, That men alone were born to reign. Sae bide ye yet, &c. Great Hercules, and Samson too, Were stronger far than I or you; Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the shears. Sae bide ye yet, &c. Stout gates of brass and well-built walls Are proof ’gainst swords and cannon balls; But nought is found, by sea or land. That can a wayward wife withstand. Sae bide ye yet, &c. Here the remarks on the first volume of the Musical Museum con¬ clude : the second volume has the following preface from the pen of Burns “In the first volume of this work, two'or three airs, not of Scots composition, have been inadvertently inserted; which, whatever ex¬ cellence they may have, was improper, as the collection is solely to be the music of our own country. The soDgs contained in this volume, both music and poetry, are all of them the work of Scotsmen. Wher¬ ever the old words could he recovered, they had been preferred: both as suiting better the genius of the tunes, and to preserve the produc¬ tions of those earlier sons of the Scottish muses, some of whose names deserved a better fate than has befallen them,—‘ Buried ’midst the wreck of things which w T ere.’ Of our more modern songs, the editor has inserted the author’s names as far as he can ascertain them; and as that was neglected in the first volume, it is annexed here. If he have made any mistakes in this affair, which he possibly may, he will be very grateful at being set right. “Ignorance and prejudice may perhaps affect to sneer at the simpli¬ city of the poetry or music of some of these poems; but their having REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4* I been for ages the favourites of nature’s judges—the common people— was to the editor a sufficient test of their merit. " Edinburgh, March 1,1778.” TRANENT MUIR. “ Tranent Muir” was composed by a Mr Skirving, a very worthy, respectable farmer, near Haddington.* I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. “ Gang away back,” said the honest farmer, “ and tell Mr Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I ’ll tak a look o’ him, and if he think I’m fit to fecht him, I ’ll fecht him; and if no, I’ll do as he did— I'll rin awaH /” Stanza ninth, as well as tenth, to which the anecdote refers, shows that the anger of the lieutenant was anything but unreasonable. And Major Bowie, that worthy soul, Was brought down to the ground, man; His horse being shot, it was his lot For to get many a wound, man: Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, Frae whom he call’d for aid, man. Being full of dread, lap o’er his head, And wadna be gainsay’d, man ! He made sic haste, sae spurr’d his baist, ’Twas little there he saw, man ; To Berwick rade, and falsely said The Scots were rebels a’, man : But let that end, for well ’tis kenn'd, His use and wont to lie, man ; The teague is naught, he never faught When he had room to flee, man. POLWART t ON THE GREEN. The author of “Polwart on the Green” is Capt. John Drummond M‘Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie.J * Mr Skirving was tenant of East G-arleton, about a mile and a half to the north of Haddington. f “Polwart is a pleasant village situate near Dunse, in Berwickshire. In the middle of the village stand two venerable thorns, round which the Polwart maidens, when they became brides, danced with their partners on the day of the bridal.”— Cunningham. % The poet is in error here. The best authorities agree in ascribing the authorship of the song to Allan Ramsay. 41 2 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. At Polwart on the green, If you’ll meet me the morn, Where lasses do conveen To dance about the thorn, A kindly welcome ye shall meet Frae her wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete— The lad and lover you. Let dorty dames say na As lang as e’er they please. Seem caulder than the snaw, While inwardly they bleeze. But I will frankly shaw my mind, And yield my heart to thee ; Be ever to the captive kind That langs na to be free. At Polwart on the green, Amang the new-mown hay, With sangs and dancing keen We ’ll pass the heartsome day. At night, if beds be o’er thrang laid, And thou be twined of thine, Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, To take a part of mine. STEEPHON AND LYDIA. The following account of this song I had from Dr Blacklock:— The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known ky the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the “ Gentle Jean,” cele¬ brated somewhere in Hamilton of Bangour’s poems.—Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad conse¬ quences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commis¬ sion, and perished in Admiral Yernon’s expedition to Carthagena. The author of the song was William Wallace, Esq., of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. Ail lonely on the sultry beach, Expiring, Strephon lay; No hand the cordial draught to reach, Nor cheer the gloomy way. Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh To catch thy fleeting breath, No bride to fix thy swimming eye, Or smooth the face of death i Far distant from the mournful scene Thy pavents'sit at ease ; Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, And all the spring, to please. Ill-fated youth! by fault of friend, Not force of foe, depress’d, i Thou fall’st, alas ! thyself, thy kind, Thy country, unredress’d! REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 413 MY JO, JANET. OF THE “MUSEUM.” Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish delicacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this humorous ballad. Oh, sweet sir, for your courtesie, When ye eome by the Bass then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a keeking-glass then. Keek into the draw well, Janet, Janet; And there ye ’ll see your bonny sell, My jo, Janet. Keeking in the draw-well clear. What if I should fa’ in then; Syne a’ my kin will say and swear I drown’d mysel for sin, then. Haud the better by the brae, Janet, Janet; Haud the better by the brae, My jo, Janet. Good sir, for your courtesie, Coming through Aberdeen then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pair of sheen then. Clout the auld, the new are dear, Janet, Janet; A pair may gain ye half a year, My jo, Janet. But what, if dancing on the green, And skipping like a 'maukin, If they should see my clouted sheen, Of me they will be talkin’.' Dance aye laigh, and late at e’en, Janet, Janet; Syne a’ their fauts will no be seen, My jo, Janet. Kind sir, for your courtesie, When ye gae to the cross then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pacing horse then. Face upo’ your spinning-wheel, . Janet, Janet; Pace upo’ your spinning-wheel, My jo, Janet. My spinning-wheel is auld and stifl; The rock o’t winna stand, sir; 1 , To keep the temper-pin in tiff Employs right aft my hand, sir. Mak the best o’ that ye can, Janet, Janet; But like it never wale a man, My jo, Janet. 414 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. LOVE IS THE CAUSE OF MY MOUKNING. The words by a Mr R. Scott, from the town or neighbourhood of Biggar. The first stanza of this fine song is as follows By a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess lay, Be so kind, 0 ye nymphs, I oft heard her say, Tell Strephon 1 die, if he passes this way, And love is the cause of my mourning. False shepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms, Deceive me, for Strephon’s cold heart never warms ; Yet bring me this Strephon, I’ll die in his arms; O Strephon ! the cause of my mourning. But first, said she, let me go Down to the shades below, Ere ye let Strephon know That I have loved him so : Then on my pale cheek no blushes will show That love is the cause of my mourning. FIFE, AND A’ THE LANDS ABOUT IT. This song is Dr Blacklock’s. He, as well as I, often gave Jobnston verses, trifling enough, perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the music. Allan, by his grief excited, Bong the victim of despair, Thus deplored his passion slighted, Thus address’d the scornful fair: “Fife, and all the lands about it, Undesiring, I can see; Joy may crown my days without it, Not, my charmer, without thee. “ Must I then for ever languish, Still complaining, still endure Can her form create an anguish Which her soul disdains to cure ? Why, by hopeless passion fated, Must I still those eyes admire, Whilst unheeded, unregretted, In her presence I expire ? “Would thy charms improve their power, Timely think, relentless maid; Beauty is a short-lived flower, Destined but to bloom and fade! Let that Heaven, whose kind impression All thy lovely features show, Melt thy soul to soft compassion For a suffering lover’s woe.” REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 415 WEKENA MY HEAET LIGHT I WAD DIE. Lord Hailes, in the notes to his Collection of ancient Scots poems, 1 says that this song was the composition of Lady Grisel Baillie, daughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George Baillie of Jervis- ! wood. There was ance a may, and she lo’ed na men, She biggit her bonny bower down in yon glen; But now she cries dool! and ah, well-a-day! Come down the green gate, and come here away. When bonny young Johnny came o’er the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw tilings: And werena my heart light I wad die. He had a wee titty that lo’ed na me, Because I was twice as bonny as she ; She raised such a pother ’twixt him and his mother, That werena my heart light I wad die. The day it was set, and the bridal to be, The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die; She main’d and she grain’d, out of dolour and pain, Till he vow’d he never wad see me again. His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said, What had he to do with the like of me ? Albeit I was bonny, I wasna for Johnny : And werena my heart light I wad die. They said I had neither cow nor caff, Nor dribbles of drink rins through .the draff, Nor pickles of meal rins through the mill-ee; And werena my heart light I wad die. His titty she was baith wily and slee, She spied me as I came o’er the lee; And then she ran in, and made a loud din, Believe your ain ten, an ye trow na me. His bonnet stood ance fu’ round on his brow, His auld ane looks aye as weel as some’s new; But now he lets’t wear ony gate it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. And now he gaes drooping about the dykes, And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes : The live-lang night he ne’er steeks his ee, And werena my heart light I wad die. Were I young for thee, as I ance hae been, We should hae been galloping down on yon green, And linking it on the lily-white lee; And wow gin I were but young for thee 1 41 6 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THE YOUNG- MAN’S DREAM. This song is the composition of Balloon Tytler mentioned at p. 400. One night I dream’d I lay most easy, By a murmuring river side, Where lovely banks were spread with daisies, And- the streams did smoothly glide ; While around me, and quite over, Spreading branches were display’d, All interwoven in due order, Soon became a pleasant shade. I saw my lass come in most charming, With a look and air so sweet ; Every grace was most alarming, Every beauty most complete. Cupid with his bow attended; Lovely Venus too was there : As his bow young Cupid bended, Ear away flew carking care. 1 On a bank of roses seated, Charming my true-love sung; While glad echo still repeated, And the hills and valleys rung: At the last, by sleep oppress’d On the bank my love did lie, By young Cupid still caress’d, While the graces round did fly. The rose’s red, the lily’s blossom, With her charms might not compare, To view her cheeks and heaving bosom, Down they droop’d as in despair. On her slumber I encroaching, Panting came to steal a kiss ; 'Cupid smiled at me approaching, Seem’d to say, “There’s nought amiss.” With eager wishes I drew nigher, This fair maiden to embrace ; My breath grew quick, my pulse beat higher, G-azing on her lovely face. The nymph, awaking, quickly check’d me. Starting up, with angry tone; “ Thus,” says she, “ do you respect me ? Leave me quick, and hence begone.” Cupid for me interposing, To my love did bow full low; She from him her hands unloosing, In contempt struck down his bow. Angry Cupid from her flying, Cried out, as he sought the skies, “ Haughty nymphs, their love denying, Cupid ever shall despise.” As he spoke, old Care came wandering, With him stalk’d destructive Time ; Winter froze the streams meandering, Nipt the roses in their prime. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 41 ^ Spectr.es then my love surrounded, At their hack march’d chilling Death: Whilst she, frighted and confounded, Eelt their blasting, pois’nous breath : As her charms were swift decaying, And the furrows seized her cheek ; Eorbear, ye fiends ! I vainly crying, Waked in the attempt to speak. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Db Blacklock told me that Smollett, who was at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these beautiful and pathetic.verses Qn the infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after the battle of Culloden. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn, Thy banish’d peace, thy laurels torn 1 Thy sons for valour long renown’d, lie slaughter’d on their native ground: Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees, afar, His all become the prey of war ; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish’d on the rocks Where once they fed their wanton flocks : Thy ravish’d virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown’d with praise, Still shone with undiminish’d blaze : Thy towering spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke : What foreign arms could never quell By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains, but those of sorrow, flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe: While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o’er the silent plain. Oh! baneful cause—oh! fatal morn. Accursed to ages yet unborn! The sons against their father stood; The parent shed his children’s blood 1 Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor’s soul was not appeased; The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murdering steel. 4 18 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. The pious mother, doom’d to death, Forsaken, wanders o’er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend; And, stretch’d beneath the inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair’d remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country’s fate Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow: Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish’d peace, thy laurels torn t AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD’S MOURNFUL FATE.* Tone —“Galashiels.” The old title, “Sour Plums o’ Galashiels,” probably was the begin¬ ning of a song to this air, which is now lost. The tune of Galashiels was composed about the beginning of the present century by the Laird of Galashiels’ piper. Ah I the poor shepherd’s mournful fate, When doom’d to love and languish, To bear the scornful fair one’s hate. Nor dare disclose his anguish I Yet eager looks and dying sighs My secret soul discover ; While rapture, trembling through mine eyes, Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance, the redd’ning cheek, O’erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak, A thousand various wishes. For oh! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes, so sweetly smiling, That artless blush and modest air, So fatally beguiling! The every look and every grace So charm whene’er I view thee, Till death o’ertake me in the chase, Still will my hopes pursue thee : Then when my tedious hours are past, Be this last blessing given, low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of heaven. * William Hamilton of Bangour, an amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one of our sweetest lyric poets, was the author of this song. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 419 MILL, MILL, O. The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay’s, is still extant. It runs thus :— ' As I cam down yon waterside, And by yon shellin-hill, O, There I spied a bonny bonny lass. And a lass that I loved right weel, 0. CHORUS. The mill, mill, 0, and the kill, kill, O, And the coggin o’ Peggy’s wheel, O, The sack and the sieve, and a’ she did leave. And danced the miller’s reel, 0. WALY, WALT. In the west country I have heard a different edition of the second stanza.—Instead of the four lines, beginning with, “When cockle¬ shells,” &c., the other way ran thus : — Oh, wherefore need 1 busk my head, Or wherefore need I kame my hair, Sin my fause luve has me forsook, And says he’ll never luve me mair. Oh, waly, waly, up yon bank, And waly, waly, down yon brae, And waly by yon burn side, Where I and my love were wont to gae» Oh, waly waly, love is bonny A little while, when it is new ; But when it’s auhl it waxeth cauld. And fades away like morning dew. When cockle-shells turn siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree. When frost and snaw shall warm us a’, Then shall my love prove true to me. I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trustie tree; But first it bow’d, and syne it brake. And sae did my fause love to me. Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be filed by me: Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink, Since my true love’s forsaken me. 0 Mart’mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aSC the tree 1 O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum, And tak a life that wearies me ? ’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie ; ’l’is not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. 420 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Whan we cam in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in velvet black, And I mysel in cramasie. But had I wist before I kisst, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin. Oh, oh 1 if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee, And I mysel were dead and gone ; For a maid again I’ll never be. DUNCAN GEAY. De Blacklock informed me that he had often heard the tradition that this air was composed by a carman in Glasgow. DUMBAETON DEUMS. This is the last of the West Highland airs; and from it, over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland.—The oldest Ayrshire reel is Stew- arton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham, alias Lord Lysle; since, which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty.—Johnnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the extensive county of Ayr. Dumbarton drums beat bonny, O, Whenthey mind me of my dear Johnnie, 0, How happy am I When my soldier is by, While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O, ’Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, For his graceful looks do unite me, 0 ; While guarded in his arms, I ’ll fear no war’s alarms, Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me, O. My love is a handsome laddie, O, Genteel, but ne’er foppish nor gaudy, 0, Though commissions are dear, Yet I ’ll buy him one this year, For he shall serve no longer a caddie, 0; A soldier has honour and bravery, 0, Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, 0, He minds no other thing, But the ladies or the King, For every other care is but slavery, 0. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Then I’ll be the captain’s lady, 0 ; Farewell all my friends and my daddy, O ; I’ll wait no more at home, But I’ll follow with the drum, And whene’er that beats I ’ll be ready, O. Dumbarton drums sound bonny, 0, They are sprightly like my dear Johnnie, 0; How happy shall I be, When on my soldier’s knee, And he kisses and blesses his Annie, 0 I CAULD KAIL IK ABERDEEN. This song is by the Duke of Gordon.—The old verses axe, Thebe’s cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strathbogie ; When ilka lad maun hae his lass, Then fye gie me my coggie. There’s Johnnie Smith has got a wife. That scrimps him o’ his coggie, If she were mine, upon my life I wad douk her in a boggie. OHOEUS. My coggie, sirs, my coggie, sirs, I cannot want my coggie : I wadna gie my three-girt cap For e’er a quean in Bogie. “The ‘Cauld Kail’ of his G-race of Gordon,” says Cunningham, “has long been a favourite in the north, and deservedly so, for it is full of life and manners. It is almost needless to say that kail is colewort, and much used in broth ; that castocks are the stalks of a common cabbage ; and that coggie is a wooden dish • for holding porridge : it is also a drinking vessel.” , There ’s cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Stra’bogie; G-in I but hae a bonny lass, Ye’re welcome to your coggie; And ye may sit up a.’ the night, And drink till it be braid day-light— Gie me a lass baith clean and. tight, To dance the Reel o’ Bogie. In cotillons the French excel; John Bull loves country-dances ; The Spaniards dance fandangos well; Mynheer an allemande prances: In foursome reels the Scots delight, At threesome they dance wondrous light, But twasome ding a’ out o’ sight. Danced to the Reel o’ Bogie. Come, lads, and view your partners well, Wale each a blithesome rogie; I’ll tak this lassie to mysel, She looks sae keen and vogie 1 422 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Now, piper lad, bang up the spring ; The country fashion is the thing, To prie their mous e’er we begin To dance the Reel o’ Bogie. Now ilka lad has got a lass. Save yon auld doited fogie; And ta’en a fling upo’ the grass, As they do in Stra’bogie ; But a’ the lasses look sae fain. We canna think oursels to hain, Bor they maun hae their come-again ; To dance the Reel o’ Bogie. Now a’ the lads hae done their best, Like true men o’ Stra’bogie; We’ll stop a while and tak a rest, And tipple out a coggie. Come now, my lads, and tak your glass, And try ilk other to surpass, In wishing health to every lass To dance the Reel o’ Bogie. FOR LACK OF GOLD. The country gjrls in Ayrshire, instead of the line— “ She me forsook for a great duke,” say, “ Bor Athole’s duke she me forsook which I take to he the original reading. This song was written by the late Dr Austin,* physician at Edin¬ burgh.—He had courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been married; but the Duke of Athole, having seen her, became so much in love with her, that he’ made proposals of marriage, which were ac¬ cepted of, and she jilted the doctor. Bpa lack of gold she’s left me, oh! And of all that’s dear bereft me, oh! Bor Athole’s duke, she me forsook, And to endless care has left me, oh! A star and garter have more art Than youth, a true and faithful heart, Bor empty titles we must part, And for glittTing show she’s left me, oh! * “ The doctor gave his woes an airing in song, and then married a very agree¬ able and beautiful lady, by whom he had a numerous family. Nor did Jean Drummond, of Megginch, break her heart when James, Duke of Athole, died: she dried her tears, and gave her hand to Lord Adam Gordon. The song is cre¬ ditable to the author.”—C unningham. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4 2 3 No cruel fair shall ever move My injured heart again to love, Through distant climates I must rove, Since Jeanie she has left me, oh! Ye powers above, I to your care Resign my faithless lovely fair, Your choicest blessings be her share, Though she’s for ever left me, oh! HERE’S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c. This song is Dr Blacklock’s. He told me that tradition gives the air to our James IY. of Scotland. To me what are riches encumber’d with care! To me what is pomp’s insignificant glare ! No minion of fortune, no pageant of state, Shall ever induce me to envy his fate. Their personal graces let fops idolise, Whose life is but death in a splendid disguise; But soon the pale tyrant his right shall resume, And all their false lustre be hid in the tomb. Let the meteor discovery attract the fond sage, In fruitless researches for life to engage ; Content with my portion, the rest I forego, Nor labour to gain disappointment and woe. Contemptibly fond of contemptible self, While misers their wishes concentre in pelf; Let the godlike delight of imparting be mine, Enjoyment reflected is pleasure divine. Extensive dominion and absolute power, May tickle ambition, perhaps for an hour; But power in possession soon loses its charms, While conscience remonstrates, and terror alarms. With vigour, oh, teach me, kind Heaven, to sustain ' Those ills which in life to be suffer’d remain ; And when ’tis allow’d me the goal to descry, Por my species I lived, for myself let me die. TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. A part of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakespeare. In winter when the rain rain’d cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, Was threat’ning a’ our kye to kill: Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, She said to me right hastily. Get up, goodman, save Cromie’s life, And tak your auld cloak about ye. 424 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. My Cromie is a useful cow, And she is come of a good kyne; Aft has she wet the bairns’ mou, And I am laith that she should tyne. Get up, goodman, it is fu’ time, The sun shines in the lift sae hie; Sloth never made a gracious end. Go tak your auld cloak about ye. My cloak was ance a good gray cloak, When it was fitting for my wear; But now it’s scantly worth a groat, Bor I have worn’t this thirty year. Let’s spend the gear that we have won, We little ken the day we ’ll die ; Then I’ll be proud, since I have sworn To have a new cloak about me. In days when our King Robert rang, His trews they cost but half a crown; He said they were a groat o’er dear, And call’d the tailor thief and loun. He was the king that wore a crown. And thou the man of laigh degree, ’Tis pride puts a’ the country down, Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. HEY TTJTTI TAITI. I have met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce’s march at the Battle of Bannockburn. YE GODS, WAS STREPHON’S PICTURE BLEST?* * Tune—“F ourteenth of October.” The title of this air shows that it alludes to the famous King Cris- pian, the patron of the honourable corporation of shoemakers. St Crispian’s day falls on the 14th of October, old style, as the old pro¬ verb tells:— “ On the fourteenth of October, Was ne’er a sutor* sober.” Ye gods, was Strephon’s picture blest With the fair heaven of Chloe’s breast? Move softer, thou fond flutt’ring heart, Oh, gently throb, too fierce thou art. 1 Shoemaker. * This song was composed by Hamilton of Bangour on hearing that a young lady of beauty and rank wore his picture in her bosom. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 42 5 Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind, For Strephon was the bliss design’d ? For Strephon’ssake, dear charming maid. Didst thou prefer his wand’ring shade ? And thou bless’d shade, that sweetly art Dodged so near my Chloe’s heart, For me the tender hour improve, And softly tell how dear I love. Ungrateful thing ! it scorns to hear Its wretched master’s ardent prayer, Ingrossing all that beauteous heaven That Chloe, lavish maid, has given. I cannot blame thee : were I lord Of all the wealth these breasts afford ; I’d be a miser too, nor give An alms to keep a god alive. Oh ! smile not thus, my lovely fair, On these cold looks that lifeless are : Prize him whose bosom glows with fire With eager love and soft desire. ’Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid I To life can bring the silent shade : Thou canst surpass the painter’s art, And real warmth and flames impart. But, oh! it ne’er can love like me, I ever loved, and loved but thee : Then, charmer, grant my fond request; Say, thou canst love, and make me blest. SINCE ROBB’D OF ALL TH A T 1 CHARM’D MY VIEW. The old name of this air is “The Blossom o’ the Raspberry.” The song is Dr Blacklock’s. As the song is a long one, we can only give the first and last verses Since robb’d of all that charm’d my view, Of all my soul e’er fancied fair, ¥e smiling native scenes adieu, With each delightful object there! Oh! when my heart revolves the joys Which in your sweet recess I knew, The last dread shock, which life destroys, Is heaven compared with losing you 1 Ah me! had Heaven and she proved kind, Then full of age, and free from care, How blest had I my life resign’d, Where first I breathed this vital air : But siDce no flatt’ring hope remains, Let me my wretched lot pursue ; Adieu! dear friends and native scenes! To all but grief and loye, adieu 1 426 REMARKS ON SCO TT/SH SONG. YOUNG- DAMON. Tune —“ Highland Lamentation.” This air is by Oswald.* Amidst a rosy hank of flowers Young Damon mourn’d his forlorn fate, In sighs he spent his languid hours, And breathed his woes in lonely state; Gay joy no more shall ease his mind, No wanton sports can soothe his care, Since sweet Amanda proved unkind, And left him full of black despair. His looks, that were as fresh as morn, Can now no longer smiles impart; His pensive soul on sadness borne, Is rack’d and torn by Cupid’s dart; Turn, fair Amanda, cheer your swain, TJnshroud him from this vale of woe; Range every charm to soothe the pain That in his tortured breast doth grow. KIRK WAD LET ME BE. Tradition in the western parts of Scotland tells that this old song, of which there are still three stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior to the Revolution—a period when being a Scots covenanter was being a felon—that one of their clergy, who was at that very time hunted by the merciless sol¬ diery, fell in by accident with a party of the military. The soldiers were not exactly acquainted with the person of the reverend gentleman of whom they were in search; but, from suspicious circumstances, they fancied that they had got one of that cloth and opprobrious per¬ suasion among them in the person of this stranger. “ Mass John,” to extricate himself, assumed a freedom of manners very unlike the gloomy strictness of his sect; and, among other convivial exhibitions, sung (and, some traditions say, composed on the spur of the occasion) “Kirk wad let me be,” with such effect, that the soldiers swore he was a d——d honest fellow, and that it was impossible he could belong to those hellish conventicles ; and so gave him his liberty. The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted at country weddings in the south-west parts of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like an old beggar; a peruke, commonly made of carded tow, represents hoary locks; an old bonnet; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw rope for a girdle; a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is done by shepherds in snowy weather: his face they disguise as like wretched old age „as they can: in this plight he is brought into the wedding house, frequently to the astonishment of strangers, who are not in the secret, and begins to sing— * The words are by Fergusson. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 427 “ Oh, I am a silly auld man, My name it is auld Gienae,” * &c. He is asked to drink, and by and by to dance, which, after some uncouth excuses, he is prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here is commonly called “Auld Gienae;” in short, he is all the time so plied with liquor that he is understood to get intoxicated, and, with all the ridiculous gesticulations of an old drunken beggar, he dances and staggers until he falls on the floor; yet still, in all his riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on the floor, with some or other drunken motion of his body, he beats time to the music, till at last he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk. There are many versions of this Nithsdale song; one of the least objectionable is as follows :— I am a silly puir man, Gaun hirplin owre a tree; For courting a lass in the dark The kirk came haunting me. If a’ my rags were off, And nought but hale claes on, Oh, I could please a young lass As well as a richer man. The parson he ca’d me a rogue, The session and a’ thegither, The justice he cried, You dog, Your knavery I’ll consider: Sae I drapt down on my knee And thus did humbly pray, Oh, if ye’ll let me gae free, My hale confession ye’se hae. ’Twas late on tysday at e’en, When the moon was on the grass; Oh, just for charity’s sake, I was kind to a beggar lass. She had begg’d down Annan side, Lochmaben and Hightae ; But deil an awmous she got, Till she met wi’ auld Gienae, &o. JOHNNY EAA, OR THE GIPSY LADDIE. The people in Ayrshire begin this song— “ The gipsies cam to my Lord Cassilis’ yetfc.”— They have a great many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. The castle is still remaining at Maybole where his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life. * Gienae, on the small river Ae, in Annandale; the seat and designation of an ancient branch, and the present representative, of the gallant but unfortu¬ nate Dalzels of Carnwath.—This is the Author’s note. 428 REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. The gipsies came to our lord’s gate, And wow but they sang sweetly ; They sang sae sweet, and sae complete, That down came the fair lady. When she game tripping down the stair, And a’ her maids before her, As soon as they saw her weel-fard face, They coost the glamour o’er her. “ G-ar tak frae me this gay mantile, And bring to me a plaidie ; For if kith and kin and a’ had sworn. I’ll follow the gipsy laddie. “ Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed, And my good lord beside me ; This night I’ll lie in a tenant’s barn, Whatever shall betide ine.” Oh! come to your bed, says Johnny Faa, Oh! come to your bed, my dearie ; For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword That your lord shall nae mair come pear ye. “ I ’ll go to bed to my Johnny Faa, And I ’ll go to bed to my dearie; For I vow and swear by what pass’d yestreen That my lord shall nae mair come near me. “ I’ll mak a hap to iny Johnny Faa, And I’ll mak a hap to my dearie; And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me.” And when our lord came hame at e’en, And speir’d for his fair lady, The tane she cried, and the other replied, She’s awa’ wi’ the gipsy laddie. “ Gae saddle to me the black, black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready; Before that I either eat or sleep I’ll gae seek my fair lady.” “ And we were fifteen well-made men, Although we were na bonny; And we were a’ put down for ane, A fair, young, wanton lady. TO DAUNTON ME. The two following old stanzas to this tnne have some merit:— To daunton me, to daunton me, Oh, ken ye what it is that ’ll daunton me ?— There’s eighty-eight and eighty-nine, And a’ that I liae borne sinsyne, REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 429 There’s cess and press,1 and Presbytrie, I think it will do meikle for to daunton me. But to wanton me, to wanton me, Oh, ken ye what it is that wad wanton me ? To see guid corn upon the rigs, And banishment amang the Whigs, And right restored where right sud be, I think it would do meikle for to wanton me. ABSENCE. A SONG in the manner of Shenstone. The song and air are both by Dr Blacklock. The following are two stanzas of this strain:— Ye harvests that wave in the breeze, As far as the view can extend ; Ye mountains umbrageous with trees, Whose tops so majestic ascend ; Your landscape what joy to survey, Were Melissa with me to admire! Then the harvests would glitter how gay. How majestic the mountains aspire! Ye zephyrs that visit my fair, Ye sunbeams around her that play, Does her sympathy dwell on my care, Does she number the hours oi' my stay? First perish ambition and wealth, First perish all else that is dear, E’er one sigh should escape her by stealth, E’er my absence should cost her one tear. I HAD A HORSE, AND I HAD NAE MAIR. This story is founded on fact. A John Hunter, ancestor of a very respectable farming family, who live in a place in tbe parish, I think, of Galston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless hero that “had a horse and had nae mair.”—For some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the West Highlands, where “he fee’d himself to a Highland laird,” for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard. The present Mr Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great grandchild of our hero. I had a horse, and I had nae mair, I gat him frae my daddy; My purse was light, and heart was sair, *But my wit it was fu’ ready. 1 Scot and lot. 430 REMARKS OK SCOTTISH SONG. And sae I thought me on a time, Outwittens of my daddy, To fee mysel to a lawland laird, Wha had a bonny lady. I wrote a letter, and thus began,— “ Madam, be not offended, I’m o’er the lugs in love wi’ you. And care not though ye kend it: For I get little frae the laird, And far less frae my daddy, And I would blithely be the man Would strive to please my lady.” She read my letter, and she teugh, “ Ye needna been sae blate, man; You might hae come to me yoursel. And tauld me o’ your state, man : You might hae come to me yoursel, Outwittens o’ ony body, And made John Gowlcston of the laird. And kiss’d his bonny lady.” Then she pat siller in my purse, We drank wine in a coggie; She fee’d a man to rub my horse, And wow but I was vogie! But I gat ne’er sae sair a fleg, Since I cam frae my daddy. The laird came, rap, rap, to the yett. When I was wi’ his lady. Then she pat me below a chair, And happ’d me wi’ a plaidie; But I was like to swarf wi’ fear, And wish’d me wi’ my daddy. The laird went out, he saw nae me, I went when I was ready; I promised, but I ne’er gaed back To kiss my bonny lady. UP AND WARN A’, WILLIE. This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expression “ Up and. warn a’, Willie,” alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, “Up and waur them a,” &c. AULD ROB MORRIS. It is remark-worthy that the song of “Hooly and Fairly,” in all the old editions of it, is called “The Drunken Wife o’ Galloway,” which localises it to that country. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 431 MITHER. There’s Auld Rob Morris that wins in yon glen, He’s the king o’ gude fallows, and wale o’ auld men j Has fourscore o’ black sheep, and fourscore too, And auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. DOUGHTER. Haud your tongue, mither, and let that abee, For his eild and my eild can never agree ; They’ll never agree, and that will be seen, 1’or he is fourscore, and I’m but fifteen. MITHER. Haud your tongue, doughter, and lay by your pride, For he’s be the bridegroom, and ye’s be the bride; He shall lie by your side, and kiss ye too, Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. DOUGHTER. Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu’ weel, His back sticks out like ony peat-creel; He’s out-shinn’d, in-kneed, and ringle-eed too, Auld Rob Morris is the man I’ll ne’er loo. MITHER. Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man, Yet his auld brass it will buy a new pan ; Then, doughter, ye shouldna be sae ill to shoo, For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo. ’ DOUGHTER. But auld Rob Morris I never will hae, His back is sae stiff, and his beard is grown gray ; I had rather die than live wi’ him a year, Sae mair of Rob Morris I never will hear. The “ Drunken wife o’ Galloway” is in another strain: the idea is original, and it cannot be denied that the author, whoever he was, has followed up the con¬ ception with great spirit. A few verses will prove this. Oh ! what had I ado for to marry, My wife she drinks naething but sack and canary ; I to her friends complain’d right early, Oh 1 gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. XTooly and fairly ; hooly and fairly, Oh 1 gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! First she drank Crommie, and syne she drank Garie, Then she has drunken my bonny gray mearie, That carried me through the dub and the lairie, Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly! The very gray mittens that gaed on my han’s, To her ain neibour wife she has laid them in pawn3, Wi’ my bane-headed staff that I lo’ed sae dearly, Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I I never was given to wrangling nor strife, Nor e’er did refuse her the comforts of life; Ere it come to a war, I’m aye for a parley, Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly! 43 2 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. A pint wi’ her cummers I wad her allow ; But when she sits down she fills hersell fou’; And when she is fou’ she’s unco camstrarie, Oh 1 gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I An when she comes hame she lays on the lads, And ca’S a’ the lasses baith limmers and jads; And I my ain sell an auld cuckold carlie, Oh 1 gin. my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I NANCY’S GHOST. This song is by Dr Blacklock. An! hapless man, thy perjured vow Was to thy Nancy’s heart a grave I The damps of death bedew’d my brow Whilst thou the dying maid could save f Thus spake the vision, and withdrew; From Sandy’s cheeks the crimson fled; Guilt and Despair their arrows threw, And now behold the traitor dead 1 Remember, swains, my artless strains, To plighted faith be ever true; And let no injured maid complain She finds false Sandy live in you I TUNE YOUE, FIDDLES, &C. This song was composed by the Bev. John Skinner, non juror clergy¬ man at Linshart, near Peterhead. He is likewise author of “ Tulloch- gorum,” “Ewie wi’ the Crooked Horn,” “John o’ Badenyon,” &c., and, what is of still more consequence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical history of Scotland. The air is by Mr Marshall, butler to the Duke of Gordon—the first composer of strathspeys of the age. I have been told by somebody, who had it of Marshall himself, that he took the idea of his three most celebrated pieces, “The Marquis of Huntley’s Reel,” “His Farewell,” and “Miss Admiral Gordon’s Beel,” from the old air, “The German Lairdie.” Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, Play the Marquis’ Reel discreetly ; Here we are a band completely Pitted to be jolly. Come, my boys, be blithe and gaucie, Every youngster choose his lassie, Dance wi’ life, and be not saucy, Shy, nor melancholy. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 4 33 Lay aside your sour grimaces, Clouded brows, and drumlie faces ; Look about and see their graces, How they smile delighted. Now’s the season to be merry, Hang the thoughts of Charon’s ferry ; Time enough to turn camstary, When we’re old and doited. GIL MORICE * This plaintive ballad ought to have been called Child Morice, and not Gil Morice. In its present dress, it has gained immortal honour from Mr Home’s taking from it the groundwork of his fine tragedy of “ Douglas.” But I am of opinion that the present ballad is a modern, composition,—perhaps not much above the age of the middle of the last century ; at least I should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the present words prior to 1650. That it was taken from an old ballad, called “Child Maurice,” now lost, I am inclined to believe; but the present one may be classed with “Hardyknute,” “Kenneth,” “Dun¬ can, the Laird of "VVoodhouselee,” “Lord Livingston,” “Binnorie,” “ The Death of Monteith,” and many other modern productions, which have been swallowed by many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by Mr M‘Gibbon, the selecter of a collection of Scots tuues. In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, I add that, of the songs which Captain Biddel mentions, “Kenneth” and “Duncan” are juvenile compositions of Mr M‘Kenzie, “The Man of Feeling.”— M‘Kenzie’s father showed them in MS. to Dr Blacklock as the pro¬ ductions of his son, from which the doctor rightly prognosticated that the young poet would make, in his more advanced years, a respectable figure in the world of letters. This I had from Blacklock. WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.f This song was the work of a very worthy facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muirkirk, which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some * Mr Pinkerton remarks that, in many parts of Scotland, “Grill” at this day signifies “Child,” as is the case in the Gaelic; thus, “Gilchrist” mean? the ‘ Child of Christ.”—“Child” seems also to have been the customary appellation of a young nobleman, when about fifteen years of age. f This is the song “that some kind husband had addrest to some sweet wife,” alluded to in the “Epistle to J. Lapraik.” There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a’ it pleased me best, That some kind husband had addrest y To some sweet wife; It thrill’d the heart-strings through the breast A’ to the life. 434 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. persons concerned in that villanous bubble, the Ayr Bank. He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting over their misfortunes. When I upon thy bosom lean, And fondly clasp thee a’ my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane wha ance were twain: A mutual flame inspires us baith, The tender look, the melting kiss: Even years shall ne’er destroy our love, But only gie us change o’ bliss. Hae I a wish ? it’s a’ for thee ; I ken thy wish is me to please ; Our moments pass sae smooth away, That numbers on us look and gaze, Weel pleased they see onr happy days, Nor Envy’s sel find aught to blame ; And aye when weary cares arise, Thy bosom still shall be my liame. I’ll lay me there, and take my rest, And if that aught disturb my deal’, I’ll bid her laugh her cares away, And beg her not to drap a tear : Hae I a joy ? it’s a’ her ain ; United still her heart and mine ; They’re like the woodbine round the tree, That’s twined till death shall them disjoin. THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER; OR, GARB ON OLD GAUL. This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, and called by him “The Highland, or 42d Regiment's March.” The words are by Sir Harry Erskine. In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome, 1 Erom the heath-cover’d mountains of Scotia we come, Where the Romans endeavour’d our country to gain; But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, No luxurious tables enervate our race, Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial strain, So do we the old Scottish valour retain. We’re tall as the oak on the mount of the vale, As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail, As the full moon in autumn our shields do appear, Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, So are we enraged when we rush on our foes ; We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks, Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 43 5 LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW. There is in several collections the old song of “ Leader-Haughs and Yarrow.” It seems to have been the work of one of our itinerant minstrels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of his song, “Minstrel Burn.” Witest Phoebus bright, the azure skies With golden rays enliglit’neth, He makes all Nature’s beauties rise, Herbs, trees, and flowers he quickeneth : Amongst all those he makes his choice, And with delight goes thorow, Witii radiant beams and silver streams O’er Leader-Haughs and Yarrow When Aries the day and night In equal length divideth, Auld frosty Saturn takes his flight, Nae langer hp abideth; Then Flora Queen, with mantle green, Casts aff her former sorrow, And vows to dwell with Ceres’ sel, In Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. Pan playing on his aiten reed, And shepherds him attending, I)o here resort their flocks to feed, The hills and haughs commending. With cur and kent upon the bent, Sing to the sun, good-morrow, And swear nae fields mail* pleasure yields Than Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. A house there stands on Leaderside,* Surmounting my descriving, With rooms sae rare, and windows fair, Like Dedalus’ contriving: Men passing by, do aften cry, In sooth it hath nae marrow; It stands as sweet on Leaderside, As Newark does on Yarrow. A mile below wha lists to ride. They’ll hear the mavis singing; Into St Leonard’s banks she’ll bide. Sweet birks her head o’erhinging; The lintwhite loud and Progne proud, With tuneful throats and narrow, Into St Leonard’s banks they sing As sweetly as in Yarrow. The lapwing lilteth o’er the lee, With nimble wing she sporteth ; But vows she’ll flee far frae the tree Where Philomel resorteth: By break of day the lark can say, I’ll bid you a good-morrow, I’ll streek my wing, and, mounting, sing O’er Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. * Thirlstane Castle, an ancient seat of the Earl of Lauderdale. 436 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Park, Wanton-waws, and Wooden-cleugh, The East and Western Mainses, The wood of Lauder’s fair enough. The corn is good in Blainshes; Where aits are fine, and sold by kind. That if ye search all tliorow Mearns, Buchan, Mar, nane better are Than Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. In Burmill Bog, and Whiteslade Shaws, The fearful hare she haunteth; Brig-haugh and Braidwoodshiel she knaws, And Chapel-wood frequenteth; Yet when she irks, to Kaidsly birks She rins, and sighs for sorrow, That she should leave sweet Leader-Haughs, And cannot win to Yarrow. What sweeter music wad ye hear Than hounds and beagles crying ? The started hare rins hard with fear, Upon her speed relying: But yet her strength it fails at length, Nae beilding can she burrow. In Sorrel’s field, Cleckman, or Hag’s, And sighs to be in Yarrow. For Rockwood, Ringwood, Spoty, Shag, With sight and scent pursue her, Till, ah I her pith begins to flag, Nae cunning can rescue her: O’er dub and dyke, o’er seugh and syke. She’ll rin the fields all thorow, Till fail’d, she fa’s in Leader-Haughs, And bids fareweel to Yarrow. Sing Erslington and Cowdenknows, Where Homes had ance commanding; And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, ’Twixt Tweed and Leader standing; The birds that flee throw Reedpath trees, And Q-ledswood banks ilk morrow, May chant and sing—Sweet Leader-Haughs, And bonny howms of Yarrow. But Minstrel Bum cannot assuage His grief while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, That fleeting time procureth: For mony a place stands in hard case, Where blithe fowk kend nae sorrow, With Homes that dwelt on Leaderside, And Scots that dwelt on Yarrow. THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE. The first lialf stanza is old, tie rest is Eamsay’s. The old words are-- t REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 437 Oh, this is no my ain house, My ain house, my ain house; This is no my ain house, I ken by the biggin o’t. Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks. My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks; Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks. And pancakes the riggin o't. This is no my ain whan, My ain wean, my ain wean; This is no my ain wean, I ken by the greetie o’t. I’ll tak the curchie aff my head, Aff my head, aff my head; I’ll tak the curchie aff my head, And row’t about the feetie o ’t. The tune is an old Highland air, called “Shuan truish williyhan. n LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. This song is by Dr Blacklock. Haisk, the loud tempest shales the earth to its centre^ How mad were the task on a journey to venture; How dismal’s my prospect, of life I am weary, Oh, listen, my love, I beseech thee to hear me, Hear me, hear me, in tenderness hear me; All the lang winter night, laddie, lie near me. Nights though protracted, though piercing the weather, Yet summer was endless when we were together; Now since thy absence I feel most severely, Joy is extinguish’d and being is dreary, Dreary, dreary, painful and dreary; All the long winter night, laddie, lie near me. THE GABERLUNZIE MAN* The Gaberlunzie Man is supposed to commemorate an intrigue of James V. Mr Callander of Craigforfch published, some years ago, an edition of “ Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” and the “ Gaberlunzie Man,” with notes critical and historical. James V. is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish; and that it was suspected by his con¬ temporaries that, in his frequent excursions to that part of the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies—Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphaut (one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood)—were occasionally * A wallet-man, or tinker, who ^appears to have been formerly a Jack-of-aJl- tradeS. 438 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the fol¬ lowing satirical advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon. * Sow not yere seed on Sandilands, Spend not yere strength in Weir, And ride not on yere Oliphants, For gawing o’ yer gear. The pawky auld carle came o’er the lea, Wi’ many good e’ens and days to me, Saying, Guidwife, for your courtesie, Will ye lodge a silly poor man ? The night was cauld, the carle was wat, And down ayont the ingle he sat; My daughter’s shoulders he ’gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. Oh, wow 1 quo’ he, were I as free As first when I saw this countrie, How blithe and merry wad I be I And I wad never think lang. He grew canty, and she grew fain ; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slee twa togither were sayin’, When wooing they were sae thrang. And oh, quo’ he, an ye were as black As e’er the crown of my daddy’s hat, ’Tis I wad lay thee on my hack, And awa’ wi’ me thou should gang. And oh, quo’ she, an I were as white As e’er the snaw lay on the dike, I’d deed me braw, and lady like, And awa’with thee I’d gang. Between the twa was made a plot; They raise awee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock. And fast to the bent are they gane. TTp in the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure put on her claise } Syne to the servant’s bed she gaes, To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away; She clapt her hand, cried, dulefu’ dayl For some of out gear will be gane. Some ran to coffer, and some to kist. But nought was stown that could be mist, She danced her lane, cried. Praise be blest I I have lodged a leal poor man. Since naething’s awa’, as we can learn, The kirn’s to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae but the house, lass, and wauken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben. * Sir David was Lion King-at-Arms under James T. REMARK'S ON SCO TTISH SONG. 43 9 The servant gaed where the daughter lay, The sheets were cauld, she was away, And fast to her guidwife did say. She’s aff with the Gaberlunzie man. Oh, fy! gar ride, and fy! gar rin, And haste ye find these traitors again; For she’s be burnt, and he’s be slain, The wearifu’ Gaberlunzie man. Some rade upo’ horse, some ran a-foot, The wife was wud, and out o’ her wit, She could na gang, nor yet could she sit, But aye did curse and did ban. i Meantime far hind out o’er the lea, JV snug in a glen where nane could see, The twa, with kindly sport and glee, Cut frae a new cheese a whang. The priving was good, it pleased them baith; To lo’e for aye he gae her his aith: Quo’ she, to leave thee I will be laith, My winsome Gaberlunzie man. Oh, kenn’d my minnie I were wi’ you, Hl-fardly wad she crook her mou, Sic a poor man she’d never trow, After the Gaberlunzie man. My dear, quo’ he, ye’re yet o’er young. And hae nae learned the beggar’s tongue, To follow me frae town to town, And carry the Gaberlunzie on. ■Wi’ cauk and keel I’ll win your bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, To carry the Gaberlunzie on. I’ll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout o’er my ee; A cripple, or blind, they will ca’ me, While we shall be merry and sing. THE BLACK EAGLE. This song is by Dr Fordyce, 'whose merits as a prose writer are well nown. Hark I yonder eagle lonely wails ; His faithful bosom grief assails; last night I heard him in my dream, When death and woe were all the theme, like that poor bird I make my moan, I grieve for dearest Delia gone; With him to gloomy rocks I fly, He mourns for love, and so do I. Twas mighty love that tamed his breast, ’Tis tender grief that breaks his rest; He droops his wings, he hangs his head, Since she he fondly loved was dead. 440 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. With Delia’s breath my joy expired, ’Twas Delia’s smiles my fancy fired ; Like that poor bird, I pine, and prove Nought can supply the place of love. Dark as his feathers was the fate That robb’d him of his darling mate; Dimm’d is the lustre of his eye, That wont to gaze the sun-bright sky. To him is now for ever lost The heart-felt bliss he once could boast; Thy sorrows, hapless bird, display An image of my soul’s dismay. JOHNNIE COPE. This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope’s defeat at Prestonpans in 1745, when he marched against the Clans. The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remember the title, which was, “Will ye go to the coals in the morning?” Oope sent a challenge frae Dunbar— Charlie, meet me, an ye daur, And I’ll learn you the art of war, If you ’ll meet me i’ the morning. chorus. Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waking yet? Or are your drums a-beating yet ? If ye were waking I would wait To gang to the coals i’ the morning. When Charlie look’d the letter upon, He drew his sword the scabbard from, Come follow me, my merry, merry men. To meet Johnnie Cope i’ the morning. Now, Johnnie Cope, be as good’s your word, And try our fate wi’ fire and sword, And dinna tak wing like a frighten’d bird, That’s chased frae its nest i’ the morning, When Johnnie Cope he heard of this, He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness To flee awa’ i’ the morning. Py, Johnnie, now get up and rin, The Highland bagpipes make a din, It’s best to sleep in a hale skin, For ’twill be a bluidy morning. Yon’s no the tuck o’ England’s drum, But it’s the war-pipes’ deadly strum ; And poues the claymore and' the gun— It will be a bluidy morning. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 441 When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, They speir’d at him, “Where’s a’ your men ?” “ The deil confound me gin I ken, Dor I left them a’ i’ the morning.’' Now, Johnnie, trouth ye was na blate, To come wi’ the news o’ your ain defeat, And leave your men in sic a strait, Sae early i’ the morning. Ah! faith, quo’ Johnnie, I got a fleg, With their claymores and philabeg; If I face them again, deil break my leg, Sae I*wish you a good morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waking yet? Or are your drums a-beating yet ? If ye were waking I would wait To gang to the coals i’ the morning. CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO EXPLORE. The song is by Dr Blacklock; I believe, but I am not quite certain, that the air is his too. Cease, cease, my dear friend to explore From whence and how piercing my smart; Let the charms of the nymph I adore Excuse and interpret my heart. Then how much I admire ye shall prove. When like me ye are taught to admire, And imagine how boundless my love, When you number the charms that inspire. Than sunshine more dear to my sight, To my life more essential than air, To my soul she is perfect delight, To my sense all that’s pleasing and fair. The swains who her beauty behold, With transport applaud every charm, , And swear that the breast must be cold Which a beam so intense cannot warm. Does my boldness offend my dear maid ? Is my fondness loquacious and free ? Are my visits too frequently paid ? Or my converse unworthy of thee ?' Yet when grief was too big for my breast, And labour’d in sighs to complain, Its struggles I oft have supprest, And silence imposed on my pain. Ah, Strephon, how vain thy desire, Thy numbers and music how vain. While merit and fortune conspire The smiles of the nymph to obtain. Yet cease to upbraid the soft choice, Though it ne’er should determine for thee. If my heart in her joy may rejoice, Unhappy thou never canst be. 442 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. AULD ROBIN GRAY. This air was formerly called “The Bridegroom Greets when the Sun Down.” The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras When the sheep are in the fauld, and a’ the kye at hame, And a’ the weary warld to sleep are gane : The waes of my heart fa’ in showers frae my ee, When my guidman sleeps sound by me. young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saying a crown he had naething else beside; To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He hadna been gane a year and a day, When my father brak his arm, and our cow was stown away, My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea; And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work, and my mither couldna spin, I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain’d them baith, and wi’ tears in his ee. Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, oh, marry me.” My heart it said nae, for I look’d for Jamie back, But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; Tie ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die. And why do I live to say, Wae’s me ? My father argued sair, though my mither didna speak, She lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; Sae they gied him my .hand, though my heart was in the sea, And auld Robin Gray is a guid man to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, “I’m come back for to marry thee." Oh, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away; I wish I were dead! but I’m no like to die, And why do I live to say, Wae’s me I I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I ’ll do my best a guid wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. DONALD AND FLORA.* This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes preserved from time imme¬ morial in the Hebrides; they seem to be the groundwork of many of * “This fine ballad,” says Cunningham, “is the composition of Hector Mac- neil, Esq., author of the celebrated poem, ‘Will and Jean,’ and other popular REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 443 our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to commemorate the unfortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America, in 1777. When merry hearts were gay, Careless of aught bu,t play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sad’ning to Mora ; * * Loose flow’d her coal black hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As thus to the troubled air She vented her sorrow:— “Loud howls the northern blast, Bleak is the dreary waste; Haste thee, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o’er, Since, on a foreign shore, You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora. “ ‘Where now is Donald dear?’ Maids cry with taunting sneer; ‘Say is he still sincere To his loved Flora ?’ Parents upbraid my moan, Each heart is turned to stone; Ah! Flora, thou ’rt now alone, Friendless in Moral “Come, then, oh come away 1 Donald, no longer stay;— Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora? Ah! sure he ne’er can be False to his vows and me— Oh, Heaven! is not yonder he Bounding o’er Mora?” “ Never, ah 1 wretched fair I (Sigh’d the sad messenger,) Never shall Donald mail- Meet his loved Flora 1 Cold, cold beyond the main, Donald, thy love, lies slain : He sent me to soothe thy pain, Weeping in Mora. “Well fought our gallant men, Headed by brave Burgoyne, Our heroes were thrice led on To British glory. But, ah! though our foes did flee, Sad was the loss to thee, While every fresh victory Drown’d us in sorrow. works. Hector Macneil was looked up to as Scotland’s hope in song when Burns died; his poems flew over the north like wildfire, and half a dozen editions were bought up in a year. The Donald of the song was Captain Stewart, who fell at the battle of Saratoga, and Flora was a young lady of Athole, to whom he was betrothed.” * A small valley in Athole, so named by the two lovers. 444 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. “ ‘ Here, take this trusty blade, (Donald expiring said.) Give it to yon dear maid, Weeping in Mora. Tell her, O Allan! tell, Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora.’ ” Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair, Then, striking her bosom bare, Sigh’d out, “Poor Flora!” O Donald! oh, well a day! Was all the fond heart could say ; At length the sound died away Feebly, in Mora. THE CAPTIVE RIBBAND. This air is called “Robie donna Gorach.” Dear Myra, the captive ribband’s mine, ’Twas all my faithful love could gain ; And would you ask me to resign The sole reward that crowns my pain ? Go, bid the hero who has run Through fields of death to gather fame. Go, bid him lay his laurels down,. And all his well-eam’d praise disclaim. The ribband shall its freedom lose, Lose all the bliss it had with you, And share the fate I would impose On thee, wert thou my captive too. It shall upon my bosom live, Or clasp me in a close embrace ; And at its fortune if you grieve. Retrieve its doom and take its place. % THE BRIDAL O’T. This song is the work of a Mr Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee, and author of a beautiful Scots poem called “The Fortunate Shepherdess.” They say that Jockey’ll speed weel o’t, They say that Jockey’ll speed weel o’t, For he grows brawer ilka day— I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t: For yesternight,. nae farder gane, The backhouse at the side wa’ o’t. He there wi’ Meg was mirden seen— I hope we ’ll hae a bridal o’t. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 445 An we had but a bridal o % An we had but a bridal o’t, We’d leave the rest unto guidluck, Although there should betide ill o’t; For bridal days are merry times. And young folks like the cornin’ o’t, And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, And pipers hae the bumming o’t. The lasses like a bridal o’t, The lasses like a bridal o’t, Their braws maun be in rank and file, Although that they should guide ill o’t: The bottom o’ the kist is then Turn’d up unto the inmost o’t, The end that held the kecks sae clean, Is now become the teemest o’t. The bangster at the threshing o’t, The bangster at the threshing o’t, Afore it comes is fidgin fain, And ilka day’s a clashing o’t: He’ll sell his jerkin for a groat, • His Under for anither o ’t, And e’er he want to clear his shot, His sark’ll pay the tither o’t. The pipers and the fiddlers o’t, The pipers and the fiddlers o’t, Can smell a bridal unco far, And like to be the meddlers o’t; Fan * thick and threefold they convene, Ilk ane envies the tithef o’t, And wishes nane but him alane May ever see anither o’t.. Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t, Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t, For dancing they gae to the green, And aiblins to the beating o’t: He dances best that dances fast, And loups at ilka reesingo’t, And claps his hands frae hough to hough, And furls about the feezings o ’t. TODLEN HAME. This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed. The author’s name is unknown. When I’ve a saxpence under my thumb, Then I’ll get credit in ilka town : But aye when I’m poor they bid me gae by Oh, poverty parts good company. Todlen hame, todlen hame, Coudna my love come todlen hame ? * Fan, when—the dialect of Angus. 446 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Fair fa’ the goodwife, and send her good sale. She gies us white bannocks to drink her ale, Syne if her tippeny chance to be sma’, We ’ll tak a good scour o’t, and ca’t awa’. Todlen hame, todlen hame, As round as a neep come todlen hame. My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, And twa pint-stoups at our bed-feet; And aye when we waken’d, we drank them dry, What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? Todlen but, and todlen ben, Sae round as my lore comes todlen hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, Ye’re aye sae good humour’d when weeting your mouj When sober sae sour, ye’ll fight wi’ a flee, That ’tis a blithe sight to the bairns and me, When todlen hame, todlen hame, When round as a neep ye come todlen hame. THE SHEPHERD’S PREFERENCE. This song is Dr Blaeklock’s.— I don’t know how it came by the name; but the oldest appellation of the air was, “ Whistle and I ’ll come to you, my lad.” It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name. In May, when the daisies appear on the green, And flowers in the field and the forest are seen; Where lilies bloom’d bonny, and hawthorns up sprung, A pensive young shepherd oft whistled and sung. But neither the shades nor the sweets of the flowers, Nor the blackbirds that warbled in blossoming bowers, Could brighten his eye or his ear entertain, For love was his pleasure, and love was his pain. The shepherd thus sung, while his flocks all around Drew nearer and nearer, and sigh’d to the sound; Around, as in chains, lay the beasts of the wood, With pity disarm’d and with music subdued. Young 3 essy is fair as the spring’s early flower, And Mary sings sweet as the bird in her bower; But Peggy is fairer and sweeter than they, With looks like the morning, with smiles like the day. JOHN O’ BADENYON. This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. When first I cam to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth, And fain the world would know; REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. In best attire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and gay, And here and there, and everywhere, Was like a morn in May. No care had I, nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a beau I might have pass’d In country or in town ; I still was pleased where’er I went, And when I was alone, I tuned my pipe and pleased myself Wi’ John o’ Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime, A mistress I must find. For love, they say, gives one an air, And even improves the mind: On Phillis, fair above the rest, Kind fortune fix’d my eyes; Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice : To Cupid, then, with hearty prayer, I offer’d many a vow ; And danced, and sung, and sigh’d, and swore, As other lovers do : But, when at last I breathed my flame, I found her cold as stone; I left the jilt, and tuned my pipe To John o’ Badenyon. When love had thus my heart beguiled With foolish hopes and vain ; To friendship’s port I steer’d my course, And laugh’d at lover’s pain j A friend I got by lucky chance, ’Twas something like divine, An honest friend’s a precious gift, And such a gift was mine : And now, whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply : A strait soon came, my friend I tried ; He heard, and spurn’d my moan ; I hied me home, and pleased myself, With John o’ Badenyon. I thought I should be wiser next, And would a patriot turn, Began to dote on Johnny Wilkes, And cry up Parson Horne. Their manly spirit I admired. And praised their noble zeal. Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain’d the public weal; But ere a month or two had past, I found myself betray’d, ’Twas self and party after all, For all the stir they made ; At last I saw these factious knaves Insult the very throne, I cursed them a’, and tuned my pipe To John o’ Badenyon. 447 448 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. And now, ye youngsters everywhere, Who want to make a show, Take heed in time, nor vainly hope, For happiness below; What you may fancy pleasure here Is but an empty name, For girls, and friends, and books, and so, You’ll find them all the same. Then be advised, and warning take From such a man as me, I’m neither Pope, nor Cardinal, Nor one of high degree: You’ll find displeasure everywhere; Then do as I have done, E’en tune your pipe, and please yourself With John o’ Badenyon. A WAUKRIFE MINNIE * I picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in Niths- dale.—I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland :— Whare are you gaun, my bonny lass ? Whare are you gaun, my hinnie? She answer’d me right saucilie— An errand for my minnie. Oh, whare live ye, my bonny lass ? Oh, whare live ye, my hinnie ?— By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken, . In a wee house wi’ my minnie. But I foor up the glen at e’en To see my bonny lassie ; And lang before the gray mom cam She wasna half sae saucie. Oh, weary fa’ the waukrife cock, And the foumart lay his crawin ! He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep A wee blink or the dawin. An angry wife I wat she raise, And o’er the bed she brought her, And wi’ a mickle hazel rung She made her a weel-pay’d dochter. Oh, fare thee weel, my bonny lass I Oh, fare thee weel, my hinnie! Thou art a gay and a bonny lass, But thou hast a waukrife minnie. The editor thinks it respectful to the poet to preserve the verses he thus recovered. —R. B. * A watchful mother. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 449 TULLOCHGORUM. This first of songs is the masterpiece of my old friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the town of Cullen, I think it was [he should have said Ellon ] in a friend’s house, whose name was Mont¬ gomery. Mrs Montgomery observing, en 'passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of Scotch song, in this most excellent ballad. These particulars I had from the author’s son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. Comb, gie’s a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside ; What signifies’t for folks to chide For what was done before them ? Let Whig and Tory all agree, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory all agree. To drop their Whig-mig-morum. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend the night in mirth and glee. And cheerful sing alang wi’ me The Reel o’ Tullochgorum. Oh, Tullochgorum’s my delight, It gars us a’ in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him : For blithe and cheerie we’ll be a’, Blithe and cheerie, blithe and cheerie Blithe and cheerie we ’ll be a’ And mak a happy quorum: For blithe and cheerie we ’ll be a’, As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa’, The Reel o’ Tullochgorum. What needs there be sae great a fraise Wi’ dringing dull Italian lays 2 I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hunder score o’ ’em. They ’re dowf and dowie at the best, Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, Dowf and dowie at the best, Wi’ a’ their variorum ; They’re dowf and dowie at the best, Their allegros and a’ the rest; They canna please a Scottish taste, Compared wi’ Tullochgorum. Let warldly worms their minds oppress Wi’ fears o’ want and double cess, And sullen sots themsels distress Wi’ keeping up decorum: Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Sour and sulky shall we sit, Like old philosophorum ? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. Nor ever try to shake a fit To the Reel o’ Tullochgorum ? 45 ° REMARKS OAT SCOTTISH SONG. May choicest blessings e’er attend Each honest, open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end, And all that’s good watch o’er him! May peace and plenty he his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. Peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o’ ’em ; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain’d by any vicious spot, And may he never want a groat, That’s fond o’ Tullochgorum i But for the sullen frampish fool That loves to be oppression’s tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him 1 May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, Dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae’s me for him 1 May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi’ a’ the ills that come frae Prance, Whae’er he be that winna dance The Keel o’ Tullochgorum 1 AULD LANG SYNE. Ramsay here, as is usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the first line, from the old fragment, which may be seen in the Museum, vol. v. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never thought upon, The flames of love extinguish’d, And freely past and gone ? Is thy kind heart now grown so cold, In that loving breast of thine, That thou canst never once reflect On auld lang syne? If e’er I have a house, my dear, That truly is call’d mine, And can afford but country cheer, Or ought that’s good therein ; Though thou wert rebel to the king, And beat with wind and rain, Assure thyself of welcome love, Por auld lang syne. THE EWIE WT THE CROOKED HORN. Another, excellent song of old Skinner’s. Oh, were I able to rehearse My ewie’s praise in proper verse, REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. I’d sound it out as loud and fierce As ever piper’s drone could Maw. The ewie wi’ the crookit horn Weel deserved baith garse and com ; Sic a ewie ne’er was bom Hereabout, nor far awa’, Sic a ewie ne’er was born Hereabout, nor far awa’. I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo’ hip or heel, Her crookit horn did just as weel To ken her by amo’ them a ’; She never threaten’d scab nor rot. But keepit aye her ain jog trot, Baith to the fauld and to the cot, Was never sweir to lead nor ca J Baith to the fauld and to the cot, Was never sweir to lead nor ca’. Cauld nor hunger never dang her, Wind nor rain could never wrang her; Ance she lay an ouk, and langer, Out aneath a wreath o’ snaw : Whan ither ewies lap the dyke, And ate the kail for a’ the tyke, My ewie never play’d the like. But tyc’d about the barnyard wa ’; My ewie never play’d the like, But tyc’d about the barnyard wa’. A better nor a thriftier beast Nae honest man could weel hae wist, Puir silly thing, she never mist To hae ilk year a lamb or twa. The first she had I gae to Jock, To be to him a kind of stock, And now the laddie has a flock Of mair nor thirty head to ca’, And now the laddie has a flock Of mair than thirty head to ca’. The neist I gae to Jean ; and now The bairn’s sae braw, has fauld sae fu’ That lads sae thick come here to woo, They’re fain to sleep on hay or straw. I lookit aye at even’ for her, For fear the foumart might devour her, Or some mischanter had come o’er her, Gin the beastie bade awa’. Or some mischanter had come o’er her, Gin the beastie bade awa’. Yet last ouk, for a’ my keeping, fWha can speak it without weeping ?) A villain cam when I was sleeping, And sta’ my ewie, hom and a ’; I sought her sair upo’ the morn, And down aneath a buss o’ thorn, I got my ewie’s crookit horn, But ah, my ewie was awa’ I I got my ewie’s crookit hom, But ah, my ewie was awa’. 451 452 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Oh ! gin I had the loun that did it, Sworn I have as weel as said it, Though a’ the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a thra’: I never met wi’ sic a turn As this sin’ ever I was born. My ewie wi’ the crookit horn, Puir silly ewie, stown awa’ I My ewie wi’ the crookit horn, Puir silly ewie, stown awa’ 1 HUGHIE GRAHAM. There are several editions of this ballad.—This here inserted is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.—It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten. Our Lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o’ the fallow deer, And they have grippet Hughie Graham, For stealing o’ the bishop’s mare. And they hae tied him hand and foot, And led him up through Stirling toun ; The lads and lassies met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loon. Oh, lowse my right hand free, he says, ' And put my braid sword in the same, He’s no in Stirling toun this day Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham. Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the bishop’s knee, Five hundred white stots I ’ll gie you, If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free. Oh, haud your tongue, the bishop says, And wi’ your pleading let me be ; For though ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die. ■ Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop’s knee; Five hundred white pence I ’ll gie you, If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me. Oh, haud your tongue now, lady fair, And wi’ your pleading let it be ; Although ten Grahams were in his coat, It’s for my honour he maun die. They’ve taen him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree. Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink his ee. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 453 At length he looked round about. To see whatever he could spy: And there he saw his auld father, And he was weeping bitterly. Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear, And wi’ your weeping let it be ; Thy weeping’s sairer on my heart Than a’ that they can do to me. And ye may gie my brother John My sword that’s bent in the middle clear; And let him come at twelve o’clock, And see me pay the bishop’s mare. And ye may gie my brother James My sword that’s bent in the middle brown; And bid him come at four o’clock, And see his brother Hugh cut down. Remember me to Maggy my wife, The neist time ye gang o’er the moor ; Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare, Tell her she was the bishop’s whore. And ye may tell my kith and kin I never did disgrace their blood; And when they meet the bishop’s cloak To mak it shorter by the hood. A SOUTHLAND JENNY. This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec¬ tion, was written from Mrs Burns’s voice. The following verse of this strain will suffice :— A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, She had for a suitor a Norlan’ Johnnie; But he was siccan a bashfu’ wooer That he could scarcely speak unto her. But blinks o’ her beauty and hopes o’ her siller, Forced him at last to tell his mind till ’er ; My dear, quo’ he, we’ll nae longer tarry, Gin ye can love me, let’s o’er the muir and marry. MY TOCHEE’S THE JEWEL. This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. It is notoriously taken from “The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre.” It is also to be found, long prior to Nathaniel Gow’s era, in Aird’s “Selection of Airs and Marches,” the first edition, under the name of * ‘ The Highway to Edinburgh.” 454 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THEN", GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN’. The chorus of this is part of an old song, one stanza of which I re¬ collect:— Evert day my wife tells me That ale and brandy will ruin me ; But if guid liquor be my dead, This shall be written on my head— ' Oh, guidwife, count the lawin’. THE SOGER LADDIE. The first verse of this is old; the rest is by Ramsay. The tune seems to he the same •with a slow air called “Jacky Hume’s Lament,” or “The Hollin Buss,” or “Ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten!” Mt soger laddie is over the sea, And he ’ll bring gold and silver to me, And when he comes hame he will make me his lady; My blessings gang wi’ him, my soger laddie. My doughty laddie is handsome and brave, And can as a sodger and lover behave; He’s true to his country, to love he is steady— There’s few to compare wi’ my soger laddie. Oh, shield him, ye angels, frae death in alarms, Return him with laurels to my longing arms, Syne frae all my care ye’ll pleasantly free me, When back to my wishes my soger ye gie me. Oh, soon may his honours bloom fair on his brow, As quickly they must, if he get but his due; For in noble actions his courage is ready, Which makes me delight in my soger laddie. WHERE WAD BONNY ANNIE LIE? The old name of this tune is,— Whare’ll our guidman lie ? A silly old stanza of it runs thus— Oh, whare’ll our guidman lie, Guidman lie, guidman lie, Oh, whare’ll our guidman lie, Till he shute o’er the simmer ? Up amang the hen-bawks, The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks Up amang the hen-bawks, Among the rotten timmer. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 455 Kamsay’s song is as follows— Oh, where wad honny Annie lie? Alane nae mail’ ye maunna lie ; Wad ye a guidman try, Is that the thing ye ’re lacking ? Oh, can a lass sae young as I Venture on the bridal tye ? Syne down wi’ a guidman lie? I’m fley’d he’d keep me waukin. Never judge until ye try; Mak me your guidman, I Shanna hinder you to lie And sleep till ye be weary. What if I should wauking lie, When the ho-boys are gaun by, Will ye tent me when I cry. My dear, I’m faint and eerie ? In my bosom thou shalt lie, When thou waukrife art, or dry, Healthy cordial standing by Shall presently revive thee. To your will I then comply ; Join us, priest, and let me try, How I ’ll wi’ a guidman lie, Wha can a cordial gie me. GALLOWAY TAM. I have seen an interlude (acted on a wedding) to this tune, called “ The Wooing of the Maiden.” These entertainments are now much worn out in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained in Nithsdale, viz., “Silly Puir Auld Glenae,” and this one, “The Wooing of the Maiden.” Oh, Galloway Tam cam here to woo, We’d better hae gien him the bawsent cow. For our lass Bess may curse and ban The wanton wit o’ Galloway Tam. A cannie tongue and a glance fu’ gleg, A buirdly back and a lordly leg, A heart like a fox and a look like a lamb— Oh, these are the marks o’ Galloway Tam. Oh, Galloway Tam came here to shear, We’d better hae gien him the guid gray meare, He kiss'd the gudewife and he dang’d the guidman, And these are the tricks o’ Galloway Tam. He owed the kirk a twalmonth’s score, And he doff’d his bonnet at the door; The loon cried out wha sung the psalm, “ There’s room on the stool for Galloway Tam !” Ye lasses o’ Galloway, frank and fair, Tak tent o’ yer hearts and something mair; And bar your doors, your windows steek, For he comes stealing like night and sleep : 456 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. Oh, nought frae Tam but wae ye ’ll win, He ’ll sing ye dumb and he’ll dance ye blin’; And aff your balance he ’ll cowp ye then— Tak tent o’ the deil and Galloway Tam. “ Sir,” quoth Mess John, “ the wanton deil Has put his birn ’boon gospel kiel, And bound yere cloots in his black ban’: ” “ For mercy loos’t! ” quo’ Galloway Tam. “ In our kirk-fauld we maun ye bar, And smear your fleece wi’ covenant tar, : And pettle ye up a dainty lamb,”-— “ Among the yowes,” quo’ Galloway Tam. Eased of a twalmontli’s graceless deeds, He gaylie doff d his sackloth weeds, And ’mang the maidens he laughing cam’— “ Tak tent o’ your hearts,” quo’ Galloway Tam. A cannie tongue and a glance fu’ gleg, A buirdly back and a lordly leg,' A heart like a fox, and a look like a lamb— Oh, these are the marks o’ Galloway Tam. AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA’. This is a very popular Ayrshire song. As I cam down by yon castle wa’, And in by yon garden green, Oh, there I spied a bonny bonny lass, But the flower-borders were us between. A bonny bonny lassie she was, As ever mine eyes did see; Oh, five hundred pounds would I give For to have such a pretty bride as thee. To have such a pretty bride as me, Young man ye are’sairly mista’en ; Though ye were king o’ fair Scotland, I wad disdain to be your queen, tfalk not so very high, bonny lass. Oh, talk not so very, very high ; The man at the fair, that wad sell, He maun learn at the man that wad buy. I trust to climb a far higher tree. And herry a far richer nest. Tak this advice o’ me, bonny lass, Humility wad set thee best. LORD RONALD, MY SON. This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original of Loehaher. In this manner most of our finest more modem airs have REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 457 had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, composed the simple artless original airs; which being picked up by the more learned musician, took the improved form they bear. .O’ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. This song is the composition of Jean Glover, a girl who was not only a whore but also a thief, and in one or other character has visited most of the correction houses in the West. She was bom, I believe, in Kilmarnock,—I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country with a sleight-of-hand blackguard. Comin’ through the craigs o’ Kyle, Amang the bonny blooming heather There I met a bonny lassie, Keeping a’ her yowes thegither. O’er the moor among the heather, O’er the moor amang the heather, There I met a bonny lassie, Keeping a’ her yowes thegither. Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? She says, 1 tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the blooming heather. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather, She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonny blooming heather. While thus we lay she sang a sang Till echo rang a mile and farther, And aye the burden o’ the sang Was o’er the moor amang the heather. She charm’d my heart, and aye sinsyne, I couldna think on ony ither ; By sea and sky she shall be mine! The bonny lass amang the heather. TO THE ROSEBUD. This song is the composition of one Johnson, a joiner in the neigh¬ bourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from “ Jockie’s Gray Breeks.” Alp hail to thee, thou bawmy bud, Thou charming child o’ simmer, hail Ilk fragrant thorn and lofty wood Does nod thy welcome to the vale. 458 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. See on thy lovely faulded form, Glad Phoebus smiles wi’ cheering eye, While on thy head the dewy morn Has shed the tears o’ silent joy. The tuneful tribes frae yonder bower Wi’ sangs of joy thy presence hail ; Then haste, thou bawmy, fragrant flower, And gie thy bosom to the gale. And see the fair, industrious bee, With airy wheel and soothing hum, Plies ceaseless round thy parent tree, While gentle breezes, trembling, come. If ruthless Liza pass this way, She ’ll pu’ thee frae thy thorny stem ; A while thou ’It grace her virgin breast, But soon thou’lt fade, my bonny gem. Ah ! short, too short, thy rural reign, And yield to fate, alas! thou must: Bright emblem of the virgin train, Thou blooms, alas! to mix wi’ dust. Sae bonny Liza hence may learn, Wi’ every youthfu’ maiden gay, That beauty, like the simmer’s rose, In time shall wither and decay. THE TEAKS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. This song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranstoun.* It wanted four lines to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the first four of the last stanza. The tears I shed must ever fall; I weep not for an absent swain, Por time can past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again. I weep not for the silent dead, Their toils are past, their sorrows o’er, And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join, to part no more. Though boundless oceans roll between, If certain that his heart is near, A conscious transport glads the scene, Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. E’en when by death’s cold hand removed, We mourn the tenant of the tomb, To think that even in death he loved, Can cheer the terrors of the gloom. * She was the sister of George Cranstoun, one of the senators of the College of Justice in Scotland, and became the second wife of the celebrated Professor Dugald Stewart, whom she outlived for many years, having died in July 1838, at the age of seventy-one. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 459 But bitter, bitter is the tear Of her who slighted love bewails; No hopes her gloomy prospect cheer, No pleasing melancholy hails. Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, and wither’d joy: The prop she lean’d on pierced her side, The flame she fed burns to destroy. In vain does memory renew The scenes once tinged in transport’s dye ; The sad reverse soon meets the view, And turns the thought to agony. Even conscious virtue cannot cure The pangs to every feeling due; Ungenerous youth, thy boast how poor To steal a heart, and break it too! No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would malce suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between,— He made me blest, and broke my heart! Hope from its only anchor torn, Neglected, and neglecting all, Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall. DAINTY DAVIE. This song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson’s begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The pious woman had put a lady’s nightcap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter’s bedfellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to he found in Herd’s collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas; and were their delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they would merit a place in any collection. The first stanza is as follows :— Being pursued by the dragoons, Within my bed he was laid down; And weel I wat he was worth his room, For he was my dainty Davie. Ramsay’s song, “Lucky Nansy,” though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own, except the chorus: I was aye telling you, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me. Which I should conjecture to be part of a song, prior to the affair of Williamson. 4^0 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. The following is the version of “Lucky Nansy” by Ramsay of which the poet speaks While fops, in soft Italian verse, Ilk fair ane’s een and breast rehearse, While sangs abound, and sense is scarce^ These lines I have indited: But neither darts nor arrows here, Venus nor Cupid shall appear. And yet with these fine sounds I swear, The maidens are delighted. I was aye telling you, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me. Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, To spread upon my lassie’s cheeks, And syne th’ unmeaning name prefix, Miranda, Chloe, Phillis. I’ll fetch nae simile from Jove My height of ecstasy to prove, Nor sighing, thus present my love With roses eke and lilies. I was aye telling you, &o. i But stay—I had amaist forgot My mistress, and my sang to boot, And that’s an unco faut, I wot: But, Nansy, ’tis nae matter. Ye see I clink my verse wi’ rhyme, And, ken ye, that atones the crime; Porbye, how sweet my numbers chime, And slide away like water! I was aye telling you, &c. Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair, Thy haff-shut een and hodling air, Are a’ my passion’s fuel. Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see, Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee, Yet thou hast charms enow for me, Then smile, and be na cruel. Leeze me on thy snawy pow, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy; Dryest wood will eithest low, And, Nansy, sae will ye now. Troth I have sung the sang to you, Which ne’er anither bard wad do; Hear, then, my charitable vow, Dear, venerable Nansy. But if the warld my passion wrang, And say ye only live in sang, Ken, I despise a slandering tongue, And sing to please my fancy. Leeze me on thy, &c. REMARKS ON SCO TTISH SONG. 461 BOB O’ DUNBLANE. Ramsay, as usual, has modernised this song. The original, which I learned on the spot from my old hostess in the principal inn there, is Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, And I’ll lend you my thripplin-kame ; My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, And we ’ll gae dance the bob o’ Dunblane. Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, Twa gaed to the wood—three came hame : An it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, An it be na weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again. I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have heard well authenticated:—In the evening of the day of the battle of Dunblane, (Sheriff-Muir,) when the action was over, a Scots officer in Argyle’s army observed to his Grace that he was afraid the rebels would give out to the world that they had gotten the victory.—“Weel, weel,” returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, “if they think it be na weel bobbit, wte’11 bob it again.” THE END. RAT.LANTYNE AND COMPANY. PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. ' CATALOGUE OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO, EDINBURGH, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. Ten Volumes, large Crown 8vo, cloth, price £2, 14s., A HANDSOME LIBRARY EDITION OF THE HISTORY OF SCOTLAND, FROM THE ACCESSION OF ALEXANDER III. TO THE UNION. By PATRICK FRASER TYTLER, F.R.S.E., F.A.S. Also, Four Volumes, Crown 8vo, cloth, price 18s., THE PEOPLE’S EDITION OF TYTLER’S HISTORY OP SCOTLAND. ‘The most brilliant age of Scotland is fortunate in having found a historian whose sound judgment is accompanied by a graceful liveliness of imagination. We venture to predict that this book will soon become, and long remain, the standard History of Scotland. 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The Publisher has every confidence that he will be able to produce a book worthy of the memory of Burns; and, at the same time, a collec¬ tion of examples of Scottish Art which has never been surpassed. The Engraving of the Illustrations will be executed by Mr. E. Paterson ; and the volume will be Printed by Mr. E. Clark, Edin¬ burgh. The work is expected to be ready for publication early in autumn. 4 $ooks kg (Stillram glimmo. NEW LIBRARY ANO -GIFT BOOHS. Two Yols. crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 21s., MARJORIE DUDINGSTOUNE; A TALE OF OLD SAINT ANDREWS. By William Francis Collier, LL.D. 1 The author’s pictures of sixteenth century life in the Scotch city have an air of reality about, them; the homely story is woven in with the thread of political life very skilfully, and, above all, the style of the author is remarkably clear and graceful; indeed, it is long since we have read a novel as ably written as this.'— Sunday Gazette. 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So curious is the blending of fact and fancy, so minute and delicate are the touches which disguise, even while they colour the picture, that the most improbable incidents leave behind them a flavour of pro¬ bability as racy as it is rare. A rugged kindliness and instinctive honesty, a high moral purpose, are woven through the whole web of the book .’—Edinburgh Courant. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 7s. 6d., OUR COUSINS IN AUSTRALIA; Or, Reminiscences of Sarah Norris. By Isabel Massart. ‘The author of “Social Life in Sydney” has added to her reputation as a delineator of antipodean life, in the production of her present work, in which she presents a graphic picture of customs and manners in Australia. The book is powerfully written, and abounds with fine descriptive matter, mingled, but not overcharged, with moral and religious sentiment, reflection, and practical com¬ ment. 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We heartily commend the little volume, viewed either in its intrinsic worth, or as the production of a good and clever man.’ —Kilmarnock Post. The Cedar Christian. By the Rev. Theodore L. CUYLER. ‘The little sermons which occupy this volume are admirably wrought out, and are full of the most valuable precepts.’— Aye Herald. Consolation for Christian Mothers bereaved of Little Children. By A Friend of Mourners^ ‘The essence of these pages is an unpretentious spirit, and an humble though holy mission. We doubt not that many a mother in her lonely anguish will feel relief in having this simple companion to share her tears.’— Stirling Journal. The Orphan; or, Words of Comfort for the Fatherless and Motherless. Gladdening Streams; or, The Waters of the Sanctuary. A Book for Fragments of Time on each Lord’s Day of the Year. §)jjoks publxsljib % HJilliam |1. pmmtr. 15 Popular Works by the Author of ‘ Heaven our Home.’ 1. NINETY-FOURTH THOUSAND. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, price 3s. 6d., HEAVEN OUR HOME. 1 The author of the volume before us endeavours to describe what heaven is, as shown by the light of reason and Scripture; and we promise the reader many charming pictures of heavenly bliss, founded upon undeniable authority, and described with the pen of a dramatist, which cannot fail to elevate the soul as well as to delight the imagination.Part Second proves, in a manner as beautiful as it is convincing, the doctrine of the recognition of friends in heaven, —a subject of which the author makes much, introducing many touching scenes of Scripture celebrities meeting in heaven and discoursing of their experi¬ ence on earth. Part Third demonstrates the interest which those in heaven FEEL IN EARTH, AND PROVES, WITH REMARKABLE CLEARNESS, THAT SUCH AN INTE¬ REST EXISTS NOT ONLY WITH THE ALMIGHTY AND AMONG THE ANGELS, BUT ALSO among the spirits of departed friends. We unhesitatingly give our opinion that this volume is one of the most delightful productions of a religious character which has appeared for some time; and we would desire to see it pass into exten¬ sive circulation .’—Glasgow Herald. A Cheap Edition of HEAVEN OUR HOME, In crown 8vo, cloth limp, price Is. 6d., is also published. % II. TWENTY-NINTH THOUSAND. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, price 3s. 6d., MEET FOR HEAVEN. ‘The author, in his or her former work, ‘Heaven our Home,’ portrayed a SOCIAL HEAVEN, WHERE SCATTERED FAMILIES MEET AT LAST IN LOVING INTER¬ COURSE and in possession of perfect recognition, to spend a never-ending eternity of peace and love. In the present work the individual state of the chil¬ dren of God is attempted to be unfolded, and more especially the state of proba¬ tion which is set apart for them on earth to fit and prepare erring mortals for the society of the saints.The work, as a whole, displays an originality of con¬ ception, a flow of language, and a closeness of reasoning rarely found in religious publications.The author combats the pleasing and generally accepted belief, that DEATH WILL EFFECT AN ENTIRE CHANGE ON THE SPIRITUAL CONDITION OF our souls, and that all who enter into bliss will be placed on a common level.’— Glasgow Herald. A Cheap Edition of MEET FOR HEAVEN, In crown 8vo, cloth limp, price Is. 6d., is also published. 16 Honks pxxblisfttb bg ®xUiam |). |(xmm0. Works by tbe Axxtbor of ‘ Heaven our Home ’— continued. in. TWENTY-FIRST THOUSAND. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, price 3s. 6d., LIFE IN HEAVEN. There, Faith is changed into Sight, and Hope is passed into blissful Fruition. ‘ This is certainly one of the most remarkable works which have been issued from the press during the present generation; and we have no doubt it will prove as acceptable to the public as the two attractive volumes to which it forms an appropriate and beautiful sequel.’— Cheltenham Journal. 1 We think this work well calculated to remove many erroneous ideas respecting our future state, and to put before its readers such an idea of the reality of our existence there, as may tend to make a future world more desirable and more sought for than it is at present.’— Cambridge University Chronicle. 1 This, like its companion works, ‘Heaven our Home,’ and ‘Meet for Heaven,’ needs no adventitious circumstances, no prestige of literary renown, to recommend it to the consideration of the reading public, and, like its predecessors, will no¬ doubt circulate by tens of thousands throughout the land.’— Glasgow Examiner. A Cheap Edition of LIFE IN HEAVEN, In crown 8vo, cloth limp, price Is. 6d., is also published. IV. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, price 3s. 6d., TABOR’S TEACHINGS; Or, The Veil Lifted. ‘The main subjects discussed in this new work are, Christ’s glory and eternal intercourse with his people. These are developed with great power of thought, and great beauty of language. The book is sure to meet with as flattering a reception as the author’s former works.’— The Newsman. ‘ The work opens up to view a heaven to be prized, and a home to be sought for, and presents it in a cheerful and attractive aspect. The beauty and elegance of the language adds grace and dignity to the subject, and will tend to secure to it the passport to public favour so deservedly merited and obtained by the author’s former productions.’— Montrose Standard. * A careful reading of this volume will add immensely to the interest of the New Testament narrative of the Transfiguration, and so far will greatly promote our personal interest in the will of God as revealed in his word.’— Wesleyan Times. A Cheap Edition of TABOR’S TEACHINGS, In crown 8vo, cloth limp, price Is. 6d., is also published. iimmff. 17 NIMMO’8 POPULAR TALES. % Series uf Interesting anb ^musing Stories BY EMINENT AUTHORS. Six volumes, handsomely bound in cloth extra, price 3s. each; may also be had in twelve volumes, fcap. 8vo, illuminated wrapper, Price One shilling each. Each Volume complete in itself, and sold separately. %* This work is admirably adapted for village, lending, mechanics’ institute, and ship libraries; and the single volumes are suitable for railway, seaside, and fireside reading. G-erald Aymer’s loves, and Other Tales. XI. The Ten of Diamonds, and Other Tales. The Long Slippers, and Other Tales. VII. Toothache, and Other Tales. VIII. My First Offer, and Other Tales. IX. Too Late, and Other Tales. A Strange Presentiment, and Other Tales. x. Curiosities of Crime in Edinburgh. V. THE Hunt of the (Menkens, and Other Tales. XI. Annie’s Canary, and Other Tales. VI. A Tangled Web, and Other Tales. the; Sliding Scale of Life. 18 §|ff£rk8 puMisfrtfr bg jjp. NIMMO’S HANDY OUTLINES OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE. -Foolscap'8vo, uniformly bound in cloth extra. L Price Eighteenpence, THE EARTH’S CRUST. A Handy Outline of Geology. With numerous Illustrations. Third Edition. By David Page, LL.D., F.R.S.E., F.G.S., Author of 1 Text-Books of Geology and Physical Geography,’ etc. ‘ Such a work as this was much wanted,—a work giving in clear and intelligible outline the leading facts of the science, without amplification or irksome details. It is admirable in arrangement, and clear, easy, and at the same time forcible, in style. It will lead, we hope, to the introduction of geology into many schools that have neither time nor room for the study of large treatises.’— The Museum. II. Price Eighteenpence, POULTRY AS A MEAT SUPPLY: Being Hints to Henwives how to Hear and Manage Poultry Economi¬ cally and Profitably. Fourth Edition. By the Author of ‘ The Poultry Kalendar.’ 1 The Author’s excellent aim is to teach henwives how to make the poultry-yard a profitable as well as pleasant pursuit, and to popularize poultry-rearing among the rural population generally.’— The Globe. ‘Such is the butcher’s monopoly, that, until poultry can be brought to a rea¬ sonable price, there is no chance of standing up against his extortions. This book grapples with the thing in a purely practical point of view.’— The Sporting Life. III. Price Eighteenpence, HOW TO BECOME A SUCCESSFUL ENGINEER: Being Hints to Youths intending to adopt the Profession. Third Edition. By Bernard Stuart, Engineer. ‘ It contains much good and judicious advice, worthy of the attention, both of parents who think of training their sons for the profession of engineer, and of young men themselves who have entered on their studies for that profession.’— Caledonian Mercury. ‘Parents and guardians, with youths under their charge destined for the pro¬ fession, as well as youths themselves, who intend to adopt it, will do well to study and obey the plain curriculum in this little book. Its doctrine will, we hesitate not to say, if practised, tend to fill the ranks of the profession with men conscious of the heavy responsibilities placed in their charge.’— Practical Mechanic's Journal. ^ooks puWxs^b bg SHiUiam | 3 . Himmc. 19 NIMMO’S HANDY OUTLINES OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE— Continued. IY. Price Eighteen pence, RATIONAL COOKERY: Cookery made Practical and Economical, in connection with the Chemistry of Food. Fifth Edition. By Hartelaw Eeid. Y. Price Eighteenpence, EUROPEAN HISTORY: In a Series of Biographies, from the Beginning of the Christian Era till the Present Time. Second Edition. By David Pryde, M.A. ‘ It is published with a view to the teaching of the history of Europe since the Christian era by the biographic method, recommended by Mr. Carlyle as the only proper method of teaching history. The style of the book is clear, elegant, and terse. The biographies are well, and, for the most part, graphically told .’—The Scotsman. VI. Price Two Shillings, DOMESTIC MEDICINE: Plain and Brief Directions for the Treatment requisite before Advice can be obtained. Second Edition. By Offley Bohun Shore, Doctor of Medicine of the University of Edinburgh, etc. etc. etc. ‘This is one of the medicine books that ought to be published. It does not, recommend any particular system, and it is not in any sense an advertisement for fees. 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