Class ~Pr? 4-^c> n Book V-^< . PRESENTED BV 6 ^d(/<^fi^ymj^%,^fL /JCH4/i>fi^ ^^^eXS^M^* «M » / THE W ORKS T B U R N S'; \ CONTAINING HIS LIFE; BT JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ,. THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, BY HIMSELF, GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, AND OTHERS; ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY, INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CURRIE; BURNS'S SONGS, FROM JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL MUSEUM," AND " THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES , SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS, FROM THE BEST COLLECTIONS, WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. rORMING, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUEST EXHIBITION OF THE MAN AND THE POET, AND TiBa FULLEST EDITION OP HIS POETRY AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. NEW- YORK : LEAYITT & ALLEN, (8U00E88OB8 TO LBAVITT * CO.), NO. 27 DEY-STEEET. 1852. \^. VVW, O CUAJ-LoL lA'Uil ^-X-^.JLA o- PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. \^{ The ftrfiOTflng trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names tlreir countrymen are, at least in their original language, afotoitain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were com- posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine ele- gies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 3ye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. iv PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks . Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- tifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom- to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- lowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- sense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned; without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. THE PRESENT EDITION. In the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap- tain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and " men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the " performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approba- " tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper. To such " an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- " pations, were certainly little suited. ,But the partiality of Mr. Syme " thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, •' joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and ot " other friends «f the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist." These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick- lish and Impracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the mastef^-spirits of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage ? They have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it, as a decisive test of the evil days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. It is true. Dr. Currie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- terials. They form truly the very backbone of the poet's life, as edited by V " ) Dr. Currie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and however largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- men of all degrees, of that literary talent, which had only been inferred, hvpothetically, from th^ nature of her elementary institutions. We have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redacteur. — He was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora' character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru- lence of party strife. The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals ol tlie time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each of them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon the publications of Cromek, who in his " Reliques," and " Select Scottish Songs," brought to light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its fuil extent until nearly thirty years after trie publication of Dr. Currie' s work. It was nut until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the person of Mr. John Lockhart, thv> son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and (ra- ther a discordant title), Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part of that excellent repertory known by the title of Constables Miscelluvy. It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the champion of the Bard who sung, " A man's a man for a' that :" and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upon him. But the lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove prejudices and soften asperities; to say nothing of that independence of mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred snirit. Mr ( »i , Lockhart, it will farther be observed, besides having compiled his work i -^ der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical manner than the preceding biographers. He judged for himself; he took neither facts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet did, always thinks and speaks for himself. These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present work. 1. The Life by Lockhart. 2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published 'in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of Burns. 4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and others. The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like- wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. New York, Sept. 11, 1832. CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. OF THE LIFE. Page Chap. I —The Poet's Birth, 17fi9 — Circumstances and peculiar Character of his Father and fllother— Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of his Mental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, ~.~-^ i— vis Chap. II. From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir- vine— Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, ~„~^ ix — xix Chap- HI The Brotliers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Rlossgiel — Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not Prosperous — The Muse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with heresy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin- cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies — The alternative, , . „ ^^ xx— >xxxiv Chap. IV The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert — Intends for Ja- maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 17U6 — It brings him extended repu- tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- stances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, ^„^ xxxv — Ixii? Gbap. V The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lighted up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off' their feet by it, while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields much money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion, ,^ ,^ ^ ,^^ Ixiv — Ixxi Chap. VI IMakes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends m the '' Auld Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pUgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpots, winter 1787-8 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — is enrolled in the Excise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him leaves Edinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, ^. Ixii— IxxV' Chap. VII Marries — Announcements, (apologctical,) of the event — Remarks — Becomes (1788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six ▼i CONTENTS. miles from Dymfnes—The IMuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence— Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shews cause against success in farming— The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer— The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life— Leaves tlliesland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, Chap. VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual discharge of his official duties — He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- loved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- siduous instructor of his children— Impulses of the French Revolution Symp- toms of fraternizing — The attention of his official superiors is called to them Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name— Interesting details of this pe- riod—Gives his whole soul to song making— Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament Symptoms of premature old age— These not diminished by narrow circumstances —Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter — The Poet misses public pa- tronage : and even the fair fruits of his own genius— the appropriation of which is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell— His magnani. mity when deafl" is at hand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man--Dies, 21st July Ijyd— Public funeral, at which many attend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the Poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public —Analysis of character— His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and others, Verses on tlie death of Burns, by BIr. Roscoe of Liverpool, — Character of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, Preface to the First Edition jf Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, ^ Dalication to the Caledonia.i Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, ^ Page Ixxxii— xc CX~,CX3£X]T -~-. cxxxv — cxxxvu clxiil dxf vu CONTENTS OF THE POEMS \ Bards Epitapn, address to a tfciggis, ^ to a Laily, to a Louse, to a Mouse, to Colonel de Peyster, to Edinburgh, to General Demourier to J. Svme, to Mr. Mitchell, to Mr. William Tytler, to Robert Graham, Esq.- to the Deil,. to the Owl, . „ to the Shade of Thomson, _-_ to the Scotch Representatives,- to the Toothache,- to the Unco Guid, A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, ____ A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), A Grace before Dinner, Answer to a Tax Surveyor, . A Prayer in Prospect of Death, in Anguish, A Sketch, A Winter Night,- A Vision,, Death and Dr Hornbook, Despondency, an Ode, a Hymn, Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, on William Creech,, on Peg Nicolson,- Tam Samson, on the Year 17 Epistle to a V'oung Friend, . to Captain Riddel,— to Davie, a Brother Poet (I), . to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), . to Gavin Hamilton,. to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,- to J. Rankin with Poems,. to Mr. Macadam, to Terraughty, . to the Reverend Mr. M'Math. to AV. S. Ochiltree, Epitaph on a Friend, . 45, oil a Noisy Polemic,- on a Ruling Elder,„ on Gavin Hamilton, on R. .\itkin, „~ on the Poet's Father, on Wee Johnny, . Extempore Effusions in i he Court of Session, on Falsehood, to a Friend, . to Mr. Syme, Refusal to Dine, when at Carlisle, — __ Halloween, H.dy Fair, -, Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,. Inscription, Altar of Independence,- Lament of Queen Mary, . 68 39 81 30 .59 79 4.5, 79 47 81 81 79 46 75 55 55 55 55 55 55 82 83 C3 74 71 83 24 6 73 72 Lament for James Earl of Glencaim,- Pagt ™ 52 for a Scotch Bard gone t6 the West Indies, 40 Lines left at a Friend's House, „. left at Carron, — left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, left at Taymouth Inn, on a PosUuimous Child,-. , on a Wounded Hare, on Brviar Water, . on Captain Grose, on Miss Cruikshanks,. on Religion, - on Sensibility, to Mrs.'Dunlop, on Searing some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, on the Death of J. Maeleod, on the Fall of Fyers, — -„ — on the Highlands on William Smellie,- to a Mountain Daisy,- to an Offended Friend, . to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems, — . to a Young Lady with Books, ~ to Mi-s L. with Beattie's Poems,——. ~ to Robert Graham, Esq to Ruin, to Sir John Whitefoord, . Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,- New- Year's Day, a Sketch, , - — Ode on a Miserly Character,- on my Early Days, on Pastoral Poetry, . on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, to Liberty, , — — — ™ «—. — . Poor Maillie's Elegy, . Scotch Drink,. Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, Stanzas on Death, . Strathallan's Lament, - Tam o' Shanter, 49 61 70 61 77 Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, — —. -—._ The Auld Farmer's New.\ ear's Salutation to his Mare Maggie, — Brifjs o' Avr, Calf, Cotter's Saturday Night, ,„ Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, First Psalm,. First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, Henpecked Husband,- Jolly Beggars, Kiik's Alarm,- Lamenton a Friend's Love Disappointment, Newspaper, ~. ■. Ordination, — - -.--., Twa Dogs, Twa Herds, Whistle,. Vision, . Vowels, a Tale, Winter, a Dirge,- Essay ou Scottish Poetry (Dr. Currie), 81-a7 CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. Andrew and his Cutty Gun,« Annie Lawrie, As I went out in a May Morning, . Auld Rob Morris, ... Robin Gray,,™ Aye waukin' O, — ..,—.,.., .„^ A waukrife Minny, Awa Whigs Awa, ~~-™~™„„„ Beds of Sweet Roses, , Bess the Gaukie.. Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, Bide ye Yet (2 sets). Blink o'er the Burn Sweet Betty, Blue Bonnets over the Border,,' Bonnie Barbara Allan, . Dundee, Mary Hay,- Came ye o'er frae France, . Carle an' the King come,. Caukl Kail in Aberdeen,. Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes, . Charlie is my Darling, Clout the C'au'dron,, Cockpcn,- Come under my Plaidie,, Com in' thro* the Rye, Coin Rigs arc Bonnie, Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), Cromlei's Lilt, ~ ■■■■ Dinna think Bonnie Lassie,, Donald Coupar, Down the Burn Davie,. Dumbiirton's Drums, „~ Dusty Miller, ,_„™.,™ Ettriek Banks, Fair Annie of Lochroyan, . Fairly Shot of Her, _™™ False Love and hne ye Played Me This, „„ Farewell to Ayrshire,- Fare ye weel my Auld Wife, For Lack o' Gold She's left me. For the Sakeo' Somebody, Fye gar rub her o'er wi' Straw,- Gala Water,- Get up and Bar the Door O, Go to Berwick Johnie, Gude Yill Comes and Gude Yill Goes,. Hame never cam' He, Haud awa frae me Donald, . Hap nnd row the Feetie o't,- Here's a Health to them that's awa,- Hcy ca' through,-™, Highland Laddie, Hooly and Fairlie,- Hughie Graham,, Page. -, 148 ^ 173 „ 187 ™ 176 _ 157 „ 156 _ M3 -. 184 1?0 inl ™„ 178 . 13i; 114 156 17S 151 157 182 157 lt'9 146 152 103 145 158 156 12" 153 117 157 160 178 153 ™ 154 -~ I7-' ™ 154 127 165 105 127 154 185 176 159 155 155 108 134 149 I had a Horse and I had nae mair, r--- ■ 137 I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, «„™„,„ 125 I'll never leave Ye, , „, „„„„„„,„„„, 162 1 loo'il nae a Laddie but ane, „, 155 Jenny Dang the Weaver, -. . ,. ., ^ ,^ iKfi If ye'U be my Dawtle and sit on my Piaid, 162 In tlie Garb of Old Gaul,.,., ,.,.., . . 140 Jockey said to Jenny,.. >.,,, John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, John o' Badenyon, Johnny Cope, Johnny Fr.a, — „„ Johiir.y's Gray Breeks, —. Jumpin John, Kate of Aberdeen,—. Kathrlne Ogie, . Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, Kelvin Grove, Kenmure's on and av^a Willie, Killycrankie (the Battle), Killycrankie O (the Braes^, Kind Robin loes me, Lady Mary Ann,- Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now. Lassie lie near me,- Lcwis Gordon, . Little wat ye wha's eomin', Lochaber rio more, Lochnagar, Logan Braes, (double set), Logic o' Buchan,- Lord Ronald, my Son, Low down in the Broom, . Macpherson's Rant, . Maggie Lauder Mary's Dream,- Mary Scot, the Flower o' Yarrow, Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle, MUl, Mill, O,- My Auld Man, _— My Dearie, if thou Die,, My Jo Jiuiet, . My Love she's but a Lassie yet. My Love's in Uermanie, , My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er nie,- My Native Caledonia, Mv only Joe and Dearie O, . My Wile's a Wanton Wee Thing iSly \Vile has taen the Gee, Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, . O an' ye were Dead Gudeman, O can ye labour Lea Young Man,. Uch hey Johnny Lad, „„„,„-,„ O dear Minny what shall 1 do, . O merry may the Maid be, , ~ O on ochrio'(the Widow of Glenco), Old King Coid, ,.,,,. ,„, OurGuidman cam' Hame at E'en, O'er the Muir amang the Heather, O'er Bogie wi' my Love,,,,-~_ O Waly, Waly up yon Bank,-^ Polwarth on the c,re-r.w_ , , , Poverty parts Gude Company,- Roslin Castle, Roy's Wife,. Sae Merry as We hae been, . Sandy o'er the Lea, ~~~. Saw ye Johnny t'omin', . Saw ye my Father, ~— Pagt. ^ 18S ™ Wi 144 143 156 w- 106 w 159 107 163 159 156 185 147 160 173 146 163 164 119 160 186 184 150 155 149 164 125 121 112 124 165 118 123 165 174 1«2 167 153 170 167 159 161 160 183 119 1G8 161 1.50 153 128 185 168 103 170 lie 165 103 17i CONTE>fTS. IS Sav/ ye nae my Pegsy, ~~»~~,. She rose ami let ine in, S'teer her up and hauil her gaun, Strephon and Lydi? Symon Brodie, Tak' your Atild CIoaK about you. Tarn o' the Ballooh Tarry Woo, The Auld Man's Mare's dead, The Auld Wife ayoiit the Fire, Tlie Battle o' Sherra-muir, The Banks o' the Tweed. -. The Beds o' Sweet Roses, The Birks of Invermav, The Blvthesome Bridal, The Bl.ithrie o't. The Boatie rows, TheBobof Dumblane, The boruiie brueket Lassie, The bonnie Lass o' Branksome, The bonnie Lass that made the Bed to me,. The Brae> o' Ballendean, The brisk youn? Lad, The Brume o' the Cowdenknoives, _- The Bush aboon Traquair, The Campbells are comin', The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, The CoaUier's bonnie Lassie^ The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn, The Flowers of the Forest, The Flowers of Edinburgh, The Foray, The Gaberlunzie Man, The happy Marriage, - The Hishland Queen, Tlie Jolly Beggar, The Lammie, The Landart Laird The Lass of Peatie's Mill, The Lass o' Li vision, The Last I ime I cam' o'er the Muir,-. Tbe Lea-Rig. The Life and Age o' Man,,»-„^ The Maid that tends the Goats, . The Maltman, The merry Men O, The Miller o' Dee, The Minstrel (nonochthead). The muokin' o' Geordie's Uyre, . The Old Man's Song The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us. The Poesie, The Rock and the wee pickle Tow,„,. .„ The Soutors o' Selkirk, The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, The Turnimspike.. The weary Pund o' Tow, The wee, wee German Lairdie, The Wee Thin?,. The Wee Wifikic, I he White Cockade, ~ The Widow, The Vellow-hair'd Laddie, I he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, There's nae Luck about the House,~-,~-, This is no Mine Ain House, Tibbie Fowler, Tibbie Dunbar, „„ To Dannton Me,. To the Kye wi' Me, (2 sets), Todlin Hame, Tranent-Muir, . T 1 1 1 loch gor u m , ~~ 'Twas within a Mile o' Edinburgh I'own, Tweedside {i sets), , Up and Warn a' Willie, « Up in the Mornin' early,* Wandering Willie, —.,> Waukin' o' the Fauld, . We're a' Nid Noddin — Page. _ 100 113 177 184 175 lil 125 13.5 — 174 — HI 132 152 184 ._ 1(.7 159 187 -~ 180 171 181 181 181 ™ 182 ,_ 115 142 172 142 ue 175 \->9 121 114 174 109 Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, Willie was a Wanton Wag, _..'.>..-....„. Woo'd and Married and a', ., ™ 138 ^ 126 — 182 -. 120 _ 167 ~ 124 _ 169 ... 140 CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. AQieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu,, Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, . Afton Water, Again rejoicing Nature sees, A Highland L;id my Love was born, — ™ Amang the Trees where humming Bees, A Man's a Man for a' that,- Anna,. Annie, A red red Rose,- A R,>se Hud bv my early Walk,. A Southland /ennie, Auld Lang Syne,. Auld Rob Morris, — Bessy and her Spinning. Wheel, Behold the hour the Boat arrives. Beware of Bonnie Ann, Beyond thee, Dearie, BIythe hae 1 been on yon Hill Blythe was She, Bonnie Bell, Jean, Lesley, ... Wee 'I'hin^. .„. Bruce at Bannockburn, Caledonia — (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),. Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, Reply, Ca' the Ewes,... ■«, — Chloe, Po/^e. 188 188 lh8 1S9 189 189 1!10 190 190 191 191 191 191 192 195 195 196 195 196 Chloris,- Clarinda,. Come let me take Thee to my Breast, ~~. Contented wi' Little, Country Lassie, ™ Craigieburn-wood, — ~ — Dainty Davie, Deluded Swain, . — ~~ Does haughty Gaul, .-...- Down the Burn Davie, - Duncan Gray, Evan Banks, Fair Eliza,- Fairest Maid on Devon Hanks,. Fate gave the Word, For the Sake o' Somebody, . Forlorn my Love,—,.-... — ., From thee Eliza,. ,■....■ Gala-Water, Gloomy December, —,-——- (iifen grow the Rashes O, — Gudewife count the Lawin',- Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, , Handsome Nell, Her flowing Locks, Here's a health to .Ane 1 loe dear, . to Them that's awa. Pag*. 197 197 197 197 198 193 — 198 _ 198 199 199 199 199 — ?00 200 200 200 ~ 2111 -, 201 20! 201 2 12 203 202 2(13 204 204 CONTENTS. Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend, Highland Harry, Highland Mary, How Cruel are the Parents, , How lang and dreary is the Night, 1 am a Son of Mars,- Jamie come try me,. Page. „ 204 ^ 103 .„ 205 204 204 I dream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,. I'll aye ca' in by yon Town, — ~-. I'm o'er \'oung to Marry yet. It is nae Jean thy bonnie Face,. Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss, — John Anderson ray jo, John Barleycorn, Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, Lassie wi' the Lint- white Locks, Lay thy Loof in mine Lass, Let not a Woman e'er complain, Logan Braes, ~. Long, long the Night, Lord Gregory, ~~ Lord Daer,,. — .,-. — . Macpherson's Farewell,, Maria's Dwelling, ~„~ Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, . llary Morison, Meg o' the Mill, ~. My Bonnie Mary, My Heart's in the Highlands, My L.ady'b Gown there's Gairs upon't, . My Nannie's awa, ~~~^ Mv Nannie O, — - My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, My Spouse Nancy, , My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, Musing on the Roaring Ocean,- Naebody, Nancy, . Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, ~— Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green, - Now westlin Winds and slaughtering Guns, O' a' the alrts the Wind can blaw,- O ay my Wife she dang me, O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,- O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, O gin my Love were jon Red Rose, „ O leave Novelles ye Mauchlin Belles, O let me in this a'e Night, _~ O Love will venture in, ~ O May, thy Morn, ^— ~,.. On a iSank of Flowers, — . On Cessnock Bank, On the Seas and far away. Open the Door to me O,. O Philly happy be that day,. O stay sweet warbling Wobdlark, . O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, — O were I on Parnassus Hill, O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,- O wha is She that Loes me, ■ — Out over the F.orth,- Peggy Alison, ..^ Phillis the Fair, Powers Celestial whose protection, Puirtith Cauld,-^ 1 20.5 206 205 2115 205 -206 206 2(17 206 208 208 208 209 209 2(19 209 210 Ran tin' Roarin' Willie,^ ~ 210 210 211 211 211 212 212 212 212 213 213 213 214 211 214 214 215 214 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 218 218 219 218 219 219 220 22(1 220 221 216 216 216 . 221 . 222 222 222 2r?2 Raving Winds around her blowmg,-. Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, . Scroggum, „„-,-_ She's Fair and She's Fause, Page. - 223 She says she Loes me best of a'. Sic a Wife as Willie had, Steer her up and haud her gaun, Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburn-wood, . The Auld Man, The Banks o' Castle Gordon, Cree, 22.5 223 223 223 224 224 224 225 o' Devon,- o' Doon, o'Nith,~~. The Bard's Snng The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, . The Big-bellied Bottle,__ The Bjrks o' Aberfeldie,- The Blue-eyed Lassie, The bonnie Wee Thing, The Braes o' Ballochmyle, The Carle o' Kellybum'-Braes, - The Chevalier's Lament, -— „ The Day Returns, The Death Song, The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,- The Election,. The Gallant Weaver,- The Gardener, The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast, . The Heather was bloomin', , The Highland Lassie O, - The Lad that's far awa, The Lass o' Ballochmyle, . The Lass that made the Bed to me,- The Lazy Mist,- The Lea-Rig, . The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, . The Lover's Salutation, ~- The Riggs o' Barley, . The Soldier's Return, The stown Glance o' Kindness,. The Toast, — 225 -. 226 22K 225 236 226 226 227 227 2-28 228 228 2SS 229 „ 229 230 2.10 2.i0 231 231 The Tocher for Me, The Woodlark, The Young Highland Rover, -_ — . There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame,- There's a Youth in this City,. There's News Lasses, . 233 233 233 23 i 234 2.34 2,35 235 255 257 236 238 2.37 237 236 There was once a Day,- This is no mine ain Lassie, ~— Thou has left me ever Jamie, Tibbie I haeseen the Day, To Mary in Heaven, . True-hearted was He, Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, Wandering Wjllie,-~— — — — ,. —- What call a Young La.-~>..<..>.^.^.^.>. 250-2 1786. To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh — frst pub- lishing, >^ 252 To Mr. Maewhinnie, Ayr— same topic,,. 252 To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline — route for Ja- maica, w...~ — 253 To Mr. David Brice — same — about to become Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu- ture state, ^~~~ -™^ 253 To Mrs. Dunlop — first Letter — her order for Co- pies — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — going abroad— sends Sor!gs,„.^„..„„„ , 255 From Dr, Blacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — ■ with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings him to Edinburgh, ..„„„-, 255 From Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary, 256 From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, „„„.„-„- 256 To Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — from Edinburgh — the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan — favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on Lord Daer, . 257 1787. To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at Edinburgh, 257 To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and humourously apologetical, 257 To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and farther incidents at Edinburgh, .. 258 To the Earl of Eglinton— a thankful Letter, 258 To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his Writings — critical remarks on his own — and upon himself at the height of popular favour,™ 259 To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of From Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet 7iot of the ir- ritabite genus — admires his love of Country and independent spirit, not less than his Poetical Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the Mountain Daisy, ..„„.„„.„,„„„ 260 To Dr. Moore — general character of Miss Williams' To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, and getting hhphiz done,,. — — ~~~ — .~~ ..„ 261 From Pr. Moore — with his View of Society — and other Works, ~ w-~~~~ 261 To the Earl of Gleneaitn — with Lnies for his Pic- To the Earl of Buehan — as to Pilgrimages in Cale- donia, r - 262 Pag:: Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Fergusson, 262-3 To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow— the Poet clings to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — ^but still the Old Man with his deeds, — „. 264 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— the Bard— his situation and views, 264 To the same, ~~~~-~™ , . . 265 'To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first Pilgrimage, ~« ~_,^ 265 To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking, ., 265 From Dr. Blair — who notices hi^own claims for first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — gives the Poet, at parting, s certificate of cha- racter, with much good advice, both wordly and To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during the first Pilgrimage, ^ . 266 From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- ble hints also given, , ,„.„„„„„„„ 267 To Mr. William Nicoll — the Poei's Itinerary in braid Scots, ,„,.™ . 26? From Mr. John Hutcheson, Jamaica — Poems excellent — but belter in the English style — Scot- tish now becoming obsolete — ilissuaiies' from the West Indies — " there is no enciiuragement for a man of learning and genius there,"-,, . — ,~~ 268 To Mr. W. Nicoll— on arriving at home — morali- zes over the Scenes ami Comp.uiions of his re- cent elevation^gloomily as tuthe future, 268 To Gavin Hamilton — occurrences of the second Pilgrimage. .,,„„.,„„ 269 To Mr. Walker, Blair-ln-Athole — the same — the Duke's family, . ~,~ 270 To Mr. Gilbert Hums — further adventures, ,« 270 From Mr.Ramsay of Otlitertyre — nith Inscriptions — Tale of Owen Camenm — hints for a Poetical Composition on the grand scile and other taste- ful ai]d interesting malter, . 271-2 From Mr. Walker, Athole-House — parl;iculars of the Poet's visit there — female lontrivances to prolong his s'ay,~ ~, . , 273 Ftom Mr A. M. an admiring Friend returned from abroad — with tributary Ver.ses, — . i;73 From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . William Voung — introductory of the Poet, ,. ~ .„.„„ 274 From the same to Dr. tilacklock — with tlianks for the Poet's acquaintance and Soni^s — Anecdotes, 274 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old Tutvir, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he had helped to cultivate, „~,„„„„ 275 From Mr. R , from Gordon-Castle — incidents of the Poet's visit there, , : „.„ 275 From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natural to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- butes to the Song-making enterprize, 276 From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivaeh — Gaelic airs — the Poet's Northern Tour, „,„„.„„^ 277 To Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield — Rhymes, 278 Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 To Miss M an Essay on the complimentary To Mr. Robert .Aiiislie — friendship, ~ .„,-, 281 To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, Ve Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Uoon, -...^,.^.,.,.,.,,,,,„„,^ 281 Xll CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Page. To Pr. Moore, from the Poet-Sketch of his Life, „-. .. , 281-6 From Mr. Gilbert Burns, a runiiinn Commentarv on the foref;oin{»,,,„„„~. ,-,~.„„„2,S6-90 From Mr. Murdoch, as to the Poet's early Tui- From Professor Dugald Stewart — his Sketches of the Poet, . 292-5 From Mr. Gilbert lUirns, giving history of origin of the principal Poems, — ^~~~ — 295-7 From the same, in continuation — and Essay on Education of lower Classes, — — -J97-on2 Death and Character of Gilbert Burns, ot\-> The Poet's Scrap- t'()ol<, (farther extractsi, .„3i;2-o LETTER.S, 178S. To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — second visit — bruised limb, »„,„„,„ 304 To the same — repelling insinuation as to irrcli- To a Lady — upon tlie use of sarcasm imputed to him against her, — 3 4 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn — origin of the Cheva. lier's Lament, ~ ^^ 504 From the same, in answer — and with Farming opinions, 304 To Mr. James Smith, Avonfield — marriage pre. To Mrs. DunlDii — Farming — reasims for and in- structions m the Excise — tart expressions, „__ 505 From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming Nancy," by a Buihan Ploughman, and other Songs — his own Latin poetry, , , 306 To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going to the Continent, _„_ . 306 To Mrs. Dunlop — Drydcn's Virgil— likes the Georgics — disappointed in the .lEneid, often an imitation of Homer — Dryden, Pope's master, in genius and harmony of language, . , 307 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dull Letter may be a kind one, ,... ,.. ^ 307 To Mrs. Dunlop— inequality of conditions, ^ 507 To the same — first from f;ilisland — his marriage, 308 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— a slice of It good for indigestion of all kmds, 308 To Mr. Robert .Ainslie— friendsliip— the Poet's suspicious temperament— -his purpose to leave the light troops of Fancv for the squadrons of heavy-armed Thought— ^larrii^ge, „ . 309 To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchline— the Poet's new house, „, „ , , 3( 9 To Mr. Robert .Ainslie — a ser;ous Letter, -. 310 To Mr. George Loikliart, Glasgow — admiration of certain Female beauties, » 311 To Mrs. Dunlop — a lueU-pennv — Friar's Carse Hermitage and oiher Lines, „1 „-. „„ 311 To the same — his answers to lui, not Echoes — Marriage Anecdotes — account of his Wife— Let- To the same — gos-ip of a Dinner-party Life and Age of Man — religious impressions, 312 To Robert Graham, Esq. with fir»t Poetical Ad- To Mr. Beugo, Engraver— estimate of the Poet's new neighbours — matters poetical, 314 To Miss C h.dmers— complimen'dry to her — and exi>lanatory of his maiTiage- present state and prospects — Songs, ..„„„ „„_^ 315 To .Mrs. Dunlop — twiTis — cr" A'isms— verses, 316 To Mr. Peter Hill — i pinibns of the Poetry of Thomson, ,-,.-■ ... ■ , 317 '1 o Mrs. Dunlop — ihe Major's present, 517 To .^— apologetical for the bloody and t\rannical House of Stewart, ! 318 To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh— with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- To Dr. BlacUiock— with Poetical Pieces and Songs —his Marriage and other movements, 319 To Mrs. Dunlop — consolatory — the Poet's esti- mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- tions of the immortal soul— Auld Lang Syne — and other Songs, - ■ - - r. r - ,-t ,,- 320 Te a young Lady, enclosing a Ballad upon her,~ 520 1789 Pagt, To Sir John Whitefoord— thanks for his voluntary defence of the Poet, „,.,. , .....r.r,,- ,,,■ ,,,,,,,, 321 From Mr. Gilbert Burns — New- Year's wishes, 321 To Mrs. Dunlop — the same — approves of set times of Devotion— glowing sentiments of a Life be- yond the Grave, „-,-™ 321 From the Rev. P. Carfrae— of Mylne and his To Dr. Moore — poetical purposes — worldly state of the Poet and his Friends, , '. 322 I o Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage. To Bishop Geddes — " What am 1 '—Where I am ? — and for what am I destined ?" _~„ 324 To Mrs. Dimlop — eontnist of high and low — Mylne's Poems, -_- 324 From William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out- set and progress, .^ „„ , , . , , , 355 To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326 to Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, 326 To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality — order for To Mrs. Dunloi)— Sketch of Fox, 328 To .Mr. Cunningham — effusions of Friendship, ~ 328 From Dr. Gregory— iron bound criticism 328 To Mr. James Hamilton, Glasgow — consolation, 329 To Mr. William Creech— Toothache, 329 To Mr. M'Aiiley of Dumbarton- descriptive of the Poet's feelings and condition, ~. 330 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same topics, 530 From Dr. Moore — ndvice — to preserve and polish his lays, and to abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect — Zeluco, _~__- . _~^ .„ 331 To Mrs. Dunlop — low spirits — religious feelings,— 331 From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute, 552 From Mr. Cunningham — reminiscences of Fergiis- To Mr. Cunningham, in answer, — .— 553 To Mr. Dunlop — ilomestic matters— Poetical Tri- bute from Miss L— g- a Future State— Zeluco, 334 From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly Letter in Rhyme, 334 To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer,.. ■■ .'535 To Captain Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 335 To the same — the Scrap-book, ~-™ 335 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word '• Exciseman," 335 To Robert Graham, Esq.^-Captain Grose and lo. 1 o Mrs. Dunlop — " under the miseiies of a diseas- ed nervous system," 337 To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscore,— 338 From Captain Riddel to Sir John— on same siib- 1790. To Gilbert Rums— the Players— Verses for them, 399 From William Burns — at Newcastle — wants inlor- niation and fraternal instructions, _—. ~™. 359 To Mrs. Dunlop — the Poet Falconer — Ballads, — 54C From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices, 341 From Mr. Peter Hill — " a poor rascally Ganger," — Borough Reform— Books — Note, with sccrtts To Mr. William Nicoll — last illntss and de:ith of Peg Nicolson — matters theatrical — eccle>iastical squabbling — Exciseman's duty, ^ „„ — „— 542 To Mr. Cunningham— on Letter writing — txist- ence — and the course of the Poet's reading — Deism — .Scepticism, - ..-.,.„—— 343 To Mr. Peter Hill — a large order — existence, 515 From William Bums, at London— his ad\enlures .—hears the C'a// preach at Covent Garden Cha. To Mrs. Dunlop— ad\antages of the Union— Lord Chesterheld — Mirror — Lounger- Man of Fetl- From Mr. Cunningham — friendl> notiies, 3i5 To Dr Mooie — Letter writing — Zeluco — Miss To Mr. Murdoch — len wing friendly intercourse, ."46 From Mr Murdoch — Death of William Burns, ~ 347 To Mr. Cunningham — Independence— Smollett's Ode, ^ . 34« CONTENTS. xiii Page. From Dr. Blacklock— a Letter In Rhyme— Dr. Anderson and the Bee, ^ 348 From Mr. Cunningham— a Song for each of the four Seasons suggested, — — — ,?49 To Mrs. Dunlop — Birtli of a Posthumous Child- Ode thereon, 349 To Crawford Tait, Esq. — recommending a young Friend, —.. . 349 To^— — — Partizanship,-..~.v>-— ■....„... 3o0 ' 1791. To Mr. Cimningham — Elegy on Miss Burnet, — 350 To Mr. Peter Hill— Essay on Poverty, — . 3.51 From A. F. Tvtler, Esq.— Tarn o' Shanter, 3il To Mr. Tytler— in answer, ~ ~ 352 To Mrs. Dunlop — broken arm — Elegy on Miss Burnet — a remembrance, -. — . — ,,^ 352 To Lady Mary Constable — a Snuff-box, ~~~~~— 553 To Mrs. Graham of Fintry — Ballad on Queen Mary — the Poet's gratitude, 353 From the Rev. Principal Baird — Michael Bruce,— 353 To Principal Baird— offering every aid for pub- lishing Bruce's Works, -^ 354 To the Rev. Archibald Allison — his Essays on To Dr. Moore — Songs and Ballads — Zeleuco — pri. vate concerns, -. ,~~~. .— — — . 355 To Mr. Cunningham — Song, " There'll never be peace till Jamie come hame," . — .~~ 356 To Mr. Dalzell, Factor to Lord Glencairn — the Poet's grief for his Lordship — his wish to attend From Dr. Moore — criticises Tam o' Shanter, and other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze- leuco — advises him to be more fchary of givnig Copies— and to use the modern English, 356 To Mrs. Dunlop^a domestic occurrence — exclu- sive advantages of humble life, -. — . 557 To Mr. Cunningham — in behalf of a persecuted Schoolmaster, ^ — ~»-. 358 From the Earl of Buchan — crowning of Thomson's Bust at Ednam, . — r — 358 To the same — in answer,™^. 559 To Mr. Thomas Sloan, Manchester — disappoint- ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet's From the Earl of Buchan — suggests Harvest-home for a theme to the Muse, ~~™ -~ 559 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the death of her Brother, Lord Glencairn,. 560 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a Mmd diseased, 5G0 From Sir John Whitefoord — Lament for Lord From A. f! Tytler, Esq.— the Whistle— the La- ment, ^-,-~~~-~~~.~~^ ^ — ^~ 361 To Miss Davies — sentimental- lo a Radical Reform, •with some hints as 362 To Mrs. Dunlop — with the Death-Song — High- To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew. To the same — Witch Stories of Kirk-Alloway, — 563 To Mrs. Dunlop — animadversions of the Board — malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness, ofii To Mr. W. Smellie— Introductory of Mrs. Ruldel, 564 To Mr. W. NieoU— admiration of, and gratitude for sage advice, ~-. — ~- — — — . 365 To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's Arms, 565 J o Mr. Clarke - invitation to come to the Country, 566 To Mrs. Dunlop — a Platonic attachment and a Ballad — Religion indispensible to make Man better and happier, „. — . 367 To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings, 367 To Mrs. I unJop— difference in Farming for one's self and Farming for another, — , 36S To the same — a Family iniiiction— condolence, ~ 569 To the same — shortness and uncertamty of Life — Rights of Woman, 569 To Robert Graham, Esq. — justifies himself against I the charge of disaffection to the British Const! . To Mrs. Dunlop — the Poet's improved habits— al- ] Pagt, lusions to her suggestions for his official promo- To Miss B. of York — moralizes over the chance- medleys of human intercourse, ,-^,-, 571 To Patrick Miller, Esq of Dalswinton — an honest To John Francis Erskine of Mar, Esq. — the Poef s independence of sentiment, and particularly his opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, — 372-3 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — schoolcraft caught by contact, ..-, . .. 373-4 To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, 374 To Lady Glencairn- gratitude to her Family— from an independent Exciseman, 374-J To Miss Chalmers — a curious analysis which shews " a Wight nearly as miserable as a Poet," 375 To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, ~-~v..— 375-6 LETTERS, 1794, 1795, 1796. To the Earl of Buchan — with " Bruce's Address," 378 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, -„ 376 To a Lady — the same, .., 376 To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- tion and literary leisure, 373-7 To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated To the same — gin horse routine of Excise business, 377 To the same — effects of a cool reception, „-„-„„.-, 577 To the same — a spice of caprice, . 378 To the same — firm yet conciliating, 578 To John Syme, Esq. — praises of Mr. A. — Song on To Miss in defence of his reputation — re. claims his MS 378^ To Mr Cunningham — a Mind Diseased — Religion necess.ary to Man, ., .,,., 579 To a Lady— from the Shades, ~ „ 580 To the Earl of Glencairn — the Poet's gratitude to his late Brother, . ™„.~,.~-.„ 3S0 To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Lives of the To Mrs. Riddel — solitary confinement good to re- claim Sinners — Ode for Birth-day of Washiiig- To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for the Museum, ~~~~~~~~-. ^ 381 To Mr. Miller of Dalswinton — declines to be a re- gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the Morning Chronicle, , 381 To Mr. Gavin H.nmilton — the Poet recommends a particular regimen to him, 582 To Mr. Samuel Clarke— penitence after excess, ~ 582 To Mr. Alexander Findlater — Supervisor — *• So much for schemes," ^ ."83 To the Editors of the Morning Chronicle — its in- To Mr. W. Dunbar— New- Year wishes,-. 383 To Miss Fontenelle — with a Prologue for her be- To Mrs. Dunlop — cares of the Married Life — Dum- fries Theatricals — Cowper's Task — the Poet's Scrap-book, ^ 3S4-j To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads — Dreams of Excise promotion, ~~~-, 385 To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— in behalf of the Scots Distillers, 386 To the Magistrates of Dumfries—Free School E- ducation, 5S7 To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's AVork — acting Supervisor — New Year wishes — To Mrs. Riddel — Anacharsis — the Muiys still pre. To Mrs, Dunlop— in affliction,~~~-,~^— „-™-,„ 588 To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day loyalty, 388 "To Mr. James Johnson — the Museum — a consum- ing illness hangs over the Poet,-~ 589 To Mr. Cunningham — from the Brow, Sea-bath- ing Quarters— sad picture, ~™~. — . . 589 To Mrs. Hums — from the Brow^trengthened — but total decay of appetite, ."89 To Mrs. Duiilof) — a last farewell, — >„..,,~,.... 5S9 CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON. Page. From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to the Select Melodies, — w—— 591 The Poefs answer — frankly embarking in the Work „™-.^ 391-2 From Mr. Thomson — views of conducting the Worli — and with 1 1 Songs for New Verses, — ,~ 592 From the Poet — with the " I-ea Rig" — " My Nan- nie O" — " Will ye go to the Indies my Mary," 395 From the Poet — with " My Wife's a wanton wee thing" — " O saw ye bonnie Lesley," . 593 From the Poet — with " Ye Banks and Braes and Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery," — 394 From Mr. Thomsons-criticisms and corrections, ~ 59-1 From the Poet — admits some corrections, "but cannot alter bonnie Lesley" — additional Verse for the " Lea Rig," ~~ — ~ — -, 595 From the Poet — with " Auld Rob Morris" and " Duncan Gray,"> — ...^ ~~~ 595 From the Poet — with " Poortith Cauld" and " Galla Water," 595 From Mr. Thomson — laudatory for favours re- ceived — details the plan of his Work — P. S. from the Honourable A. Erskine — a brother Poet and contributor,- ~ — — - 596 From the Poet — approves of the details — offers matter anecdotic — the Song " Lord Gregory" — English and Scots seis of it, . ™~ 396-7 From the Poet — with " Wandering \\'illie,'' 597 From the Poet — " Open the Door to me 0,"~~~ 597 From the Poet — " True-hearted was he," — . — - 397 From Mr. i homson — with complete list of Songs, and farther details of the Work, — ...^ 597-8 From the Poet — with " The Soldier's return" — " Meg o' the Mill," 598 From the Poet — Song making his hobby — offers valuable hints for enriching and improving the From Mr. Thomson— in answer, - — . ■. 599 From the Poet-fartlier hints and critical remarlis — sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," ~ — ■■- 399 From the Poet — with " The last time I came o'er the moor," ..-_ — -~. — — ~- — 400 From Mr. Thomsou — excuses his taste as against From the Poet — dogmatically set against altermg, 400 Ihe Poet to Mr. Thomson— Fraser the Hautboy Plavcr — Tune and Song, "The Quaker's Wife" — "Blythe hae I been on yon Hill," „-~ — 40J-1 The same — mad ambition — "Logan Braes" — Frag- ment from Witherspoon's Collection — " O gin my love were yon Red Rose," 401 Mr Thomson — jn answer — a change of Partners in the Work, 401 The Poet to Mr. Thomson— Tune and Air of " Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines,- ~ 402 The same — a remittance acknowledged—" Flow- ers of the Forest" — the Authoress — Pinkerton's Ancient Ballads — prophecies, ~- 402 Mr. Thomson to the Poet — .\irs waiting the Mu- The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune, " Robin A- dair " — " PhiUis the J" air" to it — " Cauld Kail in_Aberdecn," ~~™ : „„„ 405 Froi Mr. Thomson— grateful for the Poet's " va- luW Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the burn Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 From the Poet — Tune " Robin Adair" again — sends " Had 1 a Cave" to it— Gaehc origin of the Tune ' ~.~ ^.,.~vw„^ 404 Page. From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan Wa- ter," -„™ — ™- 404 From the same — with Song " Whistle and I'll come to vou, my Lad," and " PhiUis tJie Fair," to the " Muekin' o' Geordie's byre,"-. 404 From the same — " Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot at the I^luses,-^ , 405 From the same — " Dainty Davie" — four Imes of Song and four of Chorus, - — ~ — 405 From Mr. Ihomson — profuse acknowledgments for many favours, — ■ 405 From the 'Poet— Peter Pindar—" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the cause of truth and liberty as he did that day,"— 405 From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the Boat .irrives," to the Highland .Air " Oran g.ioil," 406 From Mr. Thomson—" Bruce's Address" — the Air " Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie tatie" — verbal criticisms, ■ — 406 From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty Davie" — " Through the wood. Laddie" — " Cow- den-knowes" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's form of Song making— " Gill Morrice"— " High- land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon"—" Fee him Fathei" — " There's nae luck about the House" —the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa- ther"— "I odlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang Svne" — farther notices of other Songs and Bal- lads, . x,™-^ 407-8 From the Poet — rejects the verbal criticism on the Ode, " Bruce's Address," - — > — — 408 From Mr. Thomson— Strictures on rhe Poet's no- tices of the above Songs — again nibbling at the Ode, ■. 409 From the Poet—" The Ode pleases me so much I cannot alter it" — sends Song " Where are the Jovs 1 hae met in the moniin'," 409 Froni the Poet — sends " Deluded Swain" and " Raving Winds around her blowing"- Airs -and Songs, to adopt or reject — difFertnces of taste, -J. 1 ~ 409 From the same — " Thine am I my Faitlitul Fair" — to the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh," ■^ — 410 Frt'm Mr. Thomson — in answer 410 From the Poet— Song to " My Jo Ja' et," 410 From Mr. Thomson — proposed conference — Re- marks on Drawings and Songs, ~~— 410 from the Poet — same subjects — Plcyel — a detenu — wherebv hinderanee ot theWork — ."-ong " Tlie Banks of tree," .^ 411 From the same—" The auspicious period preg- nant with the happiness of Millions" — Inscriji- tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, — 41 ! From Mr. Thomson-in answer,,^ 411 From the Poet— with Song " On the Seas and far From Mr. Thomson— criticises that Song severely, 412 From the Poet— »^ithdrawing it—" making a Song is like begetting a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewes to the kiiowes," ,. — ~-. — . ■■' ~ 412 From the same — Irish Air — sends Song to it " Sa' flaxen were her ringlets" — Poet's taste in Music like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me in this ae night" — Epigram, ^ — 412 From Mr. 1 homson — profuse of acknowledg- ments, —, 413 From the same — Peter Pindar's task completed— Rition's Collection— dressing up of Old Songs, 41 J CONTENTS. "KV Page. P*om the Poet — " Craigie-bum Wood" and the heroine — Recipe for Song making — Song " Saw ye my Phely" — " The Posie" — " Donochthead" not the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his — so is " Blvthe was she" — sends Song " How lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not Wo- man e'er coinplain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East Indian Air— Song " The Aiikl Man," ^-, 414 From Mr. Thomson— in acknowledgment, and with farther commissions, ,.^,„„,, .,„,j„,,,„ 415 From the Poet— thanks for Ritson — Song of Chlo- ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks"—" Maria's dwelling" — " Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon" — Reci)!e to make a Scots Tune — humble re- quest for a (?opy of the Work to give to a fe- miile friend, -™_- 416-17 From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends three Copies, and as welcome to 20 as to a pinch From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Songs " O Philly happy be ihat day" — " Contented wi' little"—" Canst thou leave me thus my Katy" — Remarks on Songs and the Stock and From Mr. Thomson — modest acknowletigments — h'ictures for the Work, 419 From the Poet — with Song " Nannie's awa"— Pic- From the same — originality a coy feature in composition — sends " A man's a man for a' that" — which shows that Song making is not confined to love and wine — iiew set of " Ciai- gie-burn Wood," — — ^ — —^ — ~~- .~ 419 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, 419 From the Poet — with, " O letme in this ae Night," From the same — abuse of sweet Ecclefechan-«3ir, " We'll gang nae mair to yon Town," is worthy of verses, >,..> ^^...... ^~ 420 From Mr- Tiiomson — in answer.>..».v... » ,>..^.,.. „ 430 421 Pa^e From the Poet — ^with four Songs, " The Wood lark" — " Long, long the Night" — " I hen- grovfs o sweet Myrtles" — " 'Twas na her bonnie blue Een was my ruin, 42C From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgment- — pictures for the work, ^~, ~„„v™~,~,^ 420-1 From the Poet— with two Songs, " How cruel are the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, " Your Tailor could not be more punctual," ., 421 From the same — acknowledgment of a present, 421 From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallet's Bal- lad of " William and Margaret," ~ From the Poet — with four Songs ajid Versci " O Whistle and I'll come to ye, my Lad" — ■' O ' this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green" — " O bonnie was yon rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present- ed to a young Lady, . . — . ™ — . 422 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ~~-,~ 422 From the Poet — wiUi English Song, " Forlorn, From the same — with Song, " Last May a bra' Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Frag- From Mr. Thomson — in answer, ,. — ,w.,„.-,.^,,,,,„ 42.5 From the sami— after an awful pause, — .~™ . 425 From the Poet — acknowledges a Present to Mrs B — sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- From Mr. Thomson — in answer,,-~-«~«~-~- From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the Muse From Mr. Thoinson — in answer,- From the Poet — with Song, " Here's a health to them that's awa." ™. ™- ,. . From the samo— announces his purpose to revise From the same — at Sea-bathing — depressed and in From Mr. 'Thomson— with a Remittance,«,~....~.~ 424 124 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. CHAPTER I. Contents. — The PoeVs Birth, 1759 — Cij cumstances and peculiar Character of his Fatktf and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Mentcu Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16. " My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, And soberly he brought me up in decency and order." Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759, in a clay-built cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr, and in the im- mediate vicinity of the Kirk of Alloway, and the *' Auld Brig o' Doon." About a week afterwards, part of the frail dwelling, which his father had constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a neighbouring hovel. The father, William Bunus or Btirness, (for so he spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- liam Burnes settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- tion that he himself had been out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but though Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a certificate of the- minister of his native parish, testifying that *' the bearer, William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to suppose that when any obscure northern stranger fixed himself in those days in the Low Country, such rumours were likely enough to be circu- ted concerning him ii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. William Burnes laboured for some years in the neighbourhood of Edin. burgh as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time when Robert was born, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholni ; but resided on a few acres of land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he had originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- liam Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience in the world. " I have met with few" (said the poet, after he had him- self seen a good deal of mankind), •' who understood men, their mannei's, and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the form of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and from which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the Calvinistic clQctrine ; a circumstance not to be Avondered at, when we con- sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of The Cottar's Saturday Night. Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- ner;" and it seems thai, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, the poet resembled her more than his father. ^She had an inexhaustible store of ballads and triditionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant imagination by tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to " the weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for the support of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as her children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." Tliesfe defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; Mdio, when his garde- ner expressed a wish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, at once advanced £100 towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr) at Whitsuntide 176(j, when his eldest son was between six and seven years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hancls of a \\aYi\\ factor, (who afterwards sat for his picture in the Tica. Dogs), Burnes was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six 3'ears. He then removed about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, iji the parish of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfiar- tunate misunderstanding toak place as to the conditions of the lease ; the LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after tliree years of suspense, the result involved Burnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. He died of consumption on the I'^th February 1784. Severe labour, and hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- table structure and temperament of body and of mind. In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell, the teacher, being in the course of a iew months removed to another situation. Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, and Gilbert his next brother, were the aptest and the favourite pupils of this worthy man, who survived till Very lately, and who has, in a letter published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part which he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of the virtues of William Burnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his humble abode. " He was (says Murdoch) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- sure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as 6ome parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are ave'i'se. He took_care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kmd of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with the faivz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a fiood of tears. " He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were labourers under him. 1 think I never saw him angry but twice : the one time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendos and double oitejuhes." " In this mean cottage, of which I my- self was at times an inhabitant, I reall}^ believe there dwelt a larger por- tion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cottars Saturday Niyht will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed |:here." The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing ; they committed psalms and hymns to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he tells us) that they should understand the exact m(^aning of each word in the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. '• As soon," says he, " as they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of the class, even when ranged v ith boys by far their seniors. The books most commonly used in the sc'iool were the Spelling Book, the New Testament, the Bible, Masons Col- ^ction of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's Bnglish Grammar." — " Gilbert alw ■/s appeard to me to possess a more lively inwgination, and to be more o the wit, than Robert. I at- iv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were left far be- hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, ivith thee I ?nectn to live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them Mas tlie most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind." " At those years," says the poet himself in 1787, " I was by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a. retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piet}'. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- tives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef- fort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, Hoio are thy serva)ifs blest, O Lord ! I particular- ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to mj' boyish ear — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave — " I met with these pieces in Masons English Collection, one of my school- books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Htm- «i6a/, and The History of Sir William Wallace. .Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my ▼eins, which will boil along there till the flood- gates of life shut in eternal rest. Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two years at Mount Oliphant — when he lt;ft for a time that part of the country. " There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arith- metic in the winder evenings by candle light — ^and in this way my two elder sioters received all the education they ever received " Gilbert tells an anec- dote which must not be omitted here, since it furnishes an early instance of the liveliness of his bre her's imagination. Murdoch, being on a visit to the family, read aloud on - evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- nicus — the circle listened w h the deepest interest until he came to Act 2, oc. 5, where Lavinia is troduced " with her hands cut off, and her LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. v tongue cut out." At this the>children entreated, with ono voice, in an agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not , hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you." — " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness-^but the good young man interfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left 'Ilie School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert was nine years of age. " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no boyj; of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmons Geogra'- phlcal Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derhartis P/iysico and Astro- Theology, and Bays Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books with an avidity and industi:y scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to Stachhouses History of the Bible. From this Robert col- lected a' competent knowledge of ancient history; for no book was so vr~ luminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches." A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted him. When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, for the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. " I was a dex- terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother, (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I. My indignation 3'et boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail — " To the buffetings of misfortune," says he, " we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy We lived very sparingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and flifficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old (for he was n LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now above fifty), broken down with the long-continued latigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in th.e evenings with a dull headach, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in the night-time." The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, one before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stntin- ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in tl e town of Ayi% and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He labouicd enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- night with a dictionary and a Telemnqtie, of which he made such use at his eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pnw gress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something of a prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that Robert Burns must next, attempt the rudiments of the Latin tongue. He did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's Rudiments can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to httv-e done. The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little French, and no Latin. He had read, however, and read well, ere his six- teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, Jus- tice's British Gardener's Director)/, Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collectio7i of Evglish Songs, Hervey's Bleditations," (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this list Pamela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- lumes of Peregrine Pickle, two of Count Fathom, and a single volume of " some English historian," containing the reigns of James I., and his son. The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vcule mecum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation or fustian ; and 1 am convinced 1 owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is." He derived, during this period, considerable advantages from the vicinity of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr — a place then, and still, distmguish- ed by the residence of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin- cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first instance, whatever attentions he received there from people older as well LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vFl as higher than himself: some such persons appear to have taken a pleasure in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been mure useful to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very justly, " It is not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the distance between them and their ragged playfellows. My young superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the clouterly appearance of my olough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often ex])osed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- ten to me a sore affliction, — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — (Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well as toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, took place when Burns was in his sixteenth year He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- ted the sin of Rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of haxvest. In my fifteenth au- tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bormie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- horse pru- dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! liow she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- strings thrill like an ^^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick cut the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attemptcid giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme.' I was not so presumptuous as lo imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com- posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my «ilv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. The earliest of the poet's productions is the Httle ballad, " O once I loved a bonny lass. Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ;" yet it contains here and there lines of whicn he need hardly have been ashamed at any period of his life : — " She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Baith decent and genteel, And then there's something in her g ' Gars ony dress look weel." *' Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al- ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS. Memoranduui book, August 1783.) In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says — " Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough ; Yet crooning to a body's sell Does weel eneugh." , And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the fdlowbg passage : — '' I mind it weel in early date. When I was beardless, young and blate, And first could thrash the barn, Or baud a yokin' o' the pleugh. An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Vet unco proud to learn — When first amang tlie yellow com A man I reckoned was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom Could rank my rig and las»— Still shearing and clearing The tither stookit raw, Wi' claivers and haivers AVearing the day awa — E'en then a wish,'l mind its power, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast : That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, £ome useful plan or book could make. Or sing a sang, at least : The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Amang tlie bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside. And spared the symbol dear." He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate without emotion, this exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indefinite stirrings of immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magniri- cent image of '• the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around tlie walls of his cave." CHAPTER II. Contents. — From \1 to 24 — Rnhert and Gilbert Sums work to their Father, as Lnbourert, at stated Wages — A.t Rural Wn j^iv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ♦♦ Thro' all the town she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; \VV kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er came nigh him, Than Mailie dead." , These litt.e pieces are in a much broader dialect than any of their pre- decessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. Notwithstanding the kixurious tone of some of Burns s pieces produced in those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- hrms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that his short residence " away from home" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable alteration on some of his habits ; but in 1 78 1 -"2 he spent six months at Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. " As his numerous connexions," says Gilbert, " were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he never deviated till his twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry This was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probabihty of being mas- ter of for a great while. He and I had for several years taken land of our father, for the purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in the course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax-dresser, both as beuig suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, went to a half-brother of his mo- thei s, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but misrortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught Are during the carousal of a new-year's-day's morning, and Robert " was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " 1 was obliged," says he, '* to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a hc/leji/le whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed" The following letter, addres^d by Burns to his fatlier, three days before the unfortimate fire took place, will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one : — " Honoured Sir, <• I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons, which 1 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 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xv minJ, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; i'o} the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces, most unhappy elFfCts 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 for- wards in a moral and religiolis 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 disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' " It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, Ifith, and 17th verses of the 7 th 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 wDi-ld, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogetiier unconcerned at the thoughts of this Hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet tliem. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks fo ■ the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much ne^>;Iected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem-' be;ed 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. " 1 am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, " Robert Burns." " P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get more." The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : — " 15. Therefore are the)'^ before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem- ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. " If). They shall hunger no mo're, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on tliem, nor any heat. " 17- For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." " This letter," says Dr. Currie, " written several years before the publi- cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time pos- sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- ling a-week. He passed his days in constant labour as a tlax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears,- was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- ply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself pictui'es of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in xv] LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the world, sliows how ardently he wished for honouraule fame; and his contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happmess shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness."— Z^/e, p. 102. Unhap])ily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- lections of liis virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which " his youth was heir to." Irvine is a smaLl sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous spirits of a smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilberi, " of a freer manne'- of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared .on for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had hitherto restrained nim." One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at Irvine, seems to have been David Sillar, to whom the Epistle U> Da- vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer of local v'erses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life and conversation. Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : — " From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed v ith a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighboui hood, taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with ;; view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was reii'.ly to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine ; and I was all atteniion to learn. He was tlie only man 1 ever saw who was a greater fool than myself, where woineli was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief" Professor Walker, when preparing to write his Sketcli of the Poet's life, was informed by an aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- cussing religious topics, }iarticularly in those circles which usually gather in a Scotch churchyard after service. The senior added, that Buriis com- monly took the high Calvinistic side in such debates ; and concluded with a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in s great measure for the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It was during the same period, that the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry, " which was," says his bro;her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by L'IFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii John Ranken, a '-ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place. " Rhyme," Burns says, " I had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) •' but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly sound- ing lyrp with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavirn could keep him long from his proper vocation. But itvvas probably this accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a grpat measure finally deter mined the Scottish character of Burus's pj( ir} ; and indeed, but for the lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very high terms in which Burns always mentions his productions Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother (lilbert, and some seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next *hey canie prepared to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter th^s proposed. Burns drew up the regulations, and evidently was the principal person. He in- troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetin then 8 regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could nevei have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under the appellatii)n of " Daddie Auld." Tlia Poet's Wclcmve to an lUegit.iimitf Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one pleasure to contemplate. There is a soiig in honour of the same occasion, or a siinilar one about the same period. Tlie roHtin Dng the Daddie o't, — which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of the father whom he had so recently buried. I cannot believe that Burns has thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin." he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottar s Saturday/ Night, had not, we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he was able to drown the whispers qfthe still small roice ; and the fermenting bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself escaped (as Ynay be too oftei'. traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry sarcasms against others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done hinj no wrong. It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro poses to himself on this occasion : — " Tne nmir du-y talk, /'«( kend ftie better ; E'en let tlieni clash !" This is indeed a singular manifestation of '• the last infirmity of nobie minds," CHAPTER III. Contexts. — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become, tenants of Mossyiel — Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The ftfrm cold and unfertile — Not prosperous — The Muse anti-cah'inistical — The pnet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- resi/ — Ciiridvs uccomit of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of and remarks upon the poet's principal pieces — Zioue leads him far astray — ji crisis— The jail O" the West Indies — The alternative " The star that rules my luckless lot Has fated me the russet coat, , And damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' country wit." • Three months before the death of William Biirnes, Robert and Gilbert took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with the view of providing a shelter for their parpnts, in the storm which they had seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole family, (says Gilbert), and was a joint concern among us. Every member of the family was flowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was £.1 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- riod at Lochlea, Roberts expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his slender income." " I entered on this farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, corne, go, I will be ttnse. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and i/ie world, and the Jlesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his vonnt, and the soiv that was washed to her ivallotimig in the mire." '' At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming tv-ise, he procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These farininy memorarvJums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a specimen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. " O why the deuce should I repine, And be an ill foreboder ? I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine..— I'll go and be a sod^jer," &c. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxi •* O leave novells, ye IMiuichline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning wlieel ; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks — like Rob I\Iossgiel. Your fine Tom Jones and (irandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel, They heat your veins, and fire your brains, And then ye're prey for Hob .Mossgiel," &c. &c. The four years during which Burns resided on this cold and ungrateful farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his life. It was then that his genius developed its highest energies ; on the works produced in these years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest: it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, and in all but its darkest shadows ; and indeed from the commencement of this period, tlie history of the man may be traced, step by step, in his own immortal writings. Burns now began to know that nature had meant him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured id what he felt to be his destined vocation (lilbert continued for some time to be his chief often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in which the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them was known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of which he formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, which must not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his power of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit, I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was affected with a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression which my mind, unknown to itself had previously received." The Pro- fessor adds, that the person wlio had thus unconsciously been measuring the stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents and education, but '• remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con stitutional firmness." Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It mav be guessed that from tfie time of his residence at Irvine, his stric- it would seem, one of the principal inhabitants of tlie village of Mauch- line at the time, must, of course, have been very flattering to our polemical young I'armer. He espoused (iavin Hamilton's quarrel warmi}'. Hamilton was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal affair with the stand- ing controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerful body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr Hamilton's ardent/vro- legecamc to be as vuheniently interested in the church politics of .Ayrshire, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxiii as he could have been in poHtics of another order, had he happened to be a freeman of some open borough, and his patron a candidate for the honour of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely criti- cised fo>- some details of Mr. (Javin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit the censure to the tone and spirit ol' the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Burns's po- etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a world of vexation and controversy forty years ago ; and the English reader to whom all such details are denied, wjill certainly never be able to compre- hend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- rian Establishment, had always lain under a^strong suspicion of Episcopa- lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- ed times that preceded tlie Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- pular hatred, in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal liand in bringing a thousand of i/ie Highland host into that region in 1 677-8. The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty writer of Mauchline.- A well-nursed prejudice of this kind was likely enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- ation of, — " Poet Burns, , And his priest-skelping turns " It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the superabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems to have mingled much of the charity of the C hristian temper. The whole exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert Burns's principles, the effect must have been powerful as to him. Macgill and Dalrymple. the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity; and the for- mer at length published an Essay, which was considered as demanding the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which promise, however, he ne\er performed. The gentry of the country took, xxiv I IFE OF ROBERT BURNS. for the most part, tlie -ide of Macgill. who was a man of cold uni)opula! manners, but of unreproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- complishments, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The bulk of the lower orders espc used, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil ton. and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill— Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, p writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speakinj.- had the principal management of iMacgill's cause before the Presbytery, and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- milton, and throuirh him had about this time formed an acquaintance, which soon ripened into" a warm friendship, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most effective partizan, of the side on which Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. Mac"-ill, Dalrymple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, are the New Light pastors of his earliest satires. The prominent antagonists of these men, and chosen cham- pions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands, presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them • selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow of Popery in Scotland, and wiio ruled for a time, and would fain have con- tinued to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst that high-spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever in their mouths, these men were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cowl and cord — austere and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaical self-conceit, as well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- ment ; and that Burns has grossly overch.arged his portraits of theifi, deep- ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al- together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- deemed the originals withui the sympathies of many of the worthiest and best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and I fearjustly, pre- ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of signing the Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, whose fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, disavowed. The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy ran high and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light, and condemned as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and the rights of freemen, by not a ^ew of the other party, and, in particular, by certain conspicuous zealots in the immediate neighbourhood of Burns. While this warfare raged, there broke out an intestine discord within the 1.IFE Oh HOBERl BURNS. xxy , camp of the taction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders oi the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish-boundaries the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a 'multitude of the country' people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, and abused each other coram popu/o, with a fiery virulence of personal in- vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- in the laws- of courtesy arc enforced by those of a certain unwritten code. " The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, " was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personcE in my Holy Fair. I had a notion myself, that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that 1 could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar oj applause." This was The Holy Tailzie, or Twa Herds. The two herds, or pastors, were Mr. Moodie, minister of Riccartoun, and that favourite vic- tim of Burns's, John Russell, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards of Stirling " From this time," Burns says, " 1 began to be known in the country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, presents Holy Willie's Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of the 'poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com- mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions oi Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose very essence is love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but a few of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disriples of Maho- met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, descend to the pit~of perdition, man, woman, and child, without the possi- bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians of the present day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy- pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, were perceived by the discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- ed bawd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the wilderness, to perish without mercy^that the Saviour of the world toves c ,xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves mankind, and who has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with lioi ror. . . . The gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * This Reverend author may be considered as expressing in the above, and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments with which even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go I'ar to make the reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing more about their professional character and authority, were almost the only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when rather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Hamsay of Ochtertyre, in October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied an-d forcible as yours, may do this in man}^ diff'erent modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a Comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youtli ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints." It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gains from being set in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of " Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; Yet has sae mony taken' arts M'i' great and sma , Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa," &c. " The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Ivife of Burns, pp. 40, 41. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxvi'i Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as having merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of the heterodox doctor of Ayr .- " Lord ! visit tliem wha did employ him. And for tliy people's sake destroy 'em." Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise of his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," said he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into repute." Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The Ordination ; The Kirk's Alarm, Szc. &c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper that malice had forn^ed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical inaster-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and others, as to some of the minutia? of the chronological history of Burnss previous performances ; but there tan be no doubt, that although from choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among the earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, {i. e. Mr David Sillar), and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease and grace in his very unnecessary trammels : but young poets are careless beforehand of difficulties which would startle the exp'erienced ; and great poets may overcome any difliculties if they once grapple with them ; so that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must be literally taken, on the celebration of Jeajt, with which the epistle ter- minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- ercised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. be put in their place. " Robert," says he, "often composed without any regdar plan. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, sc as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 178+, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Ilobert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superioi*, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Ro- bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending it to some magazine ; but as this plan afi'orded-no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (anti I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to me the Address to' the Deil. The curious idea of such an address was sug- gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmar- nock edition, was produced early in the year 17tt5. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- tached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised, that " Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too ostentatious a disj)lay of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions, he men- tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- peated the verses to me next afternoon, as 1 was holding the plough, and he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap- raik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem. On Fasten-c'en we had a rockin. I believe he has omit- ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock or distaff. This simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase o? going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the con- nexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock . LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxlx gave place to tlie spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rockf;, that Lapraik's song, beginning — " When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapi'aik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v/ere produced for the pur- pose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could pot well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man was made' io Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- tar s Saturday Night, 'ihe hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken from Ferguson's Farmer s Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afttn* noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- munity), and enjoj^ed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their xiumber abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat The Cottai-'s Saturday Night. I do not recollect to have read or heard any thing by wiiich I was more highly electrified. The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my soul." The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among the most popular of his brothers performances ; and there may be a time for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may be mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial pursuits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless the lucky hour in which the dominie of Tarbolton provoked the castigation of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit of a considerable circuit of parishes; and his advice, to say the least of the matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma son lodge. XX3C LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In Man was ^nade to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual feehngs of his own bosom. The indignation with which he through hfe contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con- trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those stanzas : — " See yonder poor o'erlaoour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil. And see his lordly fellow worm The poor petition spurn. Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — By Nature's laws dcsign'il — Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to "^ His cruelty and scorn, Or why has man the will and power To. make his fellow mourn ?" " I had«an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of The Life and Aye of Man" In Man ivns made to Mmirn, Burns appears to have taken many hints from this ancient ballad, which begins thus '^ " Upon the sixteen hundred year of (iod, and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie; On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, With many a sigh and sob did say —All ! man is made to moan !"" The Cottar s Saturday !\iipht is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, ancl,,sbme heavy stanzas, it ap- pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more jn estimation, by being contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of an]^ other single perform- ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he remained but a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no glare on the surface. It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and j)e- nury, who shall affect to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen- sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by tlit pieties of virgin love, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. **' • Cromek's Stotii^h Sonirs. LIFE OF R03ERT BURNS. xxxi The Cottar s Saturflny Night and the Holii Fair have been put in con- trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung- from the same source. " 'I'he annual celebration of tlie Sacrament ot" the Lord's Supper in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfort . /!ate Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and amusement, used to be strangely -intermingled. Burns saw ami seized in it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the dis])lay of that strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous ; of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he bad ne- cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the exquisite gra])hic truth of the poem to which the critic refers? The ques- tion remains as it stood; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents? Does nothing of what is '• affectingly beautiful in rural life," make a part in the original which was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and •' Fun," the only infiuences wdiich he might justly have impersonated ■" It would be hard, i think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival m which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above the tombs of their fathers Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad with the inspiration of th.e moment, from whatever source derived, too far. It can hardly be doubted that the author of T/ie Cottars Saturday Night had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, lie might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Huh/ h'rrir is quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the ludicrous as that Holy hair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's night, and the rural celebration of the Lucharist, are parts of the same sys- tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are — and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. .And when men ask of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered under the gravest sanction. The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion oi The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie ,• and, indeed, expressly applauds Burns for having endeavoured to explode ' a- buses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Hallowe en, a descrip- tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Holy Fair and r-ontaining nothing that could offend the feelings of anybody, was pro- xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax , but it is time that we should revert more particularly to the personal his- tory of the poet. He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so lariat' a family : and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only escaped in occasional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes of solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- in"- his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the managers of the i>lantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two- or three different occasions, lony what arguments he prevailed on his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- came the mother of twins. — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful feelin"s of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that presented it- self to his view was America or a jail * CHAPTER IV. Contents. — The Poet gives vp Mossqiel to liis Brother Gilbert — Liten/ls for Jnmaica-m Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 17S6 — It brings him extended reputation, and £20 — Also mang very kind friends, hut no patron — In these circumstances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaiai again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blachlock to vublish at Edinburgh, wherein the Poet sojourns. " He saw misfortune's cauld nor''--cest, Lang mustering:; up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore tlie mast. An' owre the sea." Jamaica was now his rftark, for at that time the United States were not looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one of his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, however, he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the few pounds requisite for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest poems that ever delighted mankind. His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard an experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole- rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- cess in the matter ; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to the printer ; and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the Twa Dogs, for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been written in the short interval between the publication being determined on and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore is as follows : — " I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was only nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1 thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea i\\9l I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the XXXVI V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- rance of themselves. — To know myself, had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch- ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw oif six hundred copies, for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides, I pocketed nearly i 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for ■ " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." " I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, Tlie gloomy night is gathering fust, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a ?ew details, gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — While the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means of remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular yMr/^///iterary Character, vol. i. p. 136. liv LITE OF ROBERT BURNS But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard. To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. . In naked feelinjf and in aclniig pride. He bears the unbroken blast from*very side." No blast pierced this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde- scension. One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinburgh, has been handed down to us by Cromek — It was, " that between the men of rustic life and the polite world he observed little difference — that in the former, though unpolished by fashion aad unenlightened by science, he had found much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a very inadequate ide*" To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately patricians," as he calls them^ of his own sex. The vivid expression of one of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man, " v/hose conversation so completely carried her off her reet," as Burns's. The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here , referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the season was over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no longer seemed to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. It is but too true, that ere this season was over, Burns had formed con- nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap- probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his debut had made so powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- lousy — how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share ; and it is also suf- ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such a genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness, for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the table of Dr. Blair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow oi language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishment? • Or. Robert Walker. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Iv for which Blair was honoured in a most accomplished society, or to the poHshed elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such an eacaprtde ; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' labouring un- der that compulsory effort which was unavoidable, while the thoughts of all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns showed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bl'under ; but years afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the -genus irritabile of authors, orators, and wits. A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Grays Elegy, a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation of Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, I now perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — y\nother of the instances may be mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the remark afterwards made by Mr. Ramsay is, that in the game of society h-e did not know when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times in doing) his Holy Fair, stopped him at the stanza — Now -A the congrej^ation o'er Is silent expectation, For Russel speels the holy door \Vi' tidings o' Salvut'wii Nay, said the Doctor, read damnatioiu Burns improved the wit of thii verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another strange specimen of want of tact, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to acknowledge the obligation in a note. But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con- ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either clergymen or professors) must ha^e been in the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great fit^shing eyes, who, having forced his way among them from the plough-tail at a single stride, mani Ivi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent ipen of his nation, lie was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- tice ; by turns calmly measured liimself against the most cultivated under- standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the ban 7nats o? the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all the burning life of genius : astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of soeial reserve, by compelling them to tremble — nay to tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and, — last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their own, M'ith eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. The lawyers of Edinburgh, in whose wider circles Burns figured at his outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, I take it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those days, v/ith scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What their haughtiness, as abody, was, may be guessed, when we know that in- ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any man from the bar. In one remarkable insta-Jice, about this very time, a man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- cratical prejudice has, within the memory of tlie present generation, kept more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. W ine- bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those whose brams and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies ol men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle ot jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in those tavern scenes of audacious hilaj'ity, which then soothed, as a matter * JMr. Jolin }Vikl, son of a Tobacconist in the High Street, EdinTjurgh. He came to be Professor of Civil Liw in that University ; but, in th.2 end, was also an instance of unhapjjv genius. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ivh of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern- life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but rarely of such excesses Avhile in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have expressed, amusingly enough, her surprise at tlie style in which she f(nmd her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regarrlk'ss, as, to the best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in all his life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great worth and discernment, that he bad observed Burns closely during that period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al- lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns well ; and himself mingled largely in some of the scenes to Avhich he adverts in the following strong language : — " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and passionately embrace the enchantress. The bucks of Edinburgh accom- plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange liimself, not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would be idle now to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this ichiter. Burns con^ tinned to lodge vyith John Richmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the poet, for the statement, that while he did so, " he kept good hours." He removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William NicoU, one of the teachers of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's : from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ- ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to thfe poet, except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of tlie society to which Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) svjf'ered himself to be sur- rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as foolish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to t/uir more sober charms." Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some- D2 Iviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed to be, among his favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock oJ the company, he could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rudp<;t rhymes he sung, " to be great is charming ;" and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he ming-led with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that Avhich appear- ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes to convey regret P But these, assuredly, v/ere not the only feelings that influenced Burns : In his own letters, wrkten during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, though his jealous pride might induc^e him to record his suspicions in lan- guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- mosphere of joy and hope. On the 15th of January 1787, we find him thus addressing his kind patroness, Mrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well, i do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticit)^ and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure you. Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at lesst • Heron, p. 28. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Iix at t'.iis time of da}', lias raised a partial tide of public notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of truth. ... I mention this once for. all, to disburden my mind^ and I do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same time, to Dr. Moore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far tlie greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and as kw, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately ac(iuaintt'd with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, ! may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is conmion, which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, April the 5^3d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. IVioore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortniglit. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fii'ty miles.'* One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to Currie, to the " not very select society" in wiiich Burns indulged himsilf. But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, sjiow and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had it in his power to live uhcai/s in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- sidered as " very select ;'" and secondly, whether, in so .doing, he could have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- ing shared with him all that they possessed on his nrst arrival in the metro- polis, faithfull} and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede ;" and, moreover, per- haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's poems was published early in March, by Creech ; therp were no less than 15UU subscribers, many of whom paid .more than the shop-price of the vo- luine. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did iu)t take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in posses.sion of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry made it equal, on that score, to any other. — " The appellation of a Scottish Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex- alted 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 routine of business, for which. Heaven knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor- dinary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top of Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and has become so familiar, thttt to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the Whig-liverjr), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had ever done In company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- miri'.g a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which had not been previously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to Edinburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important additions were. Death and Doctor Hornbook, The Brigs of Ayr, The Ordi- nation, and the Address to the unco Guid. In this edition also, When Guild' ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. The evening before Lc quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation. However the meter- like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- tract notice, 1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal tO" the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I liave made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- prise me in my quarters." it ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first fruits of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto • Letter to ^Irs.' Dunlop, Edinburgh, 22d i^larch 1787- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixi neglected remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the Canongate churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address to fcidinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of the feelings engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now about to quit it for a time. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. Edika ! Scotia''s darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers, ^Vhere once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks oi Ai/r I stray 'd, And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edixa, social, kind. With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail. Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer's sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fail Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of love on high. And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching hi^h the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms. And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war. And oft repell'd th' invaaer's~^hock. With awe-struck thought and pitying tear* I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotici's kings of other years. Famed heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ; Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! Wild beats tpy heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion boie : E'en / who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their sher* , And faced grim dangei's loudest roai. Bold following where your fathers led I Epina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet . Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring hoyn, I shelter in thy honour'd jhad*. CHAPTER VI. Contents. Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of them, after an ahsence of six months, umongit his friends in the " Auld Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in irith many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, hut never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fieshpnts, winter ]'7S7-6 — Upset in a hackney couch, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musirigs for six weeks — Is enrolled in. the Ex- cise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs, Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him leaves Edinburgh with £dOO — Steps towards a more regular life. " Ramsay and famous Ferguson, ' Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune Thro' Scotland rings, While Irvine, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, Naebody sings." On the 6th of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert Ainshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire — Among other changes " which fleeting time procureth," this amiable gen- tleman, whose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former being mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head on the '.icid of July t()37, when the attempt was made to introduce a Scottish Liturgy into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous terms, in a letter to his friend NicoU while on the road, and which will be Ibund entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as teuch and birnie as a vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a kirk, and lipper-laipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld poutherin girran for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the lightest," &c. &c. , Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the ruins of Roxburgh Castle, nea"* which a holly bush still marks the spot on LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii whirb James II. of Scotlandvvas killed by the bursting of acannon. Jedburgh — where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- thedral (abbey);" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; Melrose, " that far-femed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes of Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its song," Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkwcrth, Morpeth, New- castle, Hexham, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr, Miller's property, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to return again in the course of the summer. The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of Dunglas, author of the well known Essay on Gothic Architecture, &c. ; Sir Alexander and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Si<;:ilij ; the amiable and learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, &c. ; and, as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — " Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berry well. . The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- cularly the sister. " Siindcty. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. " Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr, Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire, Drink tea at Lennel-House with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine oridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the I'iver, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- non, A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hotel of the Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- cence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night, " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair, . . . Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return to Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fair^ scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to vxi/ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of tlie parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. " Jedhnrgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- dom of the tou-n. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- sations. " Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club — all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps & hunter from £30 to -1 50 value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English tour. " Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. ■ Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." He wrote n» verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, 13th May. In this he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence the name of Creech's Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- nery he had visited. f Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw." Burns returned to Mauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine the delight with which he must have been received by the family after the absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- light of the polite and the learned ; If not rich, yet with more money al- ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld day biggin on the I8th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground- work of his character; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance of condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had given him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ixv ever counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enjoyment with which he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract : — " I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance and friendship I have, or think 1 have, in life — I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them, tliey are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune." Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the preceding summer; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- ture establishment; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter and spring; he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together, in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossgiel. His appetite for wan- dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary, and so back again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country "where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, tliinly overspread with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives an account of Jenny Geddes running a race after dhmer with a Highlander's pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters. — " 1 have as yet," says he, " fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon." In the course of this tour. Burns visited the mother and sisters of his friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the Castle • % Ixvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS of Gloom, is grandly situated in a gorge of.the Ochills, commanding an extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in tlie days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. The castle Avas burnt by INIontrose, and has never been repaired. The Cauldron Linn and Riimhthtg Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one of the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in a sonCT, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but the respectfulness of admiration. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, \\'ith green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the baiiks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Aye. IMikl be the sun on this sweet blusliing flower. In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, \\'ith chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumiihant display her proud rose ; A fairer than eiiher adorns the green valleys, \Vl)ere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se- ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning famil}' on the window of his inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his works hitheito published in Britain, we present tliem to our readers as a literary curiosity. Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd, And laws for Scotia well ordain'd ; But now unroof 'd their palace stands ; Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills tlie throne ; — An idiot race, to honour lost. Who know them best, despise them most. The young ladies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on Devon water; and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- ed anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for granted that Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, his companion teased him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; " Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" — " Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " 1 would not look! look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, in a letter to Currie, grves some recollections of him as he then appeared : — " Notwithstanding the various reports ! heard during the preceding win- ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of anv < merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He hafl occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution." Q In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrow-gate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His host was among the last of those old Scottish Ldthiists who began with Bu- chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) w'as deeply read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to Avrite Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted that field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were M anting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed such trashes of intellectual brightness as from him. the impulse of the mo- ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, thaji with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have made little of him ; for, to u.sc a gamester's phrase, he did not always kno\f Ixviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. • when to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether tht Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — ' Sir,' said he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as her toast after dinner, Hooki uncos, away strangers! — a shepherd's cry when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the cuttijstool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone *some time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith of Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend NicoU on a more extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and * are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- trian. " August 25th, 1787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality of humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlithgoio. -A fertile im- proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- vated like a garden." It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist ; or that with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely taken for a guide as the inductions of the political economist : — From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, Tliat makes her loved at liome, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of GoD !" And certe.i, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied m arts of hell, in wickedness refined; O Scotia .' my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, lie blest with health, and peace, and sweet content? LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixb And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowm and coroncti be rent, A virtuoiis populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the old Royal Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin— sweetly situated by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool of repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- ters " At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the opjjressive, insulting, blood- thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the battle of Bannockburn. At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhyme" This al- ludes to thie " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely English heroics — " Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Lone wandering by the hermit s mossy cell ; Tlie sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative tire .... Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan. And injured Worth forget and pardon man." Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — •' Druids' temple, three cir- cles of stones, the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- east — say prayers on it." His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows: — " Dunkekl — Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout-built. High- land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow Friday — ride up Tummel river to Blair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. — Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. — Satur- day — visit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." '• LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor in tlie family of Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the Beat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar- rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view of their beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns, \yhen we reached a rustic . hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young family attracted much of his admiration; he drank their healths as honest men and homde lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, and with which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by coarseness of manners ; " in short,' he added, " his mind is like his body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." — Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the juke's advice, visited the fa/h f^ Bniar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, with the verses enclosed." * At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman to whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important * Extract of a letter from JMr. Walker to JMr. Cunningham, dated Perth. 24th October, 797 LIFt OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxi occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he {lid not remain a day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was but little addicted to literature ; still, had such an introduction taken place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- tish music), Badenoch, l-meme. There arfe just two creatures that I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Eui'ope. The one has not a M'ish without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more specimen may be sufficient. || " These have been six horrible weeks. Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have a hundred times wislied that one could resign life as an officer does a com- mission ; for I would not lahe in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately, I was a sixpenny j)rivate, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though 1 do not want bravery for the warfixre of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and con- Bnement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those who envy the powers and the fame of genius, to pause for a moment over • General Correspondence, No. 46. t Reliques, p. 43. + Ibid. p. 44. II General Correspondence, No. 43. • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxv the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of misery have been, in the sjreat majority of cases, interwoven with the possession of those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled gratirication. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. While still under tlie hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence Iron? Mauchline that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exposec' her to the reproaches of her family. The father sternly and at once turnec' her out of doors; and Burns, unable to walk across his room, had to write to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for hei whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Avritten on hearing of this new misfortune, he says, " ' / wish I were dead, but I'm no Idte to die' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think 1 can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, 1 reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * It seems to have been noiv that Burns at last screwed up his courage to solicit the active interference in his behalf of the Earl of Glencairn. The letter is a brief one. Burns could ill endure this novel attitude, and he rushed at once to his request. " I wish," says he, " to get into the excise. I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the littl'e tie oiJiome, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold pron)ise as of the cold denial." \ It would be hard to think that this letter was coldly or negligently received; on the contrary, we know that Burns"s gratitude to Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. Hut the excise appointment which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble j)at)on's iniiuence. Mh Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,') happening to hear liurns, while his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fin tray, one of the commissioners of excise, who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my dear friend,'' (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing to do. i wanted lai hid, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is inmiediate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the couimissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends." J * Reliques, p. 48. + General Correspondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50 Ixxvi LIFE OF ROBl'RT BURNS. Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his ton^ finement with liis bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he 'Iso abuses very heartily in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however; when they were at last made up, must have given the impatient author a very agreeable surprise ; for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, we find him expressing his hopes that the gross profits of his book might amount to " better than iSOO," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr Creech, he found himself in possession of 1500, if not of i 600. Mr. Ni coll, the most intimate friend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He certainly told me that he received iOOO for the first Edinburgh edition, and £100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product of Creech's edition at 1500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- ters, at 1;400 only. NicoU hints, in the letter already referred to, tliat Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable, th^ expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- ducted from the ,17 00 stated by Mr. NicoU — the apparent contradictions in these stories may be prett;;^ nearly reconciled. There appears to be reason for thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than A 100 for the copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it at the end of his Memoir, " nearly 1.900 in all by his poems?" This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- vated his spirits greatly, and given hini for the time a new stock of confi- dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resorf, to be made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing i;I80 or 1200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. Moore, " for it was mere selfishness on my part. I was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that the throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, might help to smooth matters at the ffratid reckoning." * • General Correspondence, no.66. CHAPTER VII. LONTENis. — Marries -— Announcements, fapologeticalj, of the event — Remarks — Becomes (1788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinitif, six miles from Dumfries — ■ The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary corre- spondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves Ellieslana (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries. " To make a happy fireside clime For weans and wife — That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life." Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice-of- Peace marriage with Jean Armour, in the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ; they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy- six years ; the rent for the first three years and crops £50 ; during the remainder of the period -t70 per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and, the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant was to receive £300 fiom the proprietor, for the erection of suitable build- ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks' attendance on the business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, M^as continually rid- ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had formed." What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie : — " I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; but 1 am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding con Ixxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. trivance. . ." . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation re- ispecting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for my happiness." * To ail his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in regard to his marriage. " Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- lop, "is just lam indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with ail its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set of! to tlie best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne- ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger; my preservative from the first, is t/ie most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last, is my long and deep- rooted aftection for her. In houfeewife matters, of aptness to learn, and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress, and during my absence in Nithsdale, sne is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and sisters in their aairy, and other rural business You are right, that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a cause you will easiiy guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would f^ldom have been of the numoer." f Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing a young lady), — " but," he continues, " I have no cause to repent it. If 1 have not got polite tatue, modish manners, and foshionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- tation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns believes as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit et leplus honnete homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the Scriptures and the Psahiis 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 of the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel at EUiesland, \ and only occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that he wrote the beautiluJ 6ong : II " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west. For there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best ; There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, and niony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, ^\'i' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, bring hame the laden bees, And biing the lassie back to me, that's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." • Reliques, p. fi3. -|- See General Correspondence, No. 53 ; and Reliques, p. 60. t Reliques, p. 75. || Ibid. p. 273. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxix One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- ly marked with his haughtiness of cliaracter. " I have escaped." says he, " the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements which are sometimes to be found among fe- males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry.''* " A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, "will perceive that the let- ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- ^ respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- ing on an unwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments to justify the deed, and lessen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f I confess I am not able to discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," says he, •' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . • The praise is misplaced. We do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document was destroyed, talking of himself as a bachelor." ^ There is no justice in these remarks. It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns's wife ; and had she, un- der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but that of her own father,' it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful whether she had ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- clared the marriage of 1788. Burns did no more than justice as well as honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could have compelled him to perform. To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition, when living in the only hovel that he found extant on his farm. ". I am," says he, (September yth) -'busy with my harvest, but for all that most pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- bow 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, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaid- ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September IGth) he says, " This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to everj-^ blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclut, and bind every day after " General Correspondence, No. 55. -|- ^lorrispn, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. J Paul's Life of Burns, p. 45. ixxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. my reapers." His ouse, liowever, did not take much time in building , nor had lie reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his uif'e home to Ellieshind about the end of November ; and few housekeepers start with a larger jirovision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. Hurns liad lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- thers and sisters fr(jm IMossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and of the south of Scotland, partook, at the same table, of the same fare with their master and mistress. Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six miles above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the house of Dalswinton, of those noble woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in •.vhich he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare shingle of the precipice all but overhangs the stream, Burns had his favou- rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be easy to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which ho contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom ol winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a gloamin' shot at the muses." The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period cf his life was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for t)ie first time under a roof of his own — with his wife and children about him — and in spite of oc- casional lapses into the melancholy which had haunted his youth, looking' forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, " I hae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak cuckold frae nana, I'll gie cuckold to naebody; 1 hae a penny to spend — there — tlianks to naebody ; 1 hae naething to fend — I'll borrow frae naebody." In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life — health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — -his genius had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense of importance and independence." Burns, in his letters of the year 1789, makes many apologies for doing but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied much of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. On • Poetical Ikventory to Mr. Aiken, February 1786. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxi the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- farmers, but by the neighbouring gentry of all classes ; and now, too, for the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own house by curi- ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more time than he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice, he contributed to this year's Museum, The Thames Jlows proudly to the Sea ; The hizy mist hangs, &;c. ; The day returns, my bosom ljHr?is ; Tarn Gle?i, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go fetch to me a pint of wine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John Anderson, in part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Bacchanalian pieces, Willie brewed a peck a' maid, written in celebration of a festive meet- ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. NicoU of the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To Mary in Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands adJ?iitted, composed by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek has thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances which did not oc- cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec- tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- saic edition of the history. * According to her. Burns spent that day, though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always promised compliance — but still remained where he was, 'striding up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses— " Thou lingering star with lessening ray, That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day J\Iy Mary from my soul was torn. O IMary, dear departed shade, \Vhere is thy place of blissful rest ; See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &c. The Mothers Lament for her Son, and hiscription in an Hermitage in Nithsdale, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care the extensive correspondence In which his celebrity had engaged him. The • I owe these particulars to Mr. Bl'Diarmid, the able editor of the Dumfries Courier, and brother of the lamented author of " Lives of British Statesmen." Ixxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. etters that passed between him and his brother Gilbert, are among the most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knowledge of anal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- bon despotism ; and there were few who more ardently participated in the general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feeluig that took place in tliis country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stain LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xciii tlie course of the French Revolution, and Burke lifted his powerful voice, was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- (juences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and feruK-nted. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society was for a time sliaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams oi the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had known and loved each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it had been some loathsome pestilence. There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town ol Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- dition, — and to be shunned accordingly. The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions >vhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns IS a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the exact termination of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood. Burns, inter alia, gave great of- fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the health of William Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- ciety rejected what he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a greater and a better man, George Washington." I suppose the warmest admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time when Burns, being a servant of Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc- currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain ■ made use xciv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for ]Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of waiting on every gentleman who was pre- sent to state this to him ; #nd, as you please, show this letter. What, af- ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? May our success in the present tear be equal to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a man's loyalty to his King ? Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought themselves called upon to institute touching th^ politics of our poet. At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the whole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the '21i\\ of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Solway Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and the officers were enaliled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewars, a brother exciseman, an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself on a similar errand to Ecclcfechan, and Burns was left with some men un- der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. From LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcv the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my hands), it appears that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being left for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them this well-known ditty : — •' The de'il c;im' fiddling thro' the town, And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; And ilk auld wife ary'd, ' Auld fllalioun, ' We wish you luck o' the prize, man. Chorus ' We'll mak' ourmaut, and brew our drink, ' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; ' And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il, ' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. ' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, ' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; ' But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', ' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " Lewars arrived shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to board her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercejited at the custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to doubt, was the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of his jealous superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most absurd and presump- tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the impression that had been created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to his pa- tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the following letter, dated December 1792: *' Sir, — I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- chell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person 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 disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- spected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist- ence. Alas! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? 1 believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that 1 would not tell a deli- ncvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, httng over my head. And I say that the allega- tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached. You. ^5ir, 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 pa- tronage, and me dependence. I would not, for my single self, call on your humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse the tear that now swells in my eye ; I could brave misfortune; I could face ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' But, good God ! the tender concerns that 1 have mentioned, the claims and tics that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how tliey unnerve courage and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To these, Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me ; and which, with mv latest breath, 1 will say I have not deserved !"' On the 2d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find Iiini writing to Mrs. Uunlop in these terms : — " Mr. C. can be of little service to me at present ; at least, 1 should be shy of aj)plying. I cannot probably be set- tled as a supervisor for several years. I must wait the rotation of lists, &c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and 1 wish to let tlitit matter settle before I offer my- self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my senti- ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- tions of my soul. War, 1 deprecate : miser}' and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " " The remainder of this letter,"' says Cromek, " lias been torn away by some barbarous hand." — There can be little doubt that it was torn away by one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and from the most praise-wortli motive. The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has been said above, in obscurity ; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, appears to have gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himsell considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future promo- tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one of his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhapj)ily, even fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scotf has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The political predilections," says he, " for they could hardly be termed princi- ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At his first ap- pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high achievement. The inadequacy of the means by which that prince attempted to regain the crown forfeited l)v his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcvij which he underwent, — the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast; for Burns him- self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 2A'0), that ' to tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vioe la bagatelle.' The same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his clioice of poli- tical tenets, when the country was agitated by revolutionary principles. That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla- cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they might have spared themselves the dingrace of rendering desperate the pos- sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is but too certain, that from the moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his life. We doubt not, that in that awfid period of national discord, he had done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- est credit on that gentleman." In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, who can refuse to concur ? but I am bound to say, that after a careful examination of all the documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. I have great doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- ment. I have before me, for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's imme- diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per- son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac- cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do I believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated. That, had he lived, would, 1 have every reason to think, have gone on in the visual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on tlii account ' or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it w6uld occasionally revive, and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- ed in Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours , but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in tlie busi- ness, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the grt-at V xcviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. est possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His commaYiding officer. Colonel De I'eyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem- ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor and holiest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- where sung with.an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish this exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha hue wi WuUace bled, — the Sony of Dentil, and Does ha ugh fij Gaul Invoaioji Threat, — all lyrics which enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much of Burns both as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person who gives any thing like an exact statement : and according to him, Burns was admonished " that it was his business to act, not to think") — in whatever language the censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had any cause to suppose that his hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. Findlater, Mho had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, the year before he died, was permitted to act as a Supervisor ; a thing not likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. On *.'.ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted with talents and necessarily with influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct Avhich, now that passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation : that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by illness and death. 1 hese Conmiissioners of Excise were themselves sub- ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, appears to be made out; that MtV/ could have been justified in trying it to a farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcix of the country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend them. Mr. Pitt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of £-20i) a-year for writ- ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the minor politicians of the day thought of Burns"s poetry 1 know not ; but Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more — " I can think oi' no verse since Shakspeares, that has so much the appearance of com- ing sweetly from nature." * Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country docs admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of th6se whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some- what overstated the political indis'cretions of which Burns was actually guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- leady been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- lieves to be true. " Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in their debates, nor did he ever su])port their opinions in writing, or corre- spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused .i.5U a- year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- • I am assured that ."Mr. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, soon after Ikirns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation at that table, will be seen in the sequel. + .Mr. (rr.iy removed from the scJiool of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in wiiich eminent .seminary he for many years lal)(uired with distinguished success. He tlien be- came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Uelfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, a.nd di-ed a few years since in the East Indies, as otKciating chanbin to the Comjxiny in the presidency of Aladras. h LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may have been his opinion of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in accordance with what Mi*. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban doning. * Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Sjr James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the younger, of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- tron's family. There is much humour in it : — THE FIVE CARLINES. 1. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme. To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame. Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there, And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 2. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, ■]• a dame w' pride eneugh, And Marjory o* tne JMonylochs, X a carline auld and teugh ; And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near fSolway-side, And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide ; {| And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, ^ o' gipsy kith and kin, — Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day, And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae, But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a anc but tway. 4. The first he was a belted knight, •* bred o' a border clan, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan'. And he wad do their errands weel, and meikle he wad say, And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 6. The next came in a sodger youth, -f-f- and spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was; He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, nor meikle speech pretend, ■ But he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsell. 7. Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride. And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever might betide ; For the auld guidman o' Lunnun JJ court she didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ • This is stated on the authority of INIajor Jliller. •f- Dumfries. * Lachmaben. g Annan. |[ Kirkcudbrighv % Sanquhar. •• Sir J. Johnstone. ^-f- Major Miller. George III. S.§ The Prince of Wales. ++ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ol 8. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen, That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane; For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him jtet again. 9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim; , For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink, Ye_weel ken, kimmers a', The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight, _ But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean— I'll send the border knight. 11. Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld 8cots bluid was true; There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wham 1 like best at name. 12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can tell, God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. The above is far the best humoured of these productions. The election to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe contest, and at a very heavy expense. These politicafl conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by Burns's venom, when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, And pours his vengeance in the burning line ;" and represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as leading a choral shout that He for his heresies in church and state, Might riclily merit Muir's and Palmer's fate." But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was guilty of such excess. This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to expatiate. " Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer- tainly to be regretted.'" — " I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, already more than once referred to, but I love the memory of Burns more» cii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth. The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr. Currie's Nar- rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- ed of his species. As 1 knew him durmg that period of his life emphati cally called his evil days, / am enabled to speak from my oum. observation. It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be- cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him. It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- . lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- torians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunkeimess ? '' It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivialnature. He was courted by all classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea- ven ; but even in the hour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, follow- ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night's intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- lestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, and his voice attuned to the very passion M'hich he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting and delightful. 1 may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the poets by heart. The prose authors he could quote either in their own words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottar s Saturday Night. The truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he could not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all imes have listened to her voice ? t LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ■ cHl " The men with whom he generally associated, were not of the lowest order. He numbered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec- table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at- tached to him by ties that the hand of calumny, busy as it was, could ne- ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, and they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue alone inspires." Part of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, as to which Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely sufficient, but the very highest authority. " My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, " commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con» tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro- vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country- men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention ' I know. Sir, and re- gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle- man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if ray character shall fall a sa- crifice to the dark mana'uvres of a smuggler.' — This of itself affords more than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he would have written in such a style to me; but from the impulse of a consci- ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, it was not till near the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmities. 1 will further avow, that 1 never saw him, which was very fre- quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of business he was quite him- self, and capable of discharging the daties of his office; nor was he ever -known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- noon. ... I have seen Burns in all his various phases, in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see, after he became an Excise officer, and I never beheld any thing like the gross enormities with which he is now chaiged : That when set down in an evening with a few friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong the social hour beyond the bounds wliit h {uudence would dictate, is unques- • Mr. Findlater watched by Burns the right before he died. civ LIFE OF ftOBERT BURNS. tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other- wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which they know to be untrue. To whatever Burn/s excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. ISIo one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicoll. . . " O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! Ivow infinitely is thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, so be it ! " For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, might not such a Tn quoque be addressed ! The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements of Heron, ('urrie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole. Burns gave sa- tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- nue service ; he, moreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition thaii fathers who have more leisure than his cxcisemanship left him. are often in the custom of so bestowing. — " He was a kind, and attentive- father, and took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he did not, like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public sthods ; he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great pains in training their minds to habits of tliought and reflection, and in keeping them pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in liis dili- gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of af^e, he had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in our language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in Uie study of Latin. This boy afe. ended the Grammar School of Dumfries LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cv and soon attracted my notice by the st^-ength of his talent, and the ardour of his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- tions of that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On iiujuiry. I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the iiu- thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that })oli.-;hed and ibrcihle English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this important branch of parental duty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, after his removal to Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable length, ( 7\im d Shaiiier), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to Johnson's Museum', and to the collection of .Mr. (ieorge Thomson, furnish undeniable proof that, in whatever _/f/A- of dissipation he unhappily indulg- ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in question have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. Of his letters written at Elliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Ejiough, however, has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great body of elaborate prose-writing. We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to Johnson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely, and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Mr. Cromek saw among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into the collection, in IJurns's handwriting. His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. firay justly says, that whoever considers his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- fied, that from that time till the conmiencement of his last illness, not many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, for the most part embellished with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, and criticisms, Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that verv many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions of that over-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- • Letter from the Rev. James Gray to Mr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, vol. I. Ap. pendix, ^o. V. p^ cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for the eye and ear of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- ing, " vlrginibus puerisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- py indeed" for his own fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, of Scotland ; and, what is of far higher importance, the moral and national feelings of his countrymen. In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. Ke did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels, never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy — following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion either to conceal. or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," says he, " gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- pamby. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There I am al- ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort ot national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his native land from her peculiar idiom. The " genius loci" was never wor- shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says he, " that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, Locliuber and the Braes of Ballenden excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer- tained, 1 have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, :{: " a naivete, a pas- toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and 1 will add, to every ge- .nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness ol our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let me give you : — Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one ioia of the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- tional music preserve its native features. 'I'hey are, 1 own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," says he, 7th April 179.3, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- ments. \Vhat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- • Correspondence with I\Ir. Thomson, p. 111. f Ibid. p. 80. J Ibid. p. 38. Elt may amuse the reader to hear, that iji spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native ect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of Waverley was sub- mitted, hesitated for some time about publisJiing it, on account of the Scots dialogue interwo- veo in the novel. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii making are now as completely my hobbyhorse 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 I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be ' Good night, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * " Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, — then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, which is;, generall}' 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 v.-ith the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses 1 have fram- ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire- side of my study, and there commit my eft'usions to paper; swinging at in- tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- variably my way What cursed egotism !" f In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- ten. They are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poets per- sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- nion of his own individual life. A new flood of light has just been poured on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the j)oet's history.- The reader must be contented with a few general memora/u/a ; " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- sj)ire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No. no. When- ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- nation ? Tout an 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 {)iped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman.'' \ •' 1 can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, " Where love is liberty, and nature law." Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 5?. + Ibid, p. 119. cviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. soul ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at' a dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase." * Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which begins, " Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'." Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate of the performance. There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto, and Scott has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." " Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted." There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- witching songs. I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. " Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet's character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass from the charge with that neglect which- it merits ; but I am happy to say that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- sand anonymous calumnies." f Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was "Hey tuttie tattie ;" and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. " Come, winter, with thine angry howl. And raging bend the naked tree — " *' There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — 1 do not know if I should call it pleasure • Correspondence with I\lr. Thomson, p. 191. •^ Letter in Gilbert Burns's Edition, vol. L Appendix, p. 437. I LIFE OF ROBERT BUKN^. cix _but something which exalts me, something which enraptures "'e— than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plam It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up m a kmd of enthusiasm to Him, who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' "—To the last, his best poetry was produced amidst scenes of solemn desolation. CHAPTER IX. Co^»£NTS The poet's mortal period approaches — His pecvliar temperament — Symptoms of premature old ar/e These not diminished by narroiu circumstances, by chagrin from neiilect, and by the death of a Daughter — The poet misses public patronage : and even the fair fruits of his oil' t e/eniiis — the appri priation (f which is debated for the castiists who yielded to him 'vierely the shell — His magnanimity when death is at hand; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a d'/ing man — Dies, 2\st July 1796 — Public funeral, at which many at- tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the poet, living — Mis family munificently provided for by the public — Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures tipon him and his writings hy Scott, Campbell, Jiyron, and others. *' I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet^, husband's, father's fear." We are drawing near the close of this great poet's mortal career ; and I would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde- based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — to their superiors ; and hence, wlx) will not willingly believe it ? the tem- porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the essence of wliich Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, to extract and circulate. A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasif n to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of gentlem(?h and ladies, all drawn together for the festi\ities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. '1 he horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over now ;■' and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad, — " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, Hisauld ane look'd better than niony ane's new: But now lit- lets't wear ony way it will hing-. And L-asts hinisell dowie upon the com-binij. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Cxi " O were we young, as we ance hae been, We Slid hae been ^^alloping doun on yon green, And linkinj^ it ewer the lilywhite lea, — And wcrcna my heart light I wad die.''* It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es- cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of some verses which he had recently composed. The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it seems to be extremely improbable, that, eyen if his manhood had been a course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any thing like the. psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- tation and suffocation" of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief On a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any subsequent course of circumstances, the eff'ect of that exquisite sensibi- lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! " The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in' fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper 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." " Letter to 3Iiss Chalmers in 1793. cxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Burns has traced his owh character far better than any one else has done it since — But with this lot what pleasures were not mingled ? — " To you. Madam," he proceeds, " 1 need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difiicultics, 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 pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material stimulants, that they live fust ; what wonder that the career of the poet's thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid too? That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," as Mr. VVordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, " through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by his own hand — in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- sibilit}' engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — " One point must still be greatly dark, The moving -why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue iu Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentlier sister woman — Though they may gang a kennin' wrang; To step aside is human," could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic force by any poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it were felt that, like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors ; and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering." In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his end, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, along with other influences which it would be inhuman to characterise a» LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxiii mere follies — such, for exani})le, as that general depression of spirits which haunted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily on such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or even a casual .expression of discouraging tendency from the persons on whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of vvorld- ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the* species of so- ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during seme of the latter years of his life All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, 1794, and addres- sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his family " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseaseil ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast 'f If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ab ori- gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these »*♦*« times — losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, tjiat my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; butas 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 misfor- tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I afn convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; \\\o?,e seyises of the mind, \i \ m?iy he allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all-power- ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. Xfie 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 dp 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 most as an uncer- tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which tliey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would 1 quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- sical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to cxiv LIFE OV ROBERT BURNS. others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poii t ot 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, sen- timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about mj^ desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious .enthusiasm of Thomson, ' These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God.— The rolling year Is full of Thee ;' and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. — These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights : and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- ing, judging, and approving God." They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those of " the opiate guilt applies to grief" will do well to pause over this noble letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined to sink, had already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually with pecuniary difficulties, than which nothing could have been more like- ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per- haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last consideration, however, was one which would have given slender relief to Burns. How he shrunk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- ready. The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Maclkurdo, dated December 1793, will speak for itself: — " Sir, it is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and 1 pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which 1 am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to man, or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-eared little pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on vou long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. CXT me under, the consciousness of your superiority iji 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. The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- tinual exertion of liis genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. Carfrae, dated 1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu-* niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- pears from a passage in Cromek's Reliques, that the poet asked a single copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his book I know nothing; but the Correspondence of Burns with Mr. Thomson contains curious enough details concerning his connexion with that gentle- man's more important undertaking. At the outset, September 179'2, we find Mr. Thomson saying, " We will esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are resolved to save neither pains nor expense on the publication." To which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the otheV. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be xlownright pros- titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude speed the xvark." The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, 1st July 1793, where he says, " I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- site new songs j'ou are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- turn for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed t'5) Burns thus replies : — " i assure you my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. How- ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, I will indignantl}' spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com- mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- ment and independence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, 1 will take care that such a character he shall deserve." — In November 1794, we find Mr. Thom- son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 179;"), " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from nie ;" (this was a drawing of The Cottar's Saturday Night, cxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. by Allan ) ; « I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have enter- ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfected without you. So I beg you would not make a fo.jl of me again by speak- ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledging a " handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. Lastly, on the 12th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- count, taking it into his head that I am 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. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- rors of a jail have put me half distr.acted. — 1 do not ask this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To which Mr. Thomson replies — " Ever since I received your melancholy let- ter by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner 1 could en- deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of your labour ; remember Pope published the Hind by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel called Nuhilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared in 1816, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — " I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec- tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the printed correspondence between the poet and me. and in the public testi- mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding with every amateur and poet by whose means I expected to make any va- luable additions to our national music and song ; — for the exertion and mo- ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- mony in Vienna; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music for every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I can say : In August 1 8U0, he wrote me as follows : ' 1 am concerned at the very unwarrantable attack which has been made upon you by the author LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxvii of Nuhilla ; nothing could be more unjust than to say you had enriched yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it includes the labours of Haydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex- penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times beyond the reality ; the sale is greatly magnified, and the expenses are not in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the anonymous author calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written above fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold for the family's behoof to Messrs. Cadell and Davies. And I have the sa- tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun- ninghame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- dered my sacrifice of the prior right of publishing the songs, as no ungrate- ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever I come to Edinburgh, 1 will certainly call on a person whose handsome con- duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the harmony of the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts than to claim any n>erit for what I did. I never would have said a word on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been brought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which I have long suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- pearance." This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- tional remarks, (writes Professor Walker). When the public is satisfied; when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself in contemplating his conduct, there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them.. So far, Mr. Walker : — \Miy Burns, who was of opinion, when he wrote his letter to Mr. Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those of the labours of a man of genius,'' and whose own notions of independence had sustained no shock in the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from Thom- son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do I profess to understand why Mr. Thomson took so little pains to argue the matter in limine with the poet, and convince him, that the time which he himself considered as fairly en- titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book containing both songs and music. They order these things differently now : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, has long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much money annually for an annnul handful of songs, as was ever oaid to our bard for the whole body of his writings. cxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Of the increasing irritability of our poet's temperament, amidst those trou bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex- ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em- ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." Towards the close of 1 793 Burns was. as has been previously mention- ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and from thence, there was every reason to believC: the kind patronage of Mr. Graham might elevate him yet farther. These hopes, however, were mingl- ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the last ; and she was finally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. This was a severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. " There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these, ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on (vhat a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while 1 — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on the subject." To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his supervisorship, and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " VV hat a transient business is lii'e ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the few following extracts. " Slst January 1796. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afflic- tion. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when 1 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 d ,- >r in the street. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxix " When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, Affliction purifies the visual ray. Religion hails the drear, the untried night. That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." But a few day? after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent as to join a festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the morning. The weather was severe, and he, being much intoxicated, took no precaution in thus exposing his debilita1;ed frame to its influence. It has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- pointment. " Ath June 1796.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- tisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — * Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " " 1th July. — 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 bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- den of care. " The duce of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- ciseman is ofF duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on iSS?" He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his conveyance, the poet visited her on the oth July ; and she has, in a letter published by Dr. Currie, thus described his appearance and conversation on that occasion : — " I was struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any " The birth-day of George III. cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. commands for the other world ?' I repHed that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a -poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no- thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as well as feeling — as an event likely to, happen very soon, and which gave him concern chieflj'^ from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, and the fiattering marks of appro- bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well Qualified to do. Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion sonie noise, and that every scrap of his writings would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- nom to blast his fame. He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of' the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !" I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns: — " Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, 1 delayed writing until 1 coula j tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- tice 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 1 swallow . porridge and milk are the only things 1 can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind- est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on yuiidaif. Your affectionate husband, R. B." There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in which tne poet says, " 1 am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — God keep LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ^ cxxi my wife and children.^ On the r2th, he wrote the letter to Mr. George Thomson, above quoted, requesting ,i!;} ; and, on the same day, he penned also the following — the last letter that he ever wrote — to his friend Mrs. Dunlop. , " Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which 1 am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- ily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friend- ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 1 use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — " Rousseau, we all know, when dying, Avished to be carried into the open ■air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through the casement. Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- dow blinds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention ; but, olr, let him shine ; he will not shine long for me.' " On the 1 8th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came back to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of his fame — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught up and reported from street to street, and from house to house." " His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unruffled, and his wit ne- ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen iucreased. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means 1 had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His ditl'erences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- • I take the opportunity of once more acknowledging my great obligations lo this j^ntle- man, who is I understand, connected by his marriage with the family of the poet cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. given ; they thought only of his genius — of the delight his compositions had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart- ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * " A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the authority of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue was parched; and his mind sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, July 21st 1796, Robert Burns died. " I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- ham ; " several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage ot the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if hife bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- per was heard. This was several days after his death." On the "2oth of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades Hall, where they lay in state until the nfext morning. The volunteers of Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he had anticipated) with military honours. The chief persons of the town and neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a few tra- velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were lined by the Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque Ports, then quartedat Dumfries, whose commander. Lord Hawksbury, (af- terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. " The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says Cunningham, " witli the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- cession away. I'he scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the mea- sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and had no connexion with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to • In the London Magazine, 1824. Article, " Robe Burns and Lord Byron." + So Mr. Syme has informed Blr. M'Dia.fjud LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii part with his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho- velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on manv cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears oi their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. 1 notice this, not from any con- currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his ia- ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance. of the fa- mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. 1 shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now. by the unaliena- ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem." Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the benefit of his family; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. .Maxwell, Mr. Syme, Mr. Cunningham, and Mr-. M'.Murdo, becoming trustees for the application of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the lists, and not a few from England, especially London and Liverjwol. Seven hundred pounds were, in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Curries Life and Ldition of Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- fries, called Burns' Street. '' Of the ifour surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 1S2(», " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- do]), (Mr. Burns still remains in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the .second, died in ISO.S ; V\ illiam Nicoll, the third, went to .Madras m 1811; and James (ilencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in \h\'^, both as cadets in the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, (James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by any ex- ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the i)age of Burns, and remember without a blush, that tiie author of such verses, the human being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere bread for his children by casting up the stock' of publicans' cellars, and rid cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ?' The subscription for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- dignation did not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger among the wilds of Nithsdale — and that, after he was so established, no interference from a higher quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory of tliat generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who then adminis- tered the public patronage of Scotland. In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two lalse ar guments, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other liaving no foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly set up, and arrogantly as well as ignorantly maintained. To the one, namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was Burns." The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius. This is indeed a can- did and a generous method of judging ! Are impi-udence and intemperance, then, found. to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- selves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either encounter or live in constant apprehension of " The thousand ills that rise where money fails. Debts, threats, and dun.s, bills, bailift's, writs, and jails?" To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitted to his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says he, writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, and place them over against that **•«** account of yours, which has gag- ged my mouth these five or six months ! I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- ing three guineas do the business of Ave ! Poverty ! thou half sister of death, tliou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, inly 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 i'ashion- able and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark neglected, and LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS cxxv his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, though, in common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the juslice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps^ laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations." * In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and to other more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology of Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad- dison, must be nurhbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, Parnell,.Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. The beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a like untimely grave. " In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," says Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- tangled thrctligh the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de- " lighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." • Letter to Mr. Peter HiJl, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328- cxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. " His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great beyond his means ;" and I have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- ings ot the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about with him." Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the sorrow, "what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the fervour of a poet. " It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of»his let- ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to be true ;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his methdd of thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- dered " a hypochondriacal d/aease," which occasionally visited and depres- sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, to place many pages which breathe the ardour, nay the, exultation of faith, and the Jiumble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has warned us, it well befits us " At the balance to be mute." Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally of levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, but let fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength to the enemies of truth. It must always be the condition of £t great part of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- ligion of multitudes is necessarily founded." * In conclusion, let me adopt • Life of Sir Thomas Browne. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii the beautiful sentiment of that illustrious moral poet of our own time, whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan- guage lasts ; — " I^et no mean hope your souls enslave — i Be independent, fjenerous, brave ; Your" Poet " such example gave, And such revere. But be admonished by his grave, And think and fear." * It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- spiratiim, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 mean when the grave had closed on him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very nobie to despise^ the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burnss history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most men, to declaim against Burns's sensibiUty to the tangible cares and toils of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture^pn broad denuncia- tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a • Wordsworth's address to the sons of Burns, on visiting his grave in 1U03. cxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. spirit of pleasure wherever it .ran be found. — in the walks of nature, and in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas sion of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intempe- rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the hand -maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- minded puritant in^ works of art, ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fi-e- quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy nient within — 1 pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though there^was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. " Kings may be blest, but Tain was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life .victorious." " What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous- are objects almost of loath- ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beinga to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de- ceived." * That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of certain vices, by reference to jjarticular passages both in the history and in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce fiir different effects. The universal popularity which his writings have all along enjoy- ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the Solway, and there j^ not a cottage hut so poor and wretched as to be with- out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Books declined ? Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most of the country will • Wordsworth's Letter to uray, p. 24. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxix be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius and virtue would desire to hear them answered. On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national feelinga of his couiUrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the ol Wi' liquors nice,. An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that hrandy, burning trash, Fell source o* monie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, O' half his days ; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! Ye chief, to you ray tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glasa o* u-hisky punch Wi' honest men. O Whishj ! soul o' pla'ys an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! Thou comes -they rattle i' their ranka At ither's a — b ! Thee, Feriniosh f O sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic grips, and baikin hoa.st, May kill us a* ; For loyal Forbes' chartered boast Ts ta'en awa' ! Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, Wba mak the Wliishy Stells their prize ! Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrise ! There, seize the blinkers ! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d — n'd drinkers. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill. An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will. Tali a' the rest. An' deaJ't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE AUTHOR S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. - • Burneu'in — Burn-ihe-ioind — the blacksmith- appropriate title. Dearest of Distillation ! last and best How art thou lost 1 Parody on Oliltoti. Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, And doucely manage our affairs lu parliament, To you a simple Poets prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honouj-s" hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce To see her sittin' on her a — Low i' the dust. An' screichin' out prosaic verse. An' like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' nie's in great affliction. E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On Aquavita , An' rouse them up to strong conviction An' move their pity. tj • This was written before the act anent the St'oah Distilleries, of session ITfiC; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. POEMS. Sta> forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The h est, open, naked truth : Tell hi o' mine and Scotland's drouth, His servants humble : The mi kle devil blaw ye south. If ye dissemble ! Does my great man glunch an' gloom ! Speak nut, an' never fash your thumb : Let poso an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em : If hones'-y they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gatn ring votes you were na slack ; Now stard as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an fidge your back, An' hum an' haw ; But raise lOur arm, an' tell your crack Before them a' Paint Si-otland greeting owre her thrissle ; Her mutch K n stoup as toom's a whissle ; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin' a stell, Triumphant .rushin't like a mussel. Or lampit shell. Then on th. tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, An' cheek-for-cbow, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bear^ the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's o'uid rising hot, To see his poor auld /dither's pot Tbiis dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hudmost groat By go 'lows knaves ? Alas ! Fra but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sigti' ! But could I like Montgomerie^ fight, Or gab lik; Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad ('.raw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honours, can ye see't. The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An gar them hear ic, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. Ye winna bear 'it ! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause. An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues ; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's w.i's . Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; rhee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* A a' that glib-gabbtt Highland Baron, The Laird o' Graham;* An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; An' Livinyitone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' mony ithers. Whom auld Demosthenes or Tally Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. To get auld Scotland back her hettle ; Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang. She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in canc'rous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky. An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An' durk an' pistol at her belt. She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the first she~nieets ! For G — d salce. Sirs ! then speak her fair. An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the mvckle house repair, Wi' instant speed. An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear. To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! E'en cow« the caddie An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock^s, I'll be ills debt twa mashlum bannocks. An' drink his health in &\i\A Nanse Tintwcks.f Nine times a week, If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commxitation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon raixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle torgue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung ; * Sir Adam Ferguson. • The present Duke of Montrose. — (1800«) t A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauch- line, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glas« of guid auld Scotch Drink. BURNS' WORKS. An* if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen Five-aiid- Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye : Then, the' a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St Jamie s ! ' Your humble poet sings an' piays While Rah his name is. Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather, Ye tine your dam ; (Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !) Tak aff your dram ! THE HOLY FAIR.» A robe of seeming truth and trust Hit! crafty Observation ; And secret hung with i>oi son 'd crust. The dirk of Defamation : A mask that hke the gorget show d Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a inantle large and broad, He wrax^t him in Hcligion. Hypocrisy-a-la^fMO*, POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves, in wanner skies See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. But blithe and frisky. She eyes her freeborn martial boys, • Tak aff their Whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms. While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves. Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To Stan' or rin. Till skelp a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek. An' raise a philosophic reek. An' phy^sically causes seek. In clime an' season ; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll telJ the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the callar air. The rising sun owre Gahton muirs. Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; The hares were hirplin' down the "urs. The lav'rocks they were chantiu' Fu' sweet that day. II. As lightsomely I glowrM abroad To see a scene sae gay. Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin' up the way ; Twa had maiiteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining ; The third that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. HI. The twa appear'd like sisters twin. In feature, form, an' claes : Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin. An' sour as ony slaes ; The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, As light as ony lammie. An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day IV. Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye.' Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' tiik's me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck Of a' the ten conmiands A screed some day. » IMy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scot- land for a sacramental occasion. POEMS. V, " My name is Fun — your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye ha'e ; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaiin to Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daflfin' ; Gin ye'll go there, yon riinkled pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day." VI. Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't ; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot ; Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !' Then I gaed hame at crovvdie time. An soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' moaie a weary body, In droves that day. VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin* graith Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show, On ev'ry side they're gatherin', Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bletherin'. Right loud that day. IX. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, Au' screen our countra Gentry, There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores. Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck. An' there a batch of wabster lads, Blackguardin' frae K ck. For fun this day. Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their rlaes ; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, - Anither sighs an' prays ; On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkiu' on the lasses To chairs that day. XI. O happy is the man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkiu' down beside him! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back. He sweetly does compose him ! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom Unkenn'd that day. XII. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation ; For speels the holy door Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' 's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. XIII. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin' an' thumpiu' ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ' His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures. Oh, how they fire the heart devout. Like cantharidian plasters. On sic a day ! XIV. But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; There's peace and rest nae langer : For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. — ^-^ opens out his cauld harangues On practice and on morals ; An' aif the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. XV. What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs and reason ? His English style, an' gesture fine. Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan Heathen, The ftioral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day XVI. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum : For , frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 8 BURNS' WORKS. While Common-sense lias ta'en the road, An' afiF, au' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast, that day. XVII. Wee neist the guard relisves, An* orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, And thinks it auld wives' fables : But, taith ; the birkie wants a manse So cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit and sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that daj. XVIIL Now but an' ben, the change-house fells, Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills. And there the pint stoup clatters ; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end, Is hke to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. XIX. ueeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College ; It kindles wit, it waukens lair. It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony Rtronger potion. It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. XX. The lads an* lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body. Sit round the table weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ace's leuk. They're makia' observations ; While some are cozie i' the neuk. An' forming assign.itions To meet some day. XXI. But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts : Black is na spairin' : His piercing words, like Highland swords. Divide the joints au' iiarrow ; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our very sauls does harrow f Wi' fright that day. XXII. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' biuiistane. Wlia's ragin* flame an* scorchin* heat^ Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! , ~ The half asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarln"*, When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neighbour snorin* Asleep that day. XXIII. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to teU How monie stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caupi) Amang the furms an' benches ; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps. Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that diy. XXIV. In comes a gaucle, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife^ The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother. Till some ane by his bonnet lays. An' gi'es them't hke a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae ItM, Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing ! wives be mindfu' ance youisel' How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! XXVL Now Clinkumhell, wi' rattlin' tow, Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, the best they dow^ Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies haJt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an* drink. They're a' in famous tune. For crack that day. xxvn. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses ! Their heaits o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesli is. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy ; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. I A street so called, which faces tl»e ent In . * Shakesneare's Hamlet POEMS. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- BOOK : A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never pean'd : Ev*a Ministers, they hae been ke^in'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend. And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, Lt just as true's the De'ils in hell Or Dublin city : Tkat e'cj' he nearer comes oursel* 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was nae fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher'd whilee, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches ; An* hillocks, stanes, an* bushes, kenn'd aye Frafi ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; To count her horns, wi* a' my power, I set mysel' ; But whether she had three or four, I couldna tell. I was rome round about the hill. And todlin down on Willes mill, Setting my staiF wi* a' my skill. To keep me sicker ; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I there wi' SomefJiing did forgathesi, That put me in ar. eerie swither : An' a^vfu* scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed leister on the ither, Lay, large and lang. Its stature seem*d lang Scotch ells twa. The queerest shape that e'er I saw. For fient a wame it had ava ; And then, its shanks. They were as thin, as sharp, an* sma' As cheeks o' branks. ' Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! hae ye been mawin', When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' * It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan*, B'ut naething spak : At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ?' It spak right hnwe, — ' My name is Death, But be na fley'd.' — Quoth I, ' Guid faith, Ye*re maybe come to stap my breath ; But tent me, billie : I red ye weel, tak care e* skaith. See there*s a guUy !' ' Guidman,* quo' he, ' put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; ' But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wadna mind it, no, that spittle Out owre my beard. ' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. Come gie's your news ; This while * ye hae been mony a gate. At mony a house.' ' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, ' Its een a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to niijlv the thread. An' choke the breath r Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death. ' Sax thousand years are nearhand fled Sin' I was to the hutching bred. An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. To stap or scar me ; Till ane Hornbook 'a f taen up the trade. An' faith, he'll waur me. ' Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan i An' ither chaps. The weans baud out their fingers laughin' An' pouk my hips. ' See, here's a scythe, and tjiere's a dart. They hae pierc'd morfy a gallant heart : But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill. Has made them baith no worth a f — t, Damn'd haet they'll kilL ' 'Twas but yestreen, nae forther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane ; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've humlreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. ' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art. And had sae fortified the part. That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. ' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, ' This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. • An epidemica] fever was then raging in that ojuntry. t This genOem iJi, Dr. Hornbiwk, is, professionally a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but by intuition and inspiration, is. at once an Ajjothecary Surgeon, and Physician. % Bucliaa's Domestic Medicine. H2 lO BURNS' WORKS. I nearhand cou[Sit wi' my hurry. But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. ' Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had ken'd it, Just in a kail-hlade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't. • An' then a* doctors' saws and whittles. Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae ; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. • « Calces o* fossils, earths, and trees ; True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; The Farina of beans and pease. He has't in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please. He can content ye. * Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; Distill'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins. An' mony mae.' ' Waes me for Johnny Ged^s Hole * now ;* Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! His braw calf-ward where gowaus grew, Sae white an' bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; They'll ruin Juhnny !' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year. ' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath. This night I'm free to tak my aith. That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. ' An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. ' A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts. Thegisve-digger. His only son for Hornbook sets. An' pays him well ; The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel*. ' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name. Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame. In Hornbook's care ; Horn sent her aiF to her lang hame, To hide it there. ' That's just a swatch o* Hornbook's way ; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't ; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt. ' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; I'll nail the self- conceited sot. As dead's a herrin' ; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin' '' But just as he began to tell. The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith I took the way that pleased mysel'. And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR : A POEM. Inscribed to J. B- EsQ. Ayr. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush : The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the hill ; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed. To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field- Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; When B befriends his humble ^ame, And hands the rustic stranger up to tame. POEMS. 11 VVitli hpart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godliko to give alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : Fctatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'rjr side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, cliildren, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) ! Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs : Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings. Except, perhaps, ^e Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny davs. Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze. While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about : (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), The (hiiwsy Duuaeim-clockjf had nuraber'd two. And Wallace tower f had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar. Thro' the still uight dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd as Nature's eiosed e'e ; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. WTien, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard. The clanging sough of whistling wings he heard ; Tva dusky fonns dart thro' the midnight air, fwift as the Gos \ drives on the wheeling hare ; • > noted tavern at the AiUd Brig end. * The two stteples. i The £os-hawk, or falcon. Ane on th Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the risin;/ piers : Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr ])reside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nue joke. An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them. And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang Yet touglrly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at London, frae ane Adams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search. Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien. He, down the water, gies him thus guide'eu — AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye'r^ nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll^iiever see; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddlc, Some fewer whigraaleeries in your noddle. KEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meuse, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Wliere twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat stream, * Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim. Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter. But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawl- ing Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source. • A noted ford, justabo^e the Auld Brig, t The banks oC Garpal fFater\s one of the few placet * i2 BURNS' WORKS. ArousM by blust'riniT winds and spotting thowes, In miiny a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; While crashing ioe, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an* mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Ghnbuch* down to the Ration keT/,f Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies, ' A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-allui-ing edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Sup)K)rting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited Monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with re- surrection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a liallie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Srethren of the sacred gown, M^ha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godlt/ Writers : A* ye douce folk I've borae aboon the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vex- ation. To see each melancholy alteration ; in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- ings, known by the name of Gliaists, still contmue pertinaciously to inhabit. • The source of the river Ayr. t A small landing-place above the large key. And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their count:y'« .8''"'y'. In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house : But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wha waste your well-bain'd gear on d d new JBrigs and Harbours I NEW BRIG. Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said enough. And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little. Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o' your langer beard. Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared : To liken them to your auld warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down the street In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin* owre hops an* raisins. Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed them. Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. ' What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat*ry glass so neat. The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M^LauchVui,* thairm-inspiring sage. Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, ■ When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug. been nobhr fir*d, And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! * A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin. POEMS. 13 No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable chief advanced in years ; His hoajy head with water-lilies crown'd. His majily leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : AU-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd \vith nodding com ; Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show. By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath. To ru-stic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kixid- ling wrath. THE ORDINATION. For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— . To please the' Mob they hide the little giv'n. I. KilmaKNOCK Wabsters, fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations. Swith to the Laiyh Kirk, ane an' a', An' there tak up your stations ; Then aif to Beyhies in a law, An' pour divine lil)ations For joy this day. n. Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in \vi' Maggie Lauder;* But O aft made her yell. An' R— ^^ sair raisca'd her ; This day, M' takes the flail. An' he's the boy will blaud her ! He'll clap a shangan on her tail. An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. III. Mak haste an* turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; O' double verse come gie us four. An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For heresy is in her power. And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham * leugh at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or Phitieasf drove the murdering bladcv Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, | the scaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th6 inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, An' bind him down wi' cautiuy, That Stipend is a carnal weed. He taks but for the fashion ; An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. An' punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin'. Spare them nae day. VL Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'It rowt out-owre the dale Because thy pasture's scanty ; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty. An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day. vn. Nae mair by SabeVs streams we'U weep, To think upon our Zion ; An' hing our fiddles up to sleep. Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep* An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. An' a like laiub-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day. VIIL Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. Has shored the Kirk's undoin'. • Alluding to a scoffing baJlad which was made on the admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to the I.aigh Kirk. • Genesis, eh. ix. ver. 22. f Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. i Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 14 BURNS' WORKS. As lately Fenwick, sair foifairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; An' like a Rodly elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, An' sound this day. Now R- IX. ■ harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever ; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever ; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Ntthertnn repair, An' turn a carper weaver Aff hand this day. X. M and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons : An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. To fry them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons. Fast, fast, this day. XI. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, She's swingein' through the city ; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face. Grunts out some Latin ditty : An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint tliis day. XII. But there's Morality himsel', Embracing a' opinions ; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aff to hell, An' banish'd our dominions, Henceforth this day. XIIL O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bou Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule. Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Conipar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke ! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces In your unletter'd nameless faces ; In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But ffravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wite, Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin' squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road.— - Whilst I — but I shall baud me there — Wi' you I'll scarce gang any where- Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. But quat my safig, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason ; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. [On reading, in the public papers, tlie Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1 7^0, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him. self transported to the birth-day levee ; and in hil dreaming fancy, made the following Address.'] I. GuiD-MORNiN* to your Majesty I May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My hardship here, at your levee, On sic a day as this is, POEMS. 19 fs sure an uncouth sight to see, Aniang tlie birth-day dresses Sue fije this day. n. I see ye' re comph'mented thrang, liy inoiiy a lord an' lady, • God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye ; The pnets, too, a venal gang, \Vi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready. Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang. But aye unerring steady. On sic a day. III. For me ! before a monarch's face, Ev'n t/iere 1 winna flatter ; For neither jjcnsion, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor : So nae reflection on j/niir grace, Your kingship to bespatter ; There's nionie waur been o' the race, An' aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. *Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 3Iy skill may weel be doubted : But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted. An' now the third part o' the string. An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspije To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation ! But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my She, Ye've ti usted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or V)yre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. VI. An' now ye've gien auld Uriiain peace, Her broken shins to plaister ; Your sair taxation does her fleece. Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae barc/iiin wearing faster. Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture r the craft some day VII. Vm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' WiWs a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), hat lie intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges ; But, God-sake ! ht nae aaviiiff fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek Beneath your high protection ; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, An' gie her for dissection ! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. In loyal, tiue affection. To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-dajr. IX. Hail, Mdjeatij ! Most Excellent ! While nobles strive to please ye. Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies ye? Thae bimnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, .Still higber may they heeze ye. In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. X. For yt)u, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling 8aii% I'm tauld ye'ie driving rarely ; But some (lay ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, Thut e'er ye brak Diana's pales. Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. XI. Yet aft a ragged coicte's been known To mak a noble aiver : So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-clavcr : There, him * at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,^ He was an unco shaver For monic a day XII. For you, right rev rend Osndbrug, Nane sets the lazvn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your hig Wad been a dress completer : .\s ye disown yon paughty dog I That bears the keys of Peter, Then, switli ! an' get a wife to hug. Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. Yoiing royal Tarry Breeks, I learu, Ye've lately come athwart her ; • Khifj Henry V. t Sir John FalstafI", vide Shakespeare. 20 BURNS' WORKS. A glorious galley* stem an stern, W'eel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; Bjt first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw. An' gie you lads a-plenty : But sneer nae JBritish hoys awa', For kings are unco scant aye ; An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want aye On onie day. XV. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro*, It may be bitter sautet ; An' 1 hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that da> THE VISION. DUAN FlRST.f The sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play. An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards greef While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has be*. The thresher's weary flinghi-tree The lee-lang day had tired me : And whan the day had closed his e'e. Far i' the west, Ben i* the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. The auld clay biggia An' heard the restless rations squeak About the riggin'. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How 1 had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae-thinsr. • Alluding to the newspaper account of a cwtain royal sailor's amour. t Dynn, a term of Ossian's for tliediPFerent divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. i. of M'Pherson's translation. But stringin' blethers up in rhyme For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account : While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkr Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! c,/" And heav'd on high my wauki^- loof, To swear by a' yon starry rcjf. Or s(>Tie ra.»l'i a-'.ib That I, henceforth, wo'-ld je Tfiy,/ie-pr(/tff Til] mj la&c breath— - Wlien click ! the sb .n{; the sneck did dr^tic level. May hing their head in woefu' bevel. While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead ! Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson's dead ' When winter muffles up his cloak. And binds the mire like a rock ; When to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesonie speed ; Wha will they statinm at the cock ? Tam Samson's dead ! He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, ♦ When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossiau's phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- dent wish to die and be buried in the niiiirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- lion, p'ide the Ordination, Stanza II. t Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at ttiat time ailing. For him see also the Or. dinatiou Stanza IX. 24 BURNS' WORKS. Or up the rink, like Jehu ro;ir, In time o' need ; But now he lags on death's hog-score. Tain Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And troiits hedropp'd wi' crimson hail, .And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-ereel we wail, Tani Samson dead ! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a.' ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; Ye maukins, cock your fiid fu' braw, Withouten dread ; Your mortal fae is now awa', Taiu Samson's dead • That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed ! But, och ! he gaed and ne'er returned ! Tam Samson's dead ! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns came down like waters. An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, , Tam Samson's dead Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, An' aye the tither shot he thunipit, Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feide ; Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger AVi' weel-aim'd heed ; L— d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; Tam Samson's dead ! ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; nk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Wliare Sums has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson s dead ! There low he lies, in lasting rest : Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. To hatch an' breed , Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! y Wlien August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander bv yon grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead. I Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! th* wish o' mony mae than me : He had twa fauts, or may be three. Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man, want we : Tam Samson's dead ! THE EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies. Ye canting zealots, spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'U mend or ye won near him. 1 PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, and canter like a filly Thro* a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,' Tell every social, honest billie. To cease his grievin For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samsons livift HALLOWEEN.! [The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough undeistooil ; but for the s.alie of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions o< the country wlierethe scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea- santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of pry. ing into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour the author wi^h a perusal, to see the remains of it a mong the more unenlightened in our own.] Ves ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. The simple pleasures of tlie lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to riiy heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Galdsmitft I. Upon that night, when fairies light, On Cnssilis Downans \ dance. Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance^ Or for Colean the route is ta'en. Beneath the moon's pale beams ! • Kiltie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use for KilmarnocK. t Is thought to be a niglit when witches, devils, and other mischief-making bemgs, are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that niglit to hold a grand anniversary. i Certain little romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas- silis. POEMS. 35 There, up the cove,* to stray an' rove Amang the rocks and streams, To sport that night II. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doun rins, wimpHn', clear. Where BiiucEf ance rul'd the martial ranks, An' shook his Carrick spear. Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene. To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' baud their Halloicten Fu* blithe that night. III. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when their fine ; Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kiu' ; The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an' some wi' ga'is, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whyles fast at night. IV. Then first and foremost, thro' the kail. Their stocks \ maun a' be sought ance ; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale. For niuckle anes and straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, An' pou't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow- tail, Sae bow't that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; The vera wee things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; Syne coziely, ahoon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them To lie that night. * A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. fThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great dehverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. X '1 he tirst ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the tirst they meet with ! Its being big or little, straight, or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the graml object of all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary ap- peflatiOn, the tuitts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and the Christian names of ihe peo. pie whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in ques- tion. VI. The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn ,- * Hut Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behiiit the niuckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiutthn' in the fause-house^ I Wi' him that night. VII. ^ The auld guid wife's weel-hoordet nits^ Are round an' round divided, And monie lads and laNses' fates. Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthy, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly ; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride. An' jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night. VIII. Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel' : He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him. As they wad never mair part ; Till fuff! he started up the liim. An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night. IX. Poor Willie, wl' his bow-kail runt. Was brunt wl' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt- To be conipar'd to Willie : Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. An' her ain fit it brunt it ; While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. X. Nell had the fause-house in her min*. She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join. Till white in ase they're sobbin' : Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, She whi.sper'd Rob to look for't : « They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of okts. If the third "tuix. wants the top-pkk:e, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. f When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old tim- ber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in tire side which is fairest exposed to the v/ind ; this he calls a fause-house. X Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. Theyname the lad and lass to each particularnut.asthey l.iy them in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly toge- tlier, or start from beside one another, the courst and issue of the courtship will be. 26 BURNS' WORKS. Rob, siowlins, prieM her bonnie mou, Fu' cozie in the neiik for't, Uuseen that night. XI. But IMerran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea'es them .nashin' at their cracks, Ami slips out l)y hersel' : She thro' the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins graipit fur the bauks, And in the blue clue* throws then, Right fear't that night XII. An' aye she wiii't, an' aye she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin ; Till something held within the pat, Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin' To spear that night. XIII. Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, " Will ye go wi' me, grannie? I'll eat t/ie apple f at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnie :" She fuflf't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she, was sae vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night. XIV. " Ye little skelpie-liuimer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin'. As seek the foul Thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a sight f Great cause ye hue to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright. An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret On sic a night. XV. " Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as wcel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fyfteen : * Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these (lireotions: Steal out, all alone, to the Icitn, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the old one : and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread, demand w/in /muds? i. e. who holds? an answer will ; be returned from the it thou ? Began the rev'rend sage ; Does thirst of wealth thy step constraiKu Or youthful pleasure's rage ? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast hegan To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man ! III. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out- spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride ; I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times leturn ; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. IV. O man ! while in thy early years. Hew prodigal of time ! Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. V. Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right : But see him on the edga of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, Oh ! ill-inatch'd pair ! Show man was made to mourn. VI. A few seem favourites of fate. In pleasure's lap carest ; y^, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh ! what crowds in every land. Are wretched and forlorn ; Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. vn. Many and sharp the num'rous ills. Inwoven with- our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves. Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn BURNS' WORKS. vin. See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fMnw-wnrm The poor petition spurn. Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. If I'm desinn'd yon lordling's slave— > By Nature's law design-d, C Why was an indei)endent wish \ E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? X. Yet, let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man. Had never, sure, been born. Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mouin ! XI. O Death ! tlie poor man's dearest frieadi The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, Oh ! a blest relief to those That, weaiy-laden, mourn ! A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. * L O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps 1 must appear ! n. If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As somet/ii/ifl, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; HI. Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'niiig to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. POEMS. IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do thou, All Good! for such thou art. In shades nf darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, , But, Thoit art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed storms : Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; Or death's unlovely, dreary, daik abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' Fain promise never more to disobey ; , But, should my Author health again dis- pense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; Then how shouJd I for heavenly mercy pray. Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran ? O Thou, great Governor of all below ! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. Those headlong furious passions to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES, IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEl'T. O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and ove, I make my prayer sincere. II. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. Long, long be pleased to spare, To bless his little filial flock. And show what good men are. III. ' She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys. But spare a mother's tears ! IV. Their hope, their stay, their darling youti^ In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! The beauteous, seraph sister-band. With earnest tears I pray. Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps alway ! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough otean driv'n. May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heav'n ! THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever placed, Huth happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casta forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv'u them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked meo Shall ne'er be truly blest. 38 BURNS' WORKS. A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, •TDBR THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. THOU Great Being ! what thou art Surpasses me to know : t sure am I, that known to thee Are all thy works below. rhy creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or ciose them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place ! Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath thy forming hand. Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command ; That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbegiuning time, Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of yeiars, • Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight. Than yesterday that's past. Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought : Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men. Return ye into nought !' Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array 'd ; But long ere night cut down, it lies AH wither'd and decay'd. ON TURNING ONE D3WN WITH THE PLOUGH, IS APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush aniang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonny Lmk, companion meet . Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckl'd breast. When upward-springing, blitiie, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, ' High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 5 But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane. Adorns the his tic stihhh-fidd, Unseen, alanc. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies \ Such is the fate of artless Maid, ^weet floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray *d. And guileless trust. Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fiite of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Unskilful he to note the card Of pr2ident lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. By human pride or cunning driv'n To niis'ry's brink. Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy s fate. That /lite is iliine — no distant date: I POEMS. 39 Stern Rum's plough-share drive', elate, Full on tliy I)looin, rill crush' 1 beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be tliy doom ! TO RUIN. I. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stein-vcsolvM, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivei-s in my heart. Then low'ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread ; Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing, Round my devoted head. II. And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd. While life a pleasure can aiFord, Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life fi joyless day ; My weary heart its throbbings cease. Cold mouldering in the clay ? No fear more, no' tear more, To stain my lifeless face ; Enclasped, and grasped Within my cold embrace ! TO MISS L , WITH BEATTIe's poems, AS A NEW-YEAIl's GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n. No gifts hav« I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail ; I send you more than India boasts In Edwins simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, jfcjhaps, too true ; 3ut may, dear Maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end Than just a kind memento ; But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps it mav turn out a sang. Perhaps turnout a sermon. II. Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad. And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco stjiiad, And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set vour thought. E'en when your end's attained ; An a' your views may come to noughti Where ev'ry nerve is strainL'il III. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; The real, hardeu'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law. Are to a few restricted : But och, mankind are unco weak. An' little to be trusted ; K self the wavering balance shake, Its rarely right adjusted ! IV. Yet they wha fa* in fortune's strife Their fate we should na censure, For still th' important end of life They equally mav answer ; A man may hae au honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him , A man may tak a neebor's part. Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free aff han' your story tell. When wi' a bosom ciony ; But still keep something to yoursel* Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection ; B;:t keek thro' every other man, Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it ; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it i I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing ; But och ! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling ! vn. To catch dame Fortune's golden Bim]^ Assiduous wait upon her; 40 And gather ^ear by ev'ry wJl* That's justified by honour ; Not for to hide it in a hedsre, Nor for a train-attendant ; But for the jjlorious privilege Of being iiidt pendent. VIII. The fear o' Iieil's a hangman's whip To baud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your howiiir grip. Let that aye be your border : Its slightest tiiiuhes, instant pause — Debar a' side pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere, IMust sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended ; Aft Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended ! X. 'When ranting round in pleasure's ring. Religion may be blinded ; Or, if she gie a random sling. It may be little minded : But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, A conscience but a canker — A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor. XI. Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting ! In ploughman phrase, ' God send you spee<3, , Still daily to grow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede. Than ever did th' adviser ! BURNS' WORKS ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, A' ve wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think. Come mourn wi' me ! Our hdlie's gi'en us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Liiment him a' ve rantin core, Wha dearly like a laniloni-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key ; F(V now he's to* en anither shore, An' owre the Be& The l)onnie lassies weel may wiss him. And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' niav bless him, M'i' tearfu' e'e ; For wee! I wat they'll sairly miss him. That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they ha*e room to grnml)le Hadst thou ta'en atf some drowsy bummel, Wha nan do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea But he was gleg as onv wuiiible. That's owre the sea. Auld, cantie Kijle may weepers wear. An' stain thein wi' the saut, saiit tear j Twill mali' her poor auld heart, i fear. In Binders ffee ; He was her laureat nionie a year. That's ov/re the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor-umst Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak' his heart at last, 111 may she be t So, took a birth afore the "mast. An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortnne's cummoek. On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, • An' owre the sea. He ne er was gi'en to great misgiiiiHi^g Yet coin his j>ouches wad mi bide in j Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel. An' ha|) him in a cozie biel ; Ve'll find him aye a dainty chiel. And fu' o' glee : He wadna wrang'd the vera deil. That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hillie, Your native soil was right ill-willie j But may ye flourish like a lily. Now bonnilie ; I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Thu' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie fice. Great chieftain o' the puddiu-race .' POEMS. 41 Aboon them a* ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm ; Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdles like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro* your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight. An' cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, ' Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like diums ; Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout. Or olio that wad staw a sow. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner. Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, On sic a dinner ? Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash. His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash. His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle ; An* legs, an* arms, aa heads will sned. Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care. And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis I A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na. Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication. To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. Because ye're surnained like his grace^ Perhaps related to the race; Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. Set up a face, hew . stop short. For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do. Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefu* ; For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, / can beg ; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin'. It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, ' Or else, I fear some ill aiie skelp him ; He may do weel for a' he's done ye».. But only he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie m^ I winna lie, come what will o' me) On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, ^ He dowua see a poor man want ; What's no his ain he winna tak it. What ance he says he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refuse Till aft his goodness is abused ; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; As master, landlord, husband, father He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature. Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word and deed. It's no thro' terror of damnation ; It's just, a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ; Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice ' No — stretch a point to catch a plack j Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh— re. But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane. And baud their noses to the grunstane ; Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces Wi* weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces • Grunt up a .'olemn, lengthen'd groan. And damn a' parties but your own ; 12 BURNS' WORKS. T'l warrant then, ye' re n le deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch behever. O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, For gtinilie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When ruin, with his sweeping besom. Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : While o'er the harp ])ale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works 1 did review. To dedicate them. Sir, to You : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel*. Then patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said ever pray. But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you. Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark. Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May K 's far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flume, TiUH s, at least a dizen. Are frae her nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays. Shine on the evening o' his days ; Till his wee curlie Johns ier-oe. When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!" I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal nwst fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl. Want, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakesi, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, IMake you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor I But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! While recollection's power is given. If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognize my master dear. If friendless, low, we meet together,, Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother i TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNET A- CHURCH. Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Ovvre gauze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. How dare you set your tit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle. In shoals and nations ; Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it, The vera tapmost, tow 'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose ou^ As plump and grey as ony grozet ; for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. Wad dress your droddum ! 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat ; But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie. How dare ye do't ! O, Jenny, dinna toss your head. An' set your beauties a' abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin' I POEMS. 43 Tbae winks and fingeV'^ends, I dread, Are notice takiu' ! O wad some power the giftie gie ua To see ni/r.tels as others see us ! It wad frae inonie a blunder free us, And foolish notion : What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. Edina ! Scotia s darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scattcr'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 1 shelter in thy honoiir'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. ni Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. Heaven's beauties ou my fancy shine : I see the sire of love on hi(/h. And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams atar ; Like some bold veteran, grey in arras, And niark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd the invader's shock. VI, With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years. Famed heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the times to come ' Their royal name hny in the dust ! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam .' Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore • E'en / who sing in rustic lore, Haply mjj sires have Uft Cneir shed, And faced giim danger's loudest roar. Bold-following where your fathers led ! VIII. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Wliere once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From maiking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL Ist, 1785, While briers an' woodbines budding green. An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin' To ca' the crack and weave our stockin* ; And there was muckle fun and jokin'. Ye need na doubt : At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to th& life. I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?* They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. And sae about him there I spiertii u BURNS' WORKS. n»en a* that keu't him round dedarea He had ingine. That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,- It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an* graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death. At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jinyle fell, Tho' rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae pact, in a sense, , But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her, ' Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, ' How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, niylearned foes, Ye' re may be wrang What's a' your jargon o' your schools, iTour Latin names fur horns an' stools ; If honest nature made you fools, What sails your grammars? Ye'd better taeu up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull conceited hashes. Confuse their brains in college classes ! They ganff in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak ; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek ! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though haniely in attire. May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee. Or Ferguson s, the bauld and slee, Or bright Z,apraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it ' That would be lear eneugh for nie ! If I could get it. Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna blaw about raysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me ; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack'they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair ; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we foigather. An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware Wi* ane anither The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatler. An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. To cheer our heart ; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack ! I dinna like to see your face. Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms. Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. Who hola your being on the terms, ' Each aid the others,' Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers? But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. Who am, most fervent. While I can either sing, or whissle. Your friend and servant. POEMS. 45 TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten hours bite. My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. • The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie. She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae busy. This month an* mair. That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; ' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. This vera night ; So dinna ye affront your trade. But rhyme it right. ' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mahkind were a pack o* cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, An' thank him kindly!' Sae I gat paper in a blink. An* down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak' it clink, By Jove I'll prose it !' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesorae touch ! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow ! Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo* the timmer. Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, /, Rob, am here Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent. Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A Hailie's name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-sliank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps an' bonnets aff are taen. As by he walks ? * O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift Thro' Scotland wide • Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a' their pride !' Were this the charter of our state, * On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran, \^Tien first the human race began, ' The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. An' none but heP O mandate glorious and divine ! The ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon's line Aj'e dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' G^oiH^ Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native, kindred skies. And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year. % 46 BURNS' WORKS. TO W. S- -N, OCHILTREE. May 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; The' I maun say't, I wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' hillie. Your flatteiin' strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor musie ; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce eximse ye. My senses wad be in a creel. Should I but dare a h(tpe to speel, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfidd, The braes of fame ; Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. (O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry !) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my dead, (O sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed ; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain. But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style ; She lay like some unkenned of isle Beside New- Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan, ttamsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tai/ a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Txveed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Dorm, Is'ae body sings. Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! But, Willie, set your fit to mine. An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells. He- moors red- brown wi' heather bells. Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallact, Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southern billies. At Wallace" name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring- tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace^ side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious died. O sweet are Collars haughs an* woods, Wlien lintwhites chant among the buds, An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjyy. While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey ; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day ! O Nature ! a* thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms. The lang, dark night ! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her. Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang ; O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder A heartfelt sang ! 'The warly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. Let me fair Nature's face descrive. And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum o'er their treasure. Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing bcither ! We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither. In love fraternal : May Envy wallop in a tether. Black fiend, infernal ! WhiiC highlandnien hate tolls and taxes ; ■^VTiile moorlan' herds like guid fat brasies ; WTiile terra firma on her axis Diurnal turns. Count on a friend, in faith and practice, Ilk Hubert Burns. POEMS. 47 POSTSCRIPT. Mt memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this neiv-Uyht, * Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains' their •speech to balance, jOr rules to gi'e, But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallana, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon. Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed ; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an* wad confute it. An' ca'd it wrang ; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn 'd upo* the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight. An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; The herds and hissels were alarin'd ; The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an* storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were infonn'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aitji» to clours an* nicks j An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands. An' auld-Ught caddies bure sic hands. That faith, the youngsters took the sands, Wi' nimble shanks. Till lairds forbade, by strict commands. Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe. Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'U find ane plac'd ; • See Note, p. 14. An' some, their new-light fair avow. Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the aidd-Ught flocks are bleatin' ; Their zealous herds are Vfx'd an' sweatin' ; Mysel, I've even seen them grcetin' Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-lic/lit herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak* a flight. An' stay a month amang the moons An' sec them right. Guid observation they will gie them ; An* when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them. Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a ' moonsliine matter;' But tho' ddll prose- folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. Your dreams * an' tricka Will send you, Korah-like, a-siiikin', Straight to auld Nick's. Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou ; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro*. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha afteri wear it. The lads in black I But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye' re skaithing, It's just the hlne-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething "To ken them by, * A certain humorous dream of his was then nutk ing a noise in the country-«ide. «8 Frae ony unrpgenerate heathen Like you or I. BURNS WORKS. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'il for an' mair ; Sae, when you hue an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' caunie caie. And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd niysel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen and sair'd the king At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen. And, as the twilight was begun. Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport. Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; But, deil-ma care I SomeboSy tells the pnacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. That sic a hen had got a shot ; I was suspected for the plot ; I scorn'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail. An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear ! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin' time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. For my gowd guinea : Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. But twa-three draps about the wame. Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair. But pennyworths again is fair. When time's expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. • A long he had promised the Author. WRITTEN IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE. ON NITH-SIDE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance. Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-piuion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song. Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose: As life itself becomes disease. Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, There ruminate with sober thought. On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrougbt ; And teach the sportive younker's round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate. Is not. Art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? Tell them, and press it on their mind. As thou thyself must shortly find. The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is glv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. Night, where dawn shall never break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore. To light and joy unknown before. POEMS. 49 fitranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. ODE, SACRED TO THE BIEMORY OF MRS. OF DwELLEii in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation ! mark Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ! STROPHE. View the withered beldam's face—- Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose See those hands, ne'er stretch 'd to save, Hands that took — but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell -ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail. Omnipotent as he is here ? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous hier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM AL- MIGHTY GOD ! But now his radiant course Is run. For Matthew's eouric was bright t His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heax-'nly light I O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; The meikle devil wi a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn. The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers f Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. My wailing numbers; Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din, Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' fiow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed. I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. Come join ray wail. Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; He's gane for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o* da)r» 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore. Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow r, Sets up her horo, 50 BURNS' WORKS Wail thro* tlie dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn ! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains > But tales of woe ; An' frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead ! Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost ! Mourn him, thou sun, great"source of light ! Mourn, empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a* the tinsel trash o' state ! But by the honest turf I'll wait. Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief; And truth 1 shall relate, man : I tell nae common tale o' grief, For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; A look of pity hither cast, For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodp^er art. That passest by this grave, man ; There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways.^ Canst tlurow uncommon light, man , Here lies wha weel had won thy praise. For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca', Wad life itself resign, man ; Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man ; This was a kinsman o' thy ain. For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man , This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin sot. To blame poor Matthew dare, man May dool and sorrow be his lot. For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every ^blooming tree. And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea: Now Phcebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. No^v lav'rocks wake the merry morn. Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild wi' many a note. Sings drowsy day to rest : In liive and freedom they rejoice, Wi' caie nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank. The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn'ji budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland, May rove their sweets amang; I But 1, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been ; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, As blithe lay down at e'en : And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign bands. And never ending care. POEMS. But as for thee, thciu false woman, My sister and my fae. Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae : The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That near wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me ! O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs tliat deck the spring. Bloom on my peaceful grave. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRA. Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg. About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and de|)iesf, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; Will generous Graham list to his poet's v/ail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale). And hear him curse the light he first survey "d, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? Thou, Nature, partial Natiire, I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found. One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : rhou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minio[is, kings defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; ' The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, [snug. The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! A thing unteachable in world's skill. And half an idiot too, more hel()less still. No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And thiise, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : No nerves olfactory. Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th' unbroken blast from every side : Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ; Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless, wanton malice wning, By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must weai' ; Fiiil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife. The hapless poet flounders on through life, Till flL'd each hope that once his bosom fired. And fled eich nmse that glorious once inspired. Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injured page. He heeils or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage ! So, I)y some hedge, the generous steed de- ceased, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve, Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. Arid thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disa])pointment snaps the clue of hope. And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's care.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not 80 the idle muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted helL 1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencnirn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears) : O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prav'r ? Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 52 BURNS' WORKS. Thro* a long life liis hopes and wishes crown, And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, Id loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; His locks were bleached white wi' time, His hoary cheek was wet wi* tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp. And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The relics of the vernal quire ! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year ! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht i;i all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast. And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. ♦ " I've seen sac mony changefu* years. On earth I am a stranger grown ; 1 wander in the ways of men, ^ Alike unknowing and unknown : Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust. Lie a' that would my sorrows shara " And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' BIy noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amang our barons bold. His country's pride, his country's stay : Id weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead. And hope has left my aged ken. On forward wing for ever fled. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! The voice of woe and wild despair ! Awake, resound thy latest lay, Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fiUest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom " In poverty's low barren vale. Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air. The friendless bard and rustic song. Became alike thy fostering ca-re. " O ! why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen grey with time ! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! Wliy did I live to see that day ? A day to me so full of woe ! O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! " The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And.a' that thou hast done for me !" LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. OF WHITEFORU, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. Who, save tliy mind's npronch, nought earthly fea r'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, " The te.irlul tribute of a brr)keu heart." The friend thou valiied'st, I the patron lov'd ; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone. And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. TAM O: SHANTER: A TALE. Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is tliis Buke. Gawin DougUu, When chapman billies leave the street. And drouthy neebors, neebors meet. POEMS. 53 As mavket-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' foil and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. That lie between us and our hanie, Wliare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses). O 7am / had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, 9 Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon. Thou would be found deep diown'd in Doon , Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gais me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices. The husband frae the \vife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night. Tarn had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, souter Jolmny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Turn, lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was reaijy chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle, Tqm did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself ainang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi* lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, Vou seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. — Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tain maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in. As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meff-^ A better neVer lifted leg — Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, • Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; , Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles gtow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; hirk-Atloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry- By this time he was cross the ford, Whaie in the snuw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fund the muider'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Munyn's mither hanged hersel.— Before him Doin pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; Wlien, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-AUoway seem'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing-— Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! j Wi' tippenny, 'we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddIe» Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. Hut Maygie stood right sair astonish'd, rill, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reela^ Put life aiul mettle in their heels. A winnock-buiiker in the cast, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge : He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and raJters a' did dirl. — 64. BURNS' WORKS. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd ttie dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauid hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bau'us : A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; Five scymitars wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu*. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun gi-ew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleeklt. Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles ! For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the coi-e, ( Lang after kenn'd on Currick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perlsh'd mony a bonnie boat. And shook baith meikli; corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear). Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley ham, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. — Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are fiir beyond her pow'r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she Was and Strang) And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd. And thought his very een eniich'd : Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main . Till first ae caper, syne anither,, Tarn tint bis reason a' thegither, And roars out. " Wee! done, Cutty-sark ! * And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Mapgie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes. When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd. When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screech and ho)low. Ah, Tarn! Ah, Tarn! thou'U get thy fair jr In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane * of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane slie could make, The fient a tale she had to shake ' For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie^s mettle— Ae spi'ing brought alf her master bale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. Ilk man and mother's son take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tarn o' Shunter's mare. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains : • It is a well known fact, that witches. Or any evii spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight auy far. tner than the mictcHe of the next runninn stream. — U may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is muc* more hazard in turning back. POEMS. 55 No more the tliickening brakes and verdant plains, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 5eek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er^thy head , The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAxM, ROX- BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green. Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between : While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade : While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head. And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty feed : While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : So long, sweet Poet of the year. Shall blonm that wreath thou well hast won ; While Scotia, with exulting tear. Proclaims that Thomson was her son. EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter John in death does sleep; To hell, if he's gaoe thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. He'll baud it weel thegither. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's biines : O Death, its my opinion. Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch Into thy dark dominion ! ON WEE JOHNNY. Hicjacet wee Johnny. Whoe'er, thou art, O reader, know. That death has niurder'd Johnny ! An' here his bodi/ lies fu' low — For saul, he ne'er had ony. FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; " For eV'n his failings leaned to virtue's side."* FOR R. A. Esq. Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honovir'd name , (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. FOR G. H. Esq. The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd : But with xuch as lie, wheie'er he be, JMay I be saved or d d I A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for ru!e, Owie blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Wlio, noteless, steals the crowds among, • Goldsmith. 56 BURNS' WORKS. That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose jurlgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer,- Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, throu<;h the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhahitant below. Was quick to learn and wise to know. And keenly felt the friendly glow, ^iid softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low. And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit ; • Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, Is wisdom's root. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COL- LECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae IMaidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it : A chleld's amang you, taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' jtature short, hut genius bright. That's he, mark weel — And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its liggin, It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' dells, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' At some black art. — Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor. And you deep -read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches ; Ye'll qudve at his conjuiing hammer, Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred. And ane wad i athtr fa'n than fled ; • Vide his Antici Jities of Scotland. But now he's quat the spurtle blade, And dog-skin wallet. And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* . Wad had the Lothians tluee in tackets, A towmont guid : And parritch pats, and auld saut-backets. Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguisheil the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Foibye, he'll shape you aflT, fu* gleg, The cut of Adam's philil)eg ; The knife that nicket Abel's craig, He'll prove you fully. It was a faulding jocteleg. Or lang-kail gullie.— But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he. Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him ; And ;>ort, O port ! Shine thou a wee. And then ye'll see him ! Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Giose ! — Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VFRV YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A KOOK, PRESENTED lO HEB, BT THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely ilow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; Never Boreas' hoary path. Never Eiirus' pois'nous breath, Never baleful stellar lights. Taint thee with untimely blights ! Never, never reptde thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew • May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. Richly deck thy native stem ; % • Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and 'Wea>)uiia. POEMS. 67 Till some ev'ning sober, calm, Dropping dews, and 'oruathing balm, While all aiound the wooilland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the dirgefiil sound. Shed thy dying honours round. And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. BKOTHEK. TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms : Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow ; But, cold successive noontide blasts Way lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was form'd. And so that heart was rung. Dread Omnipotence, alone. Can heal the wound he gave ; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering bhist ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR-WATER.* TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. My Lord, I knov/ your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain. How saucy Phcebus' scorching beams, lu flaming summer-pride. • Bruar Falls, m Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their eflect ismuch impaired by the want of trees and slirubs. Dr\'-withciing, waste my foaming streams, And drink my crystal tide. The llghtly-jumpin glowrin trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, Tliey near the margin stray ; If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, I'm searching up so shallow, They're left the wliitening stanes amang. In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, As poet B came by. That, to a bard I should be seen, Wi' half my channel dry : A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor'd i^ie : But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wdd-roaring o'er a linn : Enjoying large each spring and well As nature gave them me, I am, although I say't mysel, Worth gaim a mile to see. Would then my noble master please ' To grant my highest wishes. He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes ; Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen uiony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintv/hite clear. The mavis wild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm ; And coward maukin sleep secure. Low in her grassy form. Here shall the shepherd make his seat. To weave his crown of flowers ; Or find a shett'iing safe retreat. From prune descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair. Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. 2 58 BURNS' WORKS. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. Some miisiug bard may stray, And eye the smokiiis^, dewy lawn, And misty mountain, jjrey ; Or, bv the reaper's nightly beam, IMild chequering through the trees. Rave to my darkly dasliiug stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, IMy lowly banks o'crspread. And view, deep-bending in the pool. Their shadows' watery bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embovv'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band. Spring, like their fithers, up to prop Their honour'd native land ! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken. To social-flowing glasses, The grace be — " Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses !" ON SCARING SOME WATER- FOWL, IN LOCH-TUniT ; A WILD SCENE AJIONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your watery haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-rreatutes, why At my presence thus you fly ? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindled ties ? — Common friend to you and me. Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or, beneath the sheltering rock. Bide the surging biliosv's shock. Conscious, blushing for our race. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe. Would be lord of all below ; Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells. Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n. Glorious in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains. Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays ; Far from human haunts and ways ; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful .lies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,' And bun.per his horn with him twenty ^mes o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- tend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day ; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. • The dinner being over, the claret they p'y, And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred si set. And the bands gre.w the tighter the more they were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Fhoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn. Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the nii;ht. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-rulinr Kder to wallow in wine I He left the f^ul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- tend ? Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — - " Craigdarroch, thou'It soar when creation shall sink ; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- lime ! " Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; The field thou hast won, bv yon bright god of day !" SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET, f AtlLD NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak so fair : , For my puir, silly, rhymm' clatter. Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle j Lang may your elhuck jink and diddle. To cheer you through the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; I'm taultl the Muse ye hae negleckit ; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke ; Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit. Be hain't wha like. • See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub lished at Kilmarnock, 1 : 89, and lias not before appear ed in our author's printed poems. POEMS. 61 For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't \vi' drink, Wi' jads or masons ; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Conmien' me to the bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : But just the pouchie put the nievo in, An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin'. An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. My chief, amaist my only pleasure, At hame, a-fiel', at waik or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie ! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The war!' may play you mony a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae poor, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door tae door. ON MY EARLY DAYS. I. I MIND it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, An' tiist could thresh the barn. Or haud a yokiu o' the pleugh. An' tho' forloughten sair eneugh. Yet unco proud to learn — Wh;n first auiang the yellow corn A man I retkon'd was. And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass — Still slie.iiiiig, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa. II. E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast. That I for ])oor auld Scotland's sake. Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-ciips aside. An' spared the symbol dear : No nation, no station. My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. III. But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' rang, Wild floated in my brain : 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner m the merry core, Slie tous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sonsie quean. That lighted up her jingle. Her witching smile, her pauky e'en That gart my heart-strings tingle : I filed, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I feared aye to speak.* ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air. And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ; j- Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd well,^ Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky. The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eve. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form. In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Cirfedonia's trophied shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. The lightning of her eye in tears injbued. • The reader will find some explanation of thi« poem in p. viii. t The King's Park at Holyrood-house. i St Anthony's Well. { SL Auiiionv's Chapel. 62 BURNS* WORKS. Reversed that spear, re^oubtiible in war, Rettlined that banner, erst in fieliis iinfurl'd, That like a (Icatht'iil meteor gleam'd afar, And braved the mighty mouarchs of the world. — " I\Iv pitriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted anr^s she cried ; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! . | " A weeping country joins a widow's tear, Tbe helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts around their patron's bier. And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. " I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid the guardian low. — " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! No ; every 3Iuse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear bis growing fame. " And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to mal\e his virtues last. That distant years "may boast of other Blairs" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.* Once Tondly lov'd, and still remember 'd dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty aow allows. — And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, Wlio distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. THE JOLLY BEGGARS; A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. When lyart loaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird.f Bedim cauld Bore;Ls' blast ; The girl mentioneit in the letter (o Dr. Moore. t The old Scotcli name lor tlic 3at. When hailstanes diive wi' bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies, la Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing. They ranted and they sang ; Wr jumping and thumpiug, The very girdle rang. First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order ; His doxy lay within his a.rm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- She blinket on her sodger : An' aye he gies the tousie disib The tither skelpiu' kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Ilk smack did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIR. Tunc — " Soldier's Joy. I. I AM a son of Mars who have been in man^ wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, aud that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. n. My 'prenticeshlp I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. III. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, rd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV. And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum POEMS. 63 Pm u tappy with my wallet> my iottle and my callet, As when I us'd ia scarlet to follow a drum. Lai de daudle, &c. Wliat tho' with hoaiy lucks, I must stand the Winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans backward leuH> And seek the benraost bore ; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar, AIR. Tune—" Soldier Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. And still my delight is in proper young men ; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &c. n. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 1 ransported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IIL But the godly old chaplain left him in the A)rch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the bodi/, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no uuire but a sndn;er laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. V. Bur the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, I'll! 1 met mv old boy all Cuiminghaui fair ; His raff regimental they fintter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. VL And now I have liv'd — I know not how long. And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady. Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de kl, &c. RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wlia kent sae weel to cleek the sterling Fur monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Hishlandman. Tune — " O an' ye were dead, Gudeman." L A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman I Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman! There's not a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. n. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan. My galla"!; braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. HL We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman, Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my John Highlandman. 1 Sing, hey, &c. V. But, uh ! they catch'd him at the last. Anil buiiiid lilm in a dungeon fast ; Gi, BURNS' WORKS. My curse upon them eveiy one. They've hang'd my I.imw Joliti Iliglandiuan. Sing, hey, &c. VI. Anfl now a widow, T must mourn The pleasures that will ueVr return ; No comlort hut a hearty can. When I think on John Highlandmau. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappin hnib and gausy middle He reach'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie I'ke a riddle. An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key. The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. Tune—" Whi^tl.' owre the lave o't." I. Let me i-yke up to dight that tear, An' go wi me to be iiiy dear. An' then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. I am a fiddler to my trade. An' a' the tunes that e'er I pky'd. The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was whistle owre the lave o't. II. At kirns and wehand, in the plough. LMPROMPTU, S BlaTH-DAT, 4th November, 1793. Old Winter with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; " What have I done of all the year. To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; To counterbalance all this evil ; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich me. Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me :" " 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory. ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh wert thou in the cauld blast. On yonder lea, on yonder lea. My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. Thy bield should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L- OF DUMFRIES J WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HBBa Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth, and sputless fame, And wakeful caution, still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward , So prays thy faitlifiil friend, the bard. 74. BURNS' WORKS. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE SoTH JANUARY, 1793 THE BiaXH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough. Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See ageil Winter 'mid his surly reign. At thy ijlythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear. Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away ! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S Ej ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM- PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th DECEMBER, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not. And cookery the first in the nation ; Who is pioof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it. That one pound one, I sairly want it ; If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, It would be kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted I'd heart in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning , The hail design. POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket And by fell death was nearly nicket : Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. And sair me sheuk ; But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket. And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't. And by that life I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't A tentier way : Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. For ance and aye. TO MR. S— E. WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O HAD the malt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; *Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. Jeeusalem Tavern, Dumfries. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MJ^TCHtLL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. Frie-nd of the poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle deil, Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpiu' ! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Wine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE FETSTERt DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassu*, Surrounded thus by bolus pill. And potion glasses. O what a canty world were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, As they deserve ; (And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would staiTe") ? POEMS. 75 f" Dame life, tho* fiction out may trick her. And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still. Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire ; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair. First showing us the tempting ware. Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, To put us daft ; Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare O hell's damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie f in he gangs. And like a sheep-head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murdering wrestle, As dangling in 'the wind he hangs A gibbet's tassel But lest you think I am uncivil. To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen ; The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen ! amen ! ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. My curse upon your venom'd stang. That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance ; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes. Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. Aye mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; I thiow the wee stools o'er the meikle. As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup ; While raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O' a' the num'rous human dools, III har'sts, daft bargains, cutti/ stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see ! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be, priests pa' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw. Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel. That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel A towmond's Tooth- Acli& TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esu OF FINTKY, ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. And all the tribute of my heart returns. For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer as the giver you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; If aught that giver fiom my mind efface; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; Then roll to me, along your wandering sphere% Only to number out a villain's years ! EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. An honest man here lies at rest, As e'er God with his image blest. The friend of man, the friend of truth ; The friend of age, and guide of youth : Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. Few heads with knowledge so intorm'd : If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; If there is none, he made the best of this. A GRACE BEFORE DINNER O Thou, who kindly dost provide For ev'ry creature's want ! We bless thee, God of nature wide. For all thy goodness lent ; 76 BURNS' WORKS. And if it please tliee. heavenly guide, May never worse be sent ; But whether granted, or denied, Lord bless us with content ! Amen ! rO MY DEAR ANI) MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, ON SENSIBILITT. Sensibilitt how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; But distress, with horrors arming. Thou hast also known too well ! Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray ; Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the foresi^ Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless biia ! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow : Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe. A VERSE, COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THS MASTSR OF THE HOUSE, OK TAKING LEAVE AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HK HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; A time that surely shall come ; In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome. ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, From the Reliques, Published in 180S, BY MR. CROMEK. ^The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that selection became a duty, and h. put aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour to the Poet's memory : But besides these there were other pieces extant, which did not come under the Doctor's notice : All of them, both of the rejected and discovered description, have since been collected and published by Mr. Cromek, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additional pieces of poetry so collected and published by Cromek, are-given here. The additional songs and correspondence, taken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot* tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.] ELEGY ON MR. "WILLIAM CREECH, bookseller, EDINBURGH. I. AuLD chuckle Reekie's * sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she loe's best, Willie's awa ! • Edinburgh. IL O Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco' slight ; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. And trig an' braw : But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa ! IIL The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; They durst nae mair than he allow 'd. That was a law : We've lost « birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa ! POEMS. 77 IV. Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, Frae colleges and boarding schools, May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw ; He wlia could brush them down to mools Willie's awa ! The breth'ren o' the Commerce-Chaumer * May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a' ; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer Willie's awa ! VI. Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and Poets pour,+ And toothy critics by the score In bloody raw ! The adjutant o' a' the core Willie's awa • VII. Now worthy G y's latin face, T 'r's and G 's modest grace ; M'K e, S 1, such a brace • As Rome ne'er saw ; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa ! VIII. Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw ; Griers gien his heart an unco kickin*, Willie's awa ! IX. Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinin' blellum, And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum Willie's awa ! Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red While tempests blaw ; But every joy and pleasure's fled Willie's awa ! XL May I be slander's common speech ; A text for infamy to preach ; • The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh of which Mr. C. was Secretary t Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw ; When I forget thee I Wii.lik Creech, Tho' far awa ' XII. May never wicked fortune touzle him ! May never wicked men bamboozle him ' Until a pow as auld's Methusalem ! He canty claw ! Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem Fleet wing awa ! ELEGY PEG NICHOLSON.* Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. As ever trode ou airn ; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the Mouth o' Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick and thin ; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And ance she bore a priest ; But now she's floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And the priest he rode her sair : And much oppressed and bruised she was i —As priest-rid cattle are, &c. Sec. ODE TO LIBERTY. (Imperfect). [In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, the poet says :— The snti. ject is itBFHTY : You know, my honoured frcnd how dear the theme is to me. I design it an iriegu lar Oile for General Washington's birth-riay. Aiier 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 ! Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies ! • Margaret Nicholson, the maniac, whose visitations very much alarmeintan, gra^e-proud faces. Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces. Their raxan conscience, Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gann, \ niiska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honor in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him. See him, || the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleeu By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums ? • Jocte/eg — a knife. t BrouisUr u;iUM— Alehouse wives. • Cowpet — Tumbled over. t OiiJraraj^e— Running in a confused, disorderly manner, like boys when leaving school. I (iaviii Hamilton, Ksq. II 'ilie poet has iiUrodiu'cil the two first lines of this slanza into the dedication of liis works to Mr. Haniil ton. 80 BURNS' WORKS. O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals tlieir deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud Their jiigglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I ev'u the thing I cou'd be. But twenty timis, I rather wou'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man niay like a lass, But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth ; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. For what ? to gie their malace skouth On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, To ruin streight. All hail, religion ! maid divine ! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee ; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes : In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs. In spite o* dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But hellish spirit. O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, Within thv presbytcrial bound A candid iib'ral band is found Of public teachers. As men, as Christians too renown'd An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honor) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. An' winning-manner. Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, An* if impertinent I've been. Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Wbase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. mauchi.ine. ^ (recommending a boy). MosgaviUe, May 3, 1786. I HOLD it, Sir, my boundcn duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An' wad hae don't aff han* : But lest he learn the callan tricks, As faith 1 muckle doubt him, Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them ; As lieve then I'd have then. Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, The boy might learn to swear ; But then wi' t/ou, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear. Ye'U catechise him every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk — Ay when ye gang yoursel. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this comin Friday, Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, The orders wi' your lady. My word of honour I hae gien. In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, To meet the WarlcCs worm 3 To try to get the twa to gree. An' name the airles f an' the fee, In legal mode an' form : I ken he weel a Snick can draw. When simple bodies let him ; An' if a Devil be at a'. In faith he's sure to get him, To jjhrase you an' praise you. Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful Minstrel Burns. • Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer in Cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or marltings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their age. — He was an artful triok-contriviiig character; hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In the poet's *' Address to Ihf Deil," he styles that august personage an auld, snick-drawing dog ! t The Airles — Earnest money. TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CllAIGEN-GILLAN, POEiMS. 81 My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your good'- IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MV POETIC CAREER. Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud ; See wha tiiks notice o' the bard ! I lap aud cry'd fu' loud. Now deil-ma care about tlieir jaw, The senseless, gawky million ; I'll cock my nose aboon them a', I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! •J 'Twas noble, Sir , 'twas like yoursel, To grant your high protection : A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, Is ay a blest infection. Tho', by his • banes wha in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me ; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' mony flow'ry simmers ! And bless your bonie lasses baith, I'm tald they're loosome kiramers ! And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry ! And may lie wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country. Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, Aud then all the world, Sir, should know it ! TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, glenriddel, (extempore lines on returing a newspaper), ElUsland, Monday Evening, Your news and review. Sir, I'vtf read through and through. Sir, With little admiring or blaming : The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers. Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; But of meet, or unmeet, in a. fabric complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. TO TERRAUGHTY,* ON HIS BIKTH-DAV. Health to the Maxwells' vet' ran Chief! Health, ay unsoiir'd by care or grief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf, 'This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half worn.^ This day thou metes threescore eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka I'oet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckles view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow. May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour. Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure— But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee. Farweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. And then the Deil he daurna steer ye Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye. For me, shame fa' me. If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they ca md THE VOWELS : A TALE. * Diogenes. 'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd. The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws. And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; • Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfriet This is the J. P. wlio, at the Excise Courts, called for Burns's reiiorts : tl\ey shewed that /ic, while hearted up to the law, could reconcile his duly w.th humaai ty. ' A]tho" an Exuiscinan he had a heart.' 82 BURNS' WORKS. Upon a time, Sir Aliece the g;reat, In all his perlaifogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trerahling vowels to account. — First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. But ah ! deforni'd, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look'd l)ackward on his way, And flagrant fioin the scourge he grunted ai ! • Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face ! That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne' The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound, Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; And next the title following close behind, Uv to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! In rueful apprehensiim enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert. Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast. In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptii'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. A SKETCH. A LITTLE, upright, pert, tirt, tripping wight. And still his precious self his dear delight ; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. A man of fashion too, he made his tour, Learn'd vlve. la bayatelleyet vivc l' amour ; So travell'd monkies their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies* love. Much specious lore but little understood ; Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : His solid sense — by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend. Is it some blast that gathers in the north, Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r' Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn ? Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? Shut out, lone bird, from all the feiither'd train. To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom No friend to ))ity when thou dost com|)lain. Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. Sing on sad mourner ! I will hless thy strain, And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain, While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. Is heauty less, when down the glowing cheeK Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall? Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break? Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? Ah no, sad owl ' nor is thy voice less sweet, That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there; That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat ; That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : Nor that the treble songsters of the day. Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from thee ; Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome. While the gray walls and desert solitudes Return each note, responsive to the gloom Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; There hooting ; I will list more pleas'd to the% Than ever lover to the nightingale ; Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, Lending his ear to some condoling tale. TO THE OWL: BY JOHN M'CREDDIE. Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth. To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? EXTEMPORE, IN THE COURT OF SESSION. Tune — " Gillicrankie." Lord Advocate, Robert DuNDAi. He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. He quoted and hS' hinted. Till in a declamation-mis'-. His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he griped for't, He fand it was awa, man ; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wi' law, man. POEMS. 83 Mr. Henry Erskine. Collected Harry stowl awee, Then open'd out his arm, man ; His lordship sat wi' ruefu' c'e, And ey'd the gatherins^ storm, man: Like wind-driv'n hail it did assiil, Or torrents owre a lin, man ; The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE REV. DR. B 's VERY LOOKS. That there is falsehood in his looks I ranst and will deny : They say their master is a knave — And sure they do not lie. ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. (a parody on robin adair). , You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — How does Datiipiere do ? Aye, and Bournonville too ? Why did they not come alonj^ with you, Du- mourier ? I will fi^ht France with you, Dumourier, — I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — I will fiirht France with yoUi I will tike my chance with you ; By my soul I'll dsnce a dance with you, Dumou- Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; Then let us fight about, 'Till freedom's spark is out, Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumouner • EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. [The Poet paid a visit on horseback to Carlisle: whil he was at table his steed was turned out to graze in an enclosure, but wandered, probably in quest of better pasture, into an adjoining one : it was im. pounded by order of the Mayor — whose term of of- fice expired next day : — The Muse thus delivered herself on the occasionl : Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, The maister drunk — the horse committed ; Puir harmless beast ! take thee nae care, Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair— (mayo^^ TO A FRIEND, WITH A POUND OF SNUFF. O could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send ; Why then the joy of both would be, To share it with a friend. But golden sands ne'er yet have graced The Heliconian stream ; Then take what gold can never buy, An honest Bard's esteem. * It is almost needless to observe that the Mng of Robin AcUiir, begins thus : — You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair; V'ou're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair.— How does Johnny Mackerell do ? Aye, and Luke Gardener too? Why did they not come along with you, Robin Alatures of the two nations. On thi^ occasion the poets took the lead. Wli'ile Henrv Home,* Dr. Wallace, and their learned associates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and studying to 'dear themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamil- ton of Bangour, had made their appearance be- fore the public, and been enrolled on the list of English poets. The writers in prose followed — a numerous and powerful band, and poured their ample stores into the general stream of Bri- • Lord Kaims. tish literature. Scotland possessed her fou." unv versities before the accession of James to the English thrcme. Immediately before the union, she acquired her parochial schools. These es- tablishments combining happily together, made the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, and presented a direct path, by which the ar- dent student might be carried along into the re- cesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider field was opened to literary ambi- tion, and the influence of the Scottish institu- tions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became nioie and more apparent. It seems indeed probable, that the establish- ment of the parochial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less s])lendid in their nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider the haj)piness or the morals of the people. There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of the British isles possessed a peculiar and interesting species of music, which being banished from the plains by the successive invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. The Iri>h, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, but the difference may be consideret have descended from the mountains in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- tish peasantry have been long in possession of a number of songs and ballads composed in their native dialect, and sung to their native music. The subjects of these compositions were such a» most interested the simple inhabitimts, and in the succession of time varied probably as tV.e condlti(m of society varied. During the sepa- ration and the hostility of the two nations, these songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect docu- ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the Iluntis of Cheviot, and the Unttle of Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns, when a certain degree of ])eace and tranquillity took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. " In the want of real -evi- dence respecting the history of our songs," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the holders, who had formerly been warriors from choice, and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted the country, or were transformed into real shep- 86 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. herds, easy in tbeir c.vcumstances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois- fcart, remained sufficient to inspire elevation of sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which had long subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, could not all at once be obliterated, and this connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music would still maintain its ground, though it would naturally assume a form congenial to the more peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the Leijislature (1579), classed with rogues and va- gabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- ment, but contended in vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri butary streams, one or more original geniuses may have arisen who were destined to give a new turn to the taste of their cmuitryinen They would see that the events and pursuits which chequer private life were the proper sub- jects fur popular poetry. Love, wliich liad for- merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am- bition, became now the master-passion of the soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the liive-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus himself would not have been ashamed, might be composed by an uneducated rustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- ed, the truth of character, and the language of nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, must likely to soften the heart of a crUel and coy mistress, or to regain a fickle lover.- Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes the swee'.sst of the Highland iuinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, liowever, genuine descriptions of the manners of an energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though in their portraits some objects are brought into open view, which more fasti- dious painters would have thrown into shade. " As those rural poets sung for amusement, not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like the words of the elder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, but trea- sured up in the memory of their frierids and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronized by the great, these rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names have been forgotten. When proper models for pas- toral songs were produced, there would be no want of imitators. To succeed in this species of composition, soundness of understanding and sensibility of heart were more requisite than flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. Great changes have certainly taken place in Scottish song, writing, though we cannot trace the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces admired in Queen Alary 's time are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, that the music may have remained neatly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled." These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay took place among the Scottish peasantry inune- diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, Wjis deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not till after the revolution in 16S8, and the subsequent establishment of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that period that a great number of the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the peace and security derived from the Revolution, and the Union, produced a favourable change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruction was dif- fused universally among the peasantry, contri- buted to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theociitus. He was born on the high mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengo- nar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the inquiring traveller. He %vas the son of a pea- sant, and probably received such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admitted. Ramsay made his ap- pearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the present century, in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his social disposition, and his talent for the composition of verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of a bookseller, he became intimate with many of the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time. * Having published a • " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hig club of .sffj.i« wits, who, about 17 9. published a very poor misi;ellany. to which Dr. Young, tbe author of ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 87 rolume of poems of his own in 1721, which was favourahly received, he undertook to make a'collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards encouraged to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. " From what sources he procured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, •' whether from tradition or manuscript, is un- certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some rash attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient poems, he probably used still greater freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more ancient than the present century, shall be pro- duced, or access be obtained to his own papers, ■ if they are still in existence. To several tunes which either wanted words, or had words that were improper or imperfect, he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the melodies they ac- companied, worthy indeed of the golden age. These verses were perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay had advantages not possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could never be popXilar, because these dialects have never been spoken by persons of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the English moralists and poets were by this time read by every person of condition, and considered as the standards for polite composition. But, as na- tional prejudices were still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak their native dialect, and that with an elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just notion. I am old enough to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all the members of the Union Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pronunciation and phraseology differed as much from the common dialect, as the language of St. James's from that af Thames Street. Had we retained a court and parliament of our own, the tongues of the two'sister kiiigdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each v/ould have its own classics, not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of literature. " Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them at- tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- sons too idle or too dissipated to think of com- positions that required much exertion, succeeded very liappily in making tender sonnets to fa- vourite tunes in complimcDt to their mistresses, and transforming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language of the characters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote the modern song of Tweedside,* which has been so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, beginning. Mi/ sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook, on the marriage of his mistress, Jliss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And about twelve years afterwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of the F(irest,f and supposed to al- lude to the battle of Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sorrow. The more modern words to the same tune, beginning, I have seen the smilint/ of for- tune heyuiling, were written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present cen- tury, all of whom were very fond of her. I was deliglited with her company, tiiougti when I saw her, she was very old. Mu.-h did she know that is now lost." In addition to these instances of Scottish songs, jjroduced in the earlier part of the pre- sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardiknnte, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the song entitled the £iiks of Invermay, by Mallet ; the love- song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou prove, produced by the youthful muse of Thom- son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- vailed for the national songs and music. " For many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing of songs was the great delight of the higher aud middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the coninuiu people were not only exceed- ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce again>t the SoKthmns, Lord Hailes was wont to call Blnid Harry their Bible, he being their great fiv. unto mxt the Scriptures. When, therefore, ime in 'the v.ile of life felt the first emotion of !_enlu>, lie wanted not models sui generis. Bur thi.ugii the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand among the Si-otti>h peasantry, the pr. duct was probably like that of pears and a|)ples — of a thousand that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or he Night Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses." | Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre to the Editor. * Beginning, What beauties dees Flora disclose ! t Beginning, I have heard a lilting at out ewes milking 88 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH TOETRY. more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Barns are wilditiQs of thh \iist description. They had the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they were not without the aid of the best English writers ; and, what was of still more import- ance, they were no strangers to the book of na^ tare, and to the book of God." From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may be considered a-* in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems under the name of The Ecer-yreen, his collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his countrV) and have in some degree super- seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry, Burns was well acquainted with all of these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have be'en produced in »ur own times, and of which it will be neces- sary to give a short account. Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their power to procure liim a liberal education, a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, implies no very high rank in society. From a well written and apparently authentic account of his life, we learn that he spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time destined for the Scottish church ; but as he advanced towards manhood, he renounced that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office of an attorney. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a waim and generous heart, and ta- lents for society, of the most attractive kind. To such a man no situation could be more dan- gerous than that in which he was placed. The excesses into which he was led, impaired his feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in the month of October, 1774, in his 23d oraith year. Burns was not acquainted with the poems of this youthful genius when he himself began to write poetry ; and when he first s:nv them, he had renounced the nurses. But while he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergiissoii's Scotttsh Poems, he informs us that he " strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- gour." Touched by the syni[iathy originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- milar fortune. Burns regarded Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over lys grave he erected a monument, as has al- ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has m several instances made the subjects of his imitation. From this aa ount of the Scottish poems known to Burns, those who are acquainted with them will see they are chiefly humorous or pathetic ; and under one or other of these -iescrii)tions most of his own poems will cla-s. Let us comoare him with his predecessors un- der each of th ^se points of view, and close got examinatifm with a few general observations. It has frequently been observed, that Scot- land has produced, comparatively speaking, few writers who have excelled in humour. But this observation is true only when applied to those who have continued to reside in their own coun- tiy, and have confined themselves to composi- tion in pure English ; and in these circum- stances it-admits of an easy explanation. The Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable fiir dwelling on subjects of humour, in which indeed some of them have excelled. It would be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland having become jirovincial, is now scarcely suit- ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk iif tlie Grene was written by James the First of Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had received an English education under Henry the Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant successor, gave the model on which the greater part of the humorous productions of the rustic muse of Scotland had been formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat modernized in the orthography, and two cantos were added by him, in which he at- tempts to carry on the design. Hehce the poena of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- tion in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of concord, and the re- newal of the rural sports with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of the poets describes the manners of his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uni- formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- racter in the Scottish peasantry at the two pe- riods, distant from each other three bundled years. It is an honourable distinction to this body of men, that their character and manneis, very little embellished, have been found to be susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- cies of poetry ; and it must appear not a little curious, that the single nation of modern Eu- rope which possesses an original poetry, should have received the model, followed by their rus- tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk nf the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- jectionable in point of delicacy, arc among t^he happiest of his productions. His chief excel- lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any verv high powers either ot imagina- tion or of understanding. He was well ac- quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives and opinions. The subject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject, and he has shown that it may be hap- pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are delineations tVoin nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. style of beautiful simplicity, the passions and affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and the he^jrt is pleasingly interested iu the happi- ness that is bestoweii on innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole there is an air of reality which the most careless reader cannot but per- ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhajjs ac- quired so high a reputation, in which truth re- ceived so little embellishment from the iniagina-, tion. In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but still with considerable attiaction. The story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though some- what licentious, may rank with the happiest productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure English composition, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- crity. Neither are his familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- ing, which was considerable, improve his ge- nius. His poems written in pure English, in which he often follows classical models, though superior to the English poems of Ramsay, sel- dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse As he spent the greater part of his life in Edin- burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a town life, which, though they are not suscepti- ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the rui-al poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so deno- minate them, are however faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a very happy vein of humour. His poems entitled T/ie JJaft Days. The King's Sirth-day in Edinhuryli, Leith Jiaces, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ram- say had done before him. His Address to the Tron-kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appre- ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the careless eifu- sions of an irregular though amiable young man, who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life been prolonged under happier circumstances of for- tune, he would probably have risen to much higher reputation. He might have excelled in rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals on the established Sicilian model, are stale and uninteresting. The Farmer's Ingle,* which * The farmer's fire-side. may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is thfl h;ij)piest of all his proilucticjns, and ccrtainV was the archetj-pe of the Cotter's Saturday Ni(jht. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have shown, that the character and manners of the peasantry of Scotland, of the present times, are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of Christin Kirk of the Grene, The humbur of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself infoims us, he had "frequently in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile imitation." His descrip- tive |)owers, whether the objects on which they ire employed be comic or serious, animate, or inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- riority of this kind is essential to every species of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; and this he chooses to execute in the form of a dia- logue between two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the pers(ms and cha- racters of the speakei-s. The first, whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog of condition : — " His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Showed him the gentleman and scholar." High-bred though he is, he is however full of condescension : " At kiik or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sue duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, » An' stroant on stanes an' hillocks wi' him." The other, Luath, is a " plougman's- collie," but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- standing. " His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; His bieast was white, his towsie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." Never were tii^a dogs so exquisitely delineat- ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to moralize, are desciibed with an equal degree of happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the different condition of the two speakers, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates t\\e comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- count of their merriment on the first day of the year : " That merry day the year begins, They bar the doot on frosty winds. 90 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. The K ippy I'^'eks \v\' imuitling ream, And ilieils a lieart-iiispirin' steam ; The I.mtin pipe, and sni'e>hin' mill, Are haiide s nearer and nearer; he leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama- tion :— *• O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom, The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and his ewes;" Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is pointed out, and the picture is completed. * That the dramatic form of writing characterizes productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a re- ference to the most ancient compositions that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the v/ritings of Homer. The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish ballads, even in narration, whenever the situations de- scribed become interesting. This sometimes produces a very striking effect, of which an instance maybe given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a composi- tion apparently of the sixteenth century- The story of the ballad is shortly this:— The Castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, is attacked by the robber Edom Gordon. The lady stands on her defence, beats off the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are carried uito effect, we learn from the expostulation ot the lady, who is repreiMited as standing on the battle- ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 95 easily find a place in this species of composition. The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs with the music has in some instances given to the former a popularity, which otherwise they would never have obtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs with the more beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same effect. It has given them not merely popularitv, but permanence ; it has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of the works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- rience of the past, we may judge with any con- fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- scription are of all others the least likely to die. In the changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the associated strain of sen- timent and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- row, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- Knowes. The first attempts of Burns in song-writing were not very successful. His habitual inatten- tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- mony of numbers, arising piobably from the models on which his versification was formed, were faults likely to appear to rpore advantage ill this species of composition, than in any other ; and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and the exuberance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted by nature for following in such compo- sitions the model of the Grecian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice he how- ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; and some of his later compositions of this kind may be compared, in poiisbed delicacy, with the finest songs in our language, while in the elo- quence of sensibility they surpass them all. The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of rural liature are every where associated with the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- terrupted^ " O then bespake her little son. Sate on his nourice knee ; Says ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. For tiie reek it smithers me.' " I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, Sae wad la' my fee. For ae blast o' the westlin wind. To blaw the re«k frae thee." riie circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, nnd the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, probably arises from their being the descendants and successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful modern song of Slary of CastleCary, the dramatic form has a very happy efrect. The same may be said of Donald and Flora, and Come under my Plaidie, by the same author, Mr. Macniel. daining to copy the works of others, he has not, like some poets 6f great name, admitted into his descriptions exotic imagery. Tlie landscapes he has painted, and the objects with which they are embellished, are, in every single instance, such as are to be found in his own country. In a mountainous region, especially when it is comparatively rude and naked, the most beauti- ful scenery will always be found in the valleys, and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiarly interesting at tlie cluse of a summer day. As we advance northwards, the number of the days of summer, indeed, dimi- nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from the mildness of the temperature, the attraction in- creases, and the summer night bcciimes still more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of twilight to the midnight hours, and the shades of the evening seem to mingle with the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scot- land, as m;i^ be expected, associate in their songs the expression of passion, with the most beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season of the year, and generally in those hours of the evening when the beauties of nature are most interesting. To all these adventitious circumstances, on which so much of the effect of poetry depends, great attention is paid by Burns. There is scarcely a single song of his in which particular scenery is not described, or allusions made tr natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte- rest ; and though his descriptions are not so full as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof of this might be quoted from the Lea Riy, Highland Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan ^yater, from that beautiful pastoral, Ronnie Jean, -and a great number of others. Occasionally the force of his genius carries him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural objects introduced have more of the character of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- ticed by Mr. Syine, and many others might be adduced. " Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar ; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose. Till grief my eyes should close Ne'er to wake more." In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter night, the " wan moon" is described as " setting behind the white waves ;" in another, the " storms" are apostrophized, and command- ed to " rest in the cave of their slunibers." On several occasions, the genius of Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in LiUtrty, a Vision, and in his two 96 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. war-songs, JBruce to his troops, and the S"fiff of Death. These List are of a description of whieh we have no other in our lang.i;ij;e. The martial songs of onr nation are not military, bnt naval. If we were to seek a com|)arieen reared the fairest and the najst durable of tbn monuments of genius. ;*^ -. . / fifi THE SONGS. The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning to be disoontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral communication ; and an obvious consequence of that state of the public taste was, that the Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive a^ many of them are, were not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of his poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur- rency in the polite world generally ; an effect which was greatly assisted by Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the lyrical effusions of the olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon the several songs, are amusing and instructive ; and where there were blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this, qnd at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement) and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with the remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second part is formed of his own songs, and which are now brought together, m place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto- fore — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scottish Songs, such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and inno- cent amusement in every country. LefC 100 SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. [The poet thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — • I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he* was, was long blind ere he died ; (luring 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 nf Man.' The song, as here given, was taken down from the recitation of the poet's mother, who had never seen a printed copy of it, — and had learned it from her mother in early youth.] THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN : OK, A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE AKD FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE MONTHS OF THE YSAR. Tunc—" Isle of Kell." Upon the sixteen hunder year, of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was horn, that bought us dear, as writings teetifie ; On Januaiy the sixteenth day, as I did ly alone. With many a sigh and sob did say, Ah ! Man is made to moan. Dame Natur, that excellent bride, did stand up me before, And said to me, thou must provide this life for to abhor : Thou seest what things are gone before, experience teaches thee ; Yet do not miss to remember this, that one day thou must die. Of all the creatures bearing life recall back to thy mind. Consider how they ebb and flow, each thing in their own kind ; Yet few of tiiem have such a strain, as God hath given to thee ; Therefore this lesson keep in mind,— lemember man to die. Man's course on earth I will report* if I have time and space ; It may be long, it may be short, as God hath giv'n him grace. His natur to the herbs compare, that in the ground ly dead ; And to each month add five year, and so we will procede. The first five years then of man's life compare to Januar ; In all that time but start and strife, he can but greet and roar. So is the fields of flowers all bare, by reason of the frost ; Kept in the ground both safe and s^^adi not one of them is lost. So to years ten I shaU speak then of Februar but lack ; The child is meek and weak of spir't, nothing can undertake : So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, no springing up can make, Yet birds do sing and praise their king, and each one choose their mate. Then in comes March, that noble arch, with wholesome spring and air. The child doth spring to years fifteen, with visage fine and fair ; So do the flow'rs with softening show'** ay spring up as we see ; Yet nevertheless remember this, that one day we must die. Then brave April doth sweetly smL^ the flow'rs do fair appear. The child is then become a man, to the age of twenty year ; If he be kind and well inclin'd, and brought up at the school. Then men may know if he foreshow a wise man or a fool. Then cometh May, gallant and gay, when frao'ant flow'rs do thrive. SONGS. 101 The child Is then become a man, of age twenty and five : And for his life doth seek a wife, his life and yeais to spend ; Christ from above send peace and love, and grace unto the end ! Then cometh June with pleasant tune> when fields with flow'rs are clad, And Phoebus bright is at his height, all creatures then are glad : Then he appears of thretty years, with courage bold and stout ; His nature so makes him to go, of death he hath no doubt. Then July comes with his hot climes, and constant in his kind, The man doth thrive to thirty-five, and sober grows in mind ; His children small do on him call, and breed hira sturt and strife ; Then August old, botli stout and bold, when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; So man appears to forty years, with wisdom and command ; And doth provide his house to guide, children and familie ; Yet do not miss t' remember this, that one day thou must die. September then comes with his train, and makes the flow'rs to fade ; Then man belyve is forty-five, grave, constant, wise, and staid. When he looks on, how youth is gone,' and shall it no more see ; Then may he say, both night and day, have mercy, Lord, on me ! October's blast comes in with boast, and makes the flow'rs to fall ; Then man appears to fifty years, old age doth on him call : The almond tree doth flourish hie, and pale grows man we see ; Then it is time to use this line, remember, man, to die. November air maketh fields bare of flow'rs, of gra«o, and corn ; Then man arrives to fifty-five, and sick both e'en and morn : Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, makes him to sigh and say. Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, and learn me for to die ! December fell balth sharp and snell, makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, ao soundness in him found. His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane, all these now do him fail ; Then may he say, both night and day, that death shall him assail. And if there be, thro' natur stout, some that live ten years more ; Or if he creepeth up and down, ■till he comes to fourscore ; Yet all this time is but a line, no pleasure can he see : Then may he say, both night and day, have mercy. Lord, on me ! Thus have I shown you as I can, the course of all mens' life ; We will return where we began, but either sturt or strife : Dame Memorie doth take her leave, she'll last no more, we see ; God grant that I may not you grieve, Ye'll get nae raair of me. BESS THE GAWKIE. This song shews that the Scottish Muses did not all leave us when we lost Ranis.iy and Os- wald,* as I have good reason to believe that the versus and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this. — Burns. Blythe young Bess to Jean did say. Will ye gang to yon sunny brae. Where flocks do feed and herds do stray, And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there. Nor about Jamie tak nae care, Nor about Jamie tik nae care, For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! For hark, and I will tell you, lass. Did I not see your Jamie pass, Wi" 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, pleas'd her with this, That Bess was but a gawkle. For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head, and thraws her cheek. • Oswald was a imisic-seller in London, about the year 1750. He published a large collection of Scottish tunes, which he called The Caledonian Puck-et Compa- nion. Mt. Tytler observes, that his genius in compo- sition, joined to his taste in the performance of Scot- tish music, was natural and pathetic. This song has been imputed to a clergyman — Mr. Morehead of Urt ^m Gallowav. i02 BURNS' WORKS. Anc] for ail hour slie'll scarcely speak ; Who'd not call her a g:nvkie ? But sure my IMriggie lias inair sense, She'll gie a score without offence j Now gie me ane unto the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie. O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, But I will never stand for ane, Or twa, when we do meet again ; Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be. Sic thoughts as these are far from me, Or ony that sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie. But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, ' For yonder Jamie does us meet ; Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie. dear bess, I hardly knew. When I came by, your gown sae new, 1 think you've got it wat wi' dew ; Quoth she, that's like a gawkie : It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, And I'll get gowns when it is gane, Sae you may gang the gate you came. And tell it to your dawtie. The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet. If I should gang anither gate, 1 ne'er could meet my dawtie. The lasses 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 I'er the muir to Maggy ' FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. (original song of OH OPEN THE DOOR, LOKD Gregory). It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, R(!nfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Diimfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues- sed to belong to, or be the production of these counties. This, [ conjecture, is one of these very f*^\v ; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called both by tradition and in printed collec- tions, The Lass o' Lnchroyan, which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway. — Burns. Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship, And set her on the sea ; The sails were a' of the damask silk. The masts of silver free. The gladsome waters sung below. And the sweet wind sung above- Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, She comes to seek her love. A gentle wind came with a sweep, And stretched her silken sail, When up there came a reaver rude. With many a shout and hail : touch her not, my mariners a', Such loveliness goes free ; Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, She seeks Lord Gregorie. The moon looked out with all her star% The ship moved merrily on, Until she came to a castle high, That all as diamonds shone : On every tower there stream.ed a light, On the middle tower shone three^ Move for that tower my mariners a', IMy love keeps watch for me. She took her young son in her arms. And on the deck she stood — The wind rose with an angry gust, The sea wave wakened rude. Oh open the door, Lord Gregory, love ; Oh open and let nie in ; The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair. The surge dreeps down my chin. All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love, I have sailed the perilous way, And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts, And he'll be dead ere day. The foam hangs on the topmost cliff. The fires run on the sky, And hear you not your true love's roiob And her sweet baby's cry ? Fair Annie turned her round about. And tears began to flow — May never a baby suck a breast Wi' a heart sae fou of woe. Take down, take down that silver maa^- Set up a mast of tree, It does nae become a forsaken dame To sail sae royal lie. Oh read my dream, my mother, deal I heard a sweet babe greet, And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan Lie cauld dead at my feet. And loud and loud his mother laugnefl— Oh sights mair sure than sleep, 1 saw fair Annie, and heard hei- voice, And her baby wail and weep. O he went down to yon sea side As fast as he could fare, He saw fair Annie and her sweet babe. But the wild wind tossed them sair; And hey Annie, and how Annie, And Annie winna ye bidu ? SONGS 103 But aye the mair be called Atjnie, The broader grew the tide. And hey Annie, and how Annie, Dear Annie speak to mc, But aye the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea. The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, The ship sunk nigh the shore, Fair Annie floated through the foam, But the baby rose no more. O first he kissed her cherry cheek, And then he kissed her chin. And syne he kissed her rosy lips, But there was nae breath within. O my love's love was true as light, As meek and sweet was she — My mother's hate was strong as death. And fiercer than the sea. ROSLIN CASTLE. These beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who was the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- tory of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald ; but in Oswald's own collectioH of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune Burns. 'TwAS in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear. That Colin, with the morning ray. Arose and sung his rural lay. Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; While Roslin Castle heard the swain. And echoed back the cheerful strain. Awake, sweet 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, O ! bid her haste and come away ; In sweetest smiles herself adorn, And add new graces to the morn ! O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray. Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; 'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. And love inspires the melting song : Then let my raptur'd notes arise, For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; And love my rising bosom warms. And fills my soul with sweet alarms. O ! comj, my love ! thy Colin's lay With rapture calls, O come away ! Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twins Around that modest brow of thine ; O ! hither haste, and with thee bring That beauty blooming like the spring ; Those graces that divinely shine. And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO' SHE. This scng for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old. — Burns. Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she. Saw ye Johnnie cummin, saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ; Saw ye Johnnie cummin, Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie runnin, quo' she ; And his doggie runnin ? Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she; Fee him, father, fee him : For he is a gallant lad. And a weel doin' ; And a' the wark about the house Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' 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. 1 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 ; Wee! do I lo'e him : O fee him, father, fee him, quo* she ; Fee him, father, fee him ; He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i' the bsnii And lie wi' me at e'en, quo* she ; Lie wi' me at e'en. CLOUT THE CALDRON. A TRADITION is mentioned in the Hee, that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, no- thing would soothe his mind so much by th» way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played. 104 BURNS' WORKS. T have met will another tradition, that the old song to this tiino, Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or ouie broken chanlers, was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the Cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hidini?, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of The Blacksmith and his Apron, which from the rythym, seeins to have been a line of some old song to the tune. — Burns. Have y'ou any pots or pans, Or any broken chandlers ? I am a tinkler to my trade, And newly come frae Flanders, As scant of siller as of grace. Disbanded, we've a bad run ; Gar tell the lady of the place, I'm come to clout her caldron. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Madam, if you have wark for me, I'll do't to your contentment. And dinna care a single flie For any man's resentment ; For, lady fair, though I appear To ev'ry ane a tinkler, Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, I am a gentle jinker. Pa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Love Jupiter into a swan Turn'd for his lovely Leda ; He like a bull o'er meadows ran, To carry atf Europa. Then may not I, as well as he. To cheat your Argos blinker. And win your love, like mighty Jove, Thus hide me in a tinkler ? Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Sir, ye appear a cunning man. But this fine plot you'll fail in. For there is neither pot nor pan Of mine you'll drive a nail in. Then bind your l]udget on your back, And nails up in your apron, For I've a tinkler under tack That's us'd to clout my caldron. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? This charming song is much older, and in- deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading. — Burns. Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae ray 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. O ! how Peggy charms me ; Every look still warms me ; Every thought alarms me, Lest she love nae me. Peggy doth discover Nought but charms all over ; Nature bids me love her, That's a law to me. 'Who would leave a lover, ' To become a rover ? No, I'll ne'er give over, ^ 'Till I happy be. For 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. Fate seems to detain her, Cou'd I but obtain her, Happy wou'd I be ! I'll ly down before her, Bless, sigh, and adore her. With faint looks implore her, 'Till she pity me. The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye ray Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Linkin o'er the lea? High kilted was she. High kilted was she, High kilted was she. Her coat aboun her knee. What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken hci ve 9 (fcy) Though it by no means follows that the sil- liest 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 versea. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evi- dently his own, are never to be met with in the SONGS. 105 fire-side circle of our peasantry ; white that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. Ramsatj, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collectioa.^BuRNS. FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI* STRAE. It is self-evident that tlie first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to ;hem. As music is the language of nature ; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or ttiore localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, ihis is the reason why so many of our Scots airs aave outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name, »r phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. To this day among people who know nothing •if Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, jnd all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. Gin ye mee<: a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kss and let her gae ; But giu ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gar lub her o'er wi' strae. Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : An' gin )'e meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap, Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 0 Let neist day come as it thinks fit. The present minute's only ours ; On pleasure let's employ our svit, And laugh at fortune's fickle powen. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young. Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a biythe and heartsome time ; Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, Gae pou 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 kepp ony skaith. " Haith, ye' re ill-bred," she'll smiling say j " Ye'U worry me, ye greedy rook j" Syne frae your arms she'll rin away. And hide hersell in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the hap|)iness you want, And plainly tells you to your face, Nineteen nay-says are hafif a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling. And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whop a ring. As taiken of a future bless. These bennisons, I'm very sure, , Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant. THE LASS 0' LIVISTON. The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and hu- mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion. It begins, The bonnie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken. And she has written in her contract. To lie her lane, to lie her lane. &c. &C. L2 i06 BURNS' WORKS. THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MUIR. 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 be quite in the spirit of the air. — Burns. The last time I came o'er the muir, I left my love behind me : Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me. Soon as the ruddy morn display 'd The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid. In fit retreats for wooing. Beneath the cooling shade we Id/, Gazing and chastely sporting ; We kiss'd and promis'd time away. Till night spread her black curtain : I pitied all beneath the skies, Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call'd where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me ; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me ; Yet hopes again to see my love. To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there's not one place To let a rival enter ; Since she excels in ev'ry grace. In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. Their waves the Alps shall cover ; On Greenland's ice shall roses grow. Before I cease to love her. rhe next time I gang o'er the muir, She shall a lover find me ; ind that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind nie. 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. The Weaver and ^'s Shuttle, O, wnit though sung much f|uicker, is every not*, the very tune. When I was in my se'nteen ytar, I was baith blythe and bonny, O the lads li)i)*d me baith far and neaf, B.-; I loo'd nane but Johnny : He gain'd my heart in twa three weekSj He sjjake sae blythe and kindly ; Anil I niadt him new gray breeks, That fitted him most finely. He was a handsome fellow ; His humour was baith frank and frekk His bonny locks sae yellow. Like gowd they glitter'd in my ec ;-- His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks. And face sae fair and ruddy ; And then a-days his gray breeks. Was neither auld nor duddy. But now they're tlireadli.ue worn, They're wider than they wont to be f They're taslieiMike,* and sair torn, And clouted sair on ilka knee. But gin I had a simmer's day, As I have had right mony, I'd make a web n' new gray. To be breeks to my Johnny. For he's weel wordy o' t!iem, And better gin I had to gie. And I'll tak pains upo' them, Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them frte To dead him weel shall be my care, And please him a' my study ; But he maun wear the auld pair Awee, tho' they be duddy. For v/hen the lad was in his prime. Like him there was nae mony ^ He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. For a' the care they've gi'en me yet. And gin we live anither year. We'll keep them hale between us yet. Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee { Here's luck to a' the gray steeks, That show themsells upo' the knee ! And if wi' health I'm spared, A' wee while as I may, I shall liae them prepared, As weel as ony that's o' gray. JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. Though this has certainly every evidence of t>ing a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known inc and song in the Noith cf Ireland, called, Stained. SONGS. 107 MAT EVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. Kate of Aberdeen, is, I helievp, the work of poor Cunningham the pluyer ; of whom the ful- lowiiig anecdote, thoui^h told before, deseives a reiitul. A fat dignitary of the chuirh coming past Cunningham one Siinduy us the poor poet was bu>y plying a fi-hing-nid m some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, 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 !" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true. — Burns. iher 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, ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen ! Upon the grefeii Ae virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promis'd May. Methinks I hear the maids declare The promis'd May, when seen. Not half .so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen ! n Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove ; The nested birds shall raise their throats. And hail the maid I love : And see — the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green ; Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them, the jocund dance we'll 'ead. Or tune the reed to love : For see the ro«y May draws nigh. She claims a virgin queen ; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, " 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Rubert- 1 mil. who had it from the la^t John, Eiirl of Loudon. — The then Earl of Louiiun, father to Earl John, before mentiiined, had R.imsay at Loudon, and one d ly walking together by the baaks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place yet called Patic's Mill, they were stiuck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed, that she would be a fine theme f rr a song. — Allan lagged behind in re- turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produo ed this identical song. — Burns. The lass of Patie s mill, So bonny, blythe, and gay. In spite of all my skill. She stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay, Bare-headed on the green. Love 'midst her locks did play. And wanton'd in her een. Her arms white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn. To age it would give youth. To press 'em with his hand : Thro' all my spirits rat An ecstasy of bliss, Wlien I such sweetness fancl Wrapt in a balmy kiss. Without the help of art. Like flowers which grace the wild. She did her sweets impart, Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. Her looks they were so mild. Free from affected pride, She me to love beguil'd ; I wish'd her for my bride. O had I all that wealth, Hoi'eton's high mountains Insur'd lang life and health. And pleasure at my will j I'd promise and fulfil, That none but bonny she. The lass of Patie's mill Shou'd share the same wi' me. fill. THE TURNIMSPIKE. There is a stanza of this excellent song foi local humour, omitted in this set, — where I have placed the astensms.)- Hersei.l pe highlanl iheotleman, Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb 1 must use for want of another to exuress mv idea) somewhere in the iu,„ >,„ i i i-.i,„ . ■ . . »u «... ' / ,., • • I • I 1 t Burns had placed the asterisms between the 9th Wortli o* ^'Gotland, and likewise is claimed by and 10th verses. The verse is here restored. • Thirty-three miles south-west of Edinburgh, where the Karl of Hopeton's mines are. 108 BURNS' WOllKS. And mony alterations seen Amang te lawlai;d whig, man. Fal, §-c First wlien her to the lawlands came, Narnsel 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 shouder ; The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. But for whereas these cursed preeks, Wherewith man's nerse be locket, O hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! For a' her houghs be prokit. 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 turn't a Ningland now, An' laws pring on de eager ; Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, But oh ! she fear te sodger. Anither law came after dat. Me never saw de like, man ; They mak a lang road on de crund, And ca' him Turnimspike, man. An' wow ! she pe a ponny road, Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; Where twa carts may gang on her. An' no preak ithers legs, man. They sharge a penny for illva horse" (In troth, they'll no pe sheaper) ; For nought but gaen upo' the crund, And they gie Ece a paper. They tak the horse then py tehead, And tere tey mak her stan, man; Me. tell tetn, me hae seen te day, Tey had na sic comman, man, Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse. And pay tem what him likes, man j rU see a shudgment on his toor ; Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. But I'll awa to the Highland hills. Where te'il a ane dare turn her, / nd no come near your Turnimspike, Unless it pe to purn her. Fal, Sfc. 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 be the oldest, is to be found in the Musical Museum, beginning, I hae been at Crookie-den.- — I HAE been at Crookie-den,* My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Viewing Willie and his men, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie There our faes that burnt and slew. My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; There, at last, they gat their due, • My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. Satan sits in his black neuk, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie : The bluidy monster gae a yell, My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; And loud the laueh gaed round a' hell ! My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in his collection by the name of The auld Highland Laddie. — It is also known by the name of Jiiiglan Jnhnie, which is a well known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of Hiyhland Laddie ; while every body knows Jinglan Johnie. The song begins, Jinglan John, the meickle man, He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. Another Iliyland Laddie is also in the Mii- seum, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " O my bonnie Hiyhland lad, §"c.'' It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in its composition — it is an excellent but somewhat licentious song. — It begins, As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, And down amang the blooming heather, &c. This air, and the common Highland Laddie.^ seem only to be different sets. Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu- seum, vol. V. is the tune of several Jacobite frag ments. — One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as 1 know, in these four lines— Whare hae ye been a' day, Bonnie ladd'ie. Highland laddie ? Down the back o' Bell's brae, Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. • A eant name for Hell SONGS. 109 Ano<:her of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, called, the new Highland Laddie.* THE BLAITHRIE O'T. The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing. 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, or 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. Tho* my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on. We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne ; , 1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock, ' Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't, Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command, We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; Hae we less, hae we 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' th' affairs 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. And how the lass that wants it is by the lads forgot, May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !• Jockie was the laddie that held the pieugh. But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaiden coat ; May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, But now she is clad in her silken attire, And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he't me forgot ; May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! But all this shall never daunton me, Sae lang's I keep my fancy free : For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not worth a groat ; May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't \ THE BLAITHRIE O'T. When I think on this warld's pelf, And the little wee share I have o't to myself. • The following observation was found in a memo- randum book belonging to Burns: Ttie Highlanders' Prayer at S/ieriff-Muir. " O L — d Ije thou with us ; but, if thou be nnt with us, be not against us ; but leave it between the red coati and lu I" TWEEDSIDE. In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tella us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- cation were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked with the letters D. C, &c Old Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of Achinames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay^ I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweedside is Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Rohi;rt Craw- ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Belches. What beauties does Flora disclose ! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed : Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ; Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose. Not all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed gliditig gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove. The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird and sweet cooing dove. With music enchant ev'ry bush. ♦ Shame fall the gear and the blad'ry o't, is the turn of an oltl Scottish souft, spolcen when a young hand, some girl marries an old man, upon the accoimt of hi< wealth — KeUv's Scots Proverbs. I 110 BURNS' WORKS. Come, let us go forth lO the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring, We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray. While happily she lies asleep ? Tweed's murnrurs should lull her to rest ; Kind nature indulging ray bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. *Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell ; She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweedside, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanaas, of which I «till recollect the first. ■ When Maggy and I was acquaint, I carried my noddle fu' hie ; Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain. Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : But I saw het sae fair, and I lo'ed ; I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; So now I maun wander abroad. And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. The last stanza runs thus :^Ed. To Meiggy my love I did tell, Saut tears did my passion express, Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, An' the women loo sic a man less. Her heart it was frozen and cauld, Her pride had my ruin decreed ; Therefore I will wander abroad, And lay my baues far frae the Tweed. THE BOATIE ROWS. The author of the Soatie Rows, was a Mr. Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of womanly affection mingling with the concerns and occupations of life. It is nearly equal to There's nae luck about the house. O WEEL may the boatie row^ And better may she speed ; And leesonie may the boatie v w That wins my bairns bread : The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And weel may the boatie row That wins the bairns bread. I cust * my line in Largo bay, And fishes I catch'd nine ; There was three to boil, and three to fry And three to bait the line: The boatie rows, the boatie row? The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' Who wishes her to speed. O weel may the boatie row. That fills a heavy creel,-f- And cleads us a' frae head to feet. And buys our porridge meal : The boatie tows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. When Jamie vow'd he would be min% And wan frae me my heart, muckle lighter grew my creel, He swore we'd never part : The boatie rows, the boatie rows. The boatie rows fu' weel ; And muckle lightw is the load. When love bears up the creel. My kurtch I put upo' my head. And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 1 true my heart was douf an' wae. When Jamie gaed awa : But weel may the boatie row, And lucky be her part ; And lightsome be the lassie's care. That yields an honest heart. When Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, Are up and gotten lear. They'll help to gar the boatie row, And lighten a' our care : The boatie rows, the boatie rows. The boatie rows fu' weel ; And lightsome be her heart that bears The murlain, and the creel. And when wi' age we're worn down. And hirpling round the door, They'l; row to keep us dry and warm. As we did them before : — Then weel may the boatie row, She wins the bairns bread ; . And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boat to speed ! THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. Another, out very pretty Anglo-Soot tiab piece. * Cast. — The Aberdeeiishire dialect. t An Of ier basket. SONGS. Ill How blest }ias my time been, what joys have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! So joj'ful my heart is, so easy my chain. That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she be- guiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What tho* on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humour bloom all the year thro' ; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, «he 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 warse o' that, kind sir, she says. With a double and adieu to thee fair May. &c. &tc. THE POSIE. It appears evident to me that Oswald com- posed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- ed the three first bars of the old air ; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country gill's voice, had no great merit, — The following is a speci- men : » Thcxe was a pretty May,* and a milkin she went ; Wi* her red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black hair : And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent, With a double and adieu to thee fair May. O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy cual-black hair ? THE POSIE. O LUVK will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been, But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, , And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,. For she's the pink o' woman kind, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- ing blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May ; The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller grey. Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest w ithin the bush I winna tak away ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ning sta. is near. And the diamond diaps o' dew shall be her e'er sae clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's tt wear. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear ]\Iay. rU tie the posie round wi* the silken band o luve. And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear b| a' above, That to my latest draught o* life the band shai ne'er remuve, And this wiU be a posie to my ain dear May 112 BURNS' WORKS. MARY'S DREAM. The Mai-y here alluded to is generally snp- JM to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the x^dird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompeyy Ghost. — 1 have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, wherc^he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotlan" — By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love disappointment. The moon had clinib'd the highest hill, Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summet shed Her silver light on tow'r and tree : When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head to ask, who there might be ; She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, With visage pale and hollow eye ; ' O Mary, dear, cold is ray clay, ' It lies beneath a stormy sea ; ' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; ' So, Mary, weep no more for me. ' Three stormy nights and stormy days ' We toss'd upon the raging main ; ' -And long we strove our bark to save, ' But all our striving was in vain. * E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, ' My heart was fiU'd with love for thee : ' The storm is past, and I at rest ; ' So, Mary, weep no more for me. ' O maiden dear, thyself prepare, ' We soon shall meet upon that shore, ' Where love is free from doubt and care, ' And thou and I shall part no more !' Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled. No more of Sandy could she see ; But soft the passing spirit said, " Sweet Alary, weep no more for me !'* THE JOLLY BEGGAR. Said to have been composed oy King James v., on a frolic of his own. There was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was boun', And he took up his quarters into a land'art town, And well gang nae mair a roving. Sue hite into the niglit. And we'll gang nae mair a roving, boys, Let the moon shine ne'er sae bright I He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre, But in aiiint the ha' door, or else afore the fire. And we'll gang nae mair, S^c. The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean straw and hay, And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay. And tve'll gang nae mair, §"0. Up raise the goofl man's dochter, and for to bar the door. And there she saw the beggar standin i* th» floor, And we'll gang nae mair, §"0. He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed he ran, O hooly, hooly wi' me, sir, ye'U waken our goodraan, And we'll gang nae mair, §-c. The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a word he spake, Until he got his turn done, syne be began to crack, And we'll gang nae mair, 8fC, Is there ony Oogs into this town ? maiden, tell me true. And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and my dow ? Arid we'll gang nae mair, ifc. They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikle wrang, dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puirvman ? And we'll gang nae mair, §"c. Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them o'er the wa'. The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhead and a'. And we'll gang nae mair, §-c. 1 took ye for some gentleman, at least the laird of Brodie ; O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie? Afid we'll gang nae mair, §-c. He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kisses three, And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice-fee, And we'll gang nae mair, §-c. He took a horn frae his side, and blew Inith loud and shrill. And four-and-twenty belted knights came skip- ping o'er the hill, And we'll gang nae mair, ^c. SONGS. US And he took out his little knife, loot a' his dud- dies fa', Atnl he was the brawest gentleman that was amang them a*. A7td we'll gang nae mair, SfC, Tlio hogijar was a diver loon, and he lap shoul- der height, <) ay for sicken quarters as I gat yesternight ! And we'll gang nae mair, ^c. THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. BV MR. DUDGEON. This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in Berwickshire. Vv 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, '' Youug Sandy's kind An' he's promised ay to loe me ; Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine Till he's fairly married to me : Drive away ye drone Time, An' bring about our bridal day. " Sandy herds a flock o* sheep, Aften does he hlaw the whistle, In a strain sae saftly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. He's as fleet's the mountain roe. Hardy as the highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keepirrg ay his flock together ; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs. He braves the bleakest norlin blast. " Brawly he can dance and sing Canty glee or highland cronach ; Nane can ever match his fling. At a reel, or round a ring ; Wightly can he wield a rung. In a brawl he's ay the bangster : A' his praise can ne'er be sung By the langest-winded sangster. Sangs tiiat sing o' Sandy Come short, though they were e'er sae lang." TARRY WOO. This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words. Tarry woo, tarry woo. Tarry woo is ill to spin ; Card it well, card it well, Card arell ere ye begin. When 'tis carded, row'd and spnih Then the work is haflens done ; But when woven, drest and clean. It may be cleading for a queen. Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, That feed upon the mountain's steep. Bleating sweetly as ye go, Thro' the winter's frost and snow ; Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer. No be haff so useful are : Frae kings to him that hads the plow, Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip. O'er the hills and vallies trip. Sing up the praise of tarry woo. Sing the flocks that bear it too ; Harmless creatures without blame. That dead the back, and cram the wame. Keep us warm and hearty fou ; Leese me on the tarry woo. How happy is the shepherd's life, Far frae courts, and free of strife, While the gimmers bleat and bae, And the lambkins answer raae : No such music to his ear ;- — Of thief or fox he has no fear ; Sturdy Kent and. Cullg true, Will defend the tarry woo. He lives content, and envies none ; ■ Not even a monarch on his throne, Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, Has not sweeter holidays. Who'd'be a king, can ony tell. When a shepherd sings sae well ? Sings sae well, and pays his due, Wiih honest heart and tarry woo. THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIK. The first half stanza is much older than thfi days of Ramsay The old words began thus :— The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's won- der bonoie ! A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in jands and money. She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she l)e a lady But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddie, The collier has a oaughter. And O she's wonder bonny ; A laird he was that sought her, Rich baith in lands and money i The tutors watch'd the motion Of this young honest lover ; But love is like the ocean ; Wha cap 'ts depth discover? 114 He had the art to please ye, Anil was by a' respected ; His airs sat round him easy, Genteel, tmt unatTected. The collier's honnie lassie, Fair as the new-blown lilie, Av sweet, and never saucy, Secur'd the heart of Willie. He lov'd beyond expression The charms that were about her, And panted for posse-sion. His life was dull without her. After mature resolving. Close to Ills l)reast he held her In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell'd her ; My bonny collier's daughter. Let naethiug 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 heav'n has ient me Upon your wit and beauty. BURNS' WORKS. MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. The old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these insert- ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Fer- gusson, 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, ^ Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat. And I were ne'er sae weary, O, I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. — Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O ? And cuddle there sae kindlie. My ain kind dearie, O? At thorny dike and birken-tree, We'll daff and ne'er be weary, O ; They'll scug ill een frae you and me. My ain kind dearie, O ! Nae herds, wi' kent or colly, there, Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; But lavrocks, whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. While others herd their lambs and yowes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo ; Upon tVie lea, my pleasure grows, Wi' thee my kind dearie, O. DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 1 have been informed, that the tune of Down the Hunt, Davie, was the com|)osition of D.ivid Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, hu- longing to the Lainl of Riddel, in Tweeddale When trees did bud, and fields were green. And broom bloom d fair to see ; When Alary was complete fifteen. And love laugh'd in her e'e ; Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move. To speak her mind thus free, Gang dmcn 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 ; Her cheeks weie rosie, red and white. Her een weie bonnie blue ; Her looks were like Aurora blight. Her lips like dropping dew. As down the burn they took their way, What tender tales they said I His cheek to her's he aft did lay. And with her bosom play'd ; What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, And naething sure unmeet ; For, ganging hame, I heard them say. They lik'd a walk sae sweet ; And that they aften should return. Sic pleasure to renew ; Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, And ay shall follow you. * BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY. The old words, all that I remember, 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 eTer I tint my way ; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee. Until it be break o' day. — O, Betty will bake my bread. And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my love. When I come over the dale : • The last four lines of the third stanza, being somewhat objectionable in point of delicacy, are omit- ted. Burns altered these linos. Had his alteration l)een attended with his usual succes*, it would have been adovted. SONGS. 115 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, l^iiiik over the lses loup as they were daft, When I blaw up my chanter. Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags? Or is your drone in order ? If ye be Rob, I've heard 0' you, Live you upo' the border ? The lasses a', baith far and near, Have beard o' Rob the Ranter ; I'll shako my foot wi' right gude will, Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. Tlien to his bags he flew wi* speed, About the drone he twisted ; Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green, For brawly could she frisk it. Weel done ! quo' he — play .ip ! quo* she 5 Weel liobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play indeed, When I hae sic a dancer. Weel hae ye play'd your part, quo' Meg, Your cheeks are like the crimson ; There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel, Sin(^; we lost Habbie Simpson. I"ve liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, These ten years and a quarter ; Gin' ye should come to Enster Fair, Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. TRANENT MUIR. that Lieutenant Smith, whom he mentions iu the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an- swer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back," 5-aid the honest farmer, " and tell Mr. Smith that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington ; but tell him to come here ; and I'll tak a look o' him ; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — I'll rin awa." — The Chevalier, heing void of fear. Did march up Birsle biae, man, And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent. As fast as he could gae, man : While General Cope did taunt and mock, Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ; But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, We heard another craw, man. The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell. Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; The morning fair, and clear the air. They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : Down guns they threw, and swords they drew, And soon did chace them aff, man ; On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, And gart them rin like daft, man. The hluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons. They'd make the rebels run, man ; And yet they flee when them they see. And winna fire a gun, man : They turn'd their back, the foot they brake. Such terror seiz'd them a', man ; Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeka, And some for fear did fa', man. The vohmteers prick'd up their ears. And vow gin they were crouse, man ; But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, They were not worth a louse, man ; Maist feck gade hame ; O fy for shame ! They'd better stay'd awa', man. Than wi' cockade to make parade, And do nae good at a', man. Menteith the great,* when hersell sh — t, Un'wares did ding him o'er, man ; Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand. But aflf fou fast did scour, man ; . O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still, Before he tasted meat, man : Troth he may brag of his swift nag, That bare him aff sae fleet, man. Tu7te ' Killicrankie.' *' Tbanent-Muib" was composed by a Mr. Skirvin, a very worthy respectable farmer, near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, • The minister of Longformacus, 3 volunteer; who, happening to come the night before the battle, upon a Highland gelding, easing nature at I'reston, threw hiin over, and carried his gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. 122 BURNS' WORKS. And Simpson • keen, to clear the een Of rebels far in wranfj, man, Dill never strive wi' pistols five, But giJIiip'd with the thrang, man : He tiirn'd his liack, and iu a crack Was cleanly out of sight, man ; And thought it best ; it was nae jest Wi' Highlanders to fight, man. 'IMangst a' the gang nane bade the bang But twa, and ane was tane, man ; For Campbell rade, but Myrief staid, And sair he paid the kain,| man ; Fell sktlps he got, was war than shot Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man ; Frae many a spout came running out His reeking-het red gore, man. But Gard'nery brave did still behave Like to a hero briglit, man ; His courage true, like him were few, That still despised flight, man ; For king and laws, and country's cause, In honour's bed he lay, man ; His life, but not his courage, fled, While he had breath to draw, man. And JIajor Bowie, that worthy soul. Was brought down to the ground, man ; His horse being shot, it was his lot For to get mony a wound, man ; Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, Frae whom he cali'd for aid, man, Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, And wadna be gainsaid, man. He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 'Twas little there he saw, man ; To Berwick rade, and safely said. The Scots were rebels a', man ; But let that end, for well 'tis kend His use and wont to lie, man ; The Teague is naught, he never faught. When he had room to flee, man. • Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who said he would convince the rebels of their error by the dint of his pistols ; haviiij;, for that purpose, two in hif pockets, two in his holsters, and one in his belt. t Mr. Myriewas a student of physic, from Jamaica; he entered as a volunteer in Cope's army, and was miserably mangled by the broadsword. J i. e. He suffered severely in the cause. II James Gardiner, Colonel of a regiment of horse, This gentleman's conduct, however celebrated, does not seem to Jiave proceeded so much from the gene- rous ardour of a noble and heroic mind, as from a spirit of religious enthusiasm, and a bigoted reliance on the Presbyterian doctrine of predestination, which rendered it a matter of perfect indifference whether he left the field or remained in it. Being deserted by his troop, he was killed by a Highlander, with a Lochaber axe. Colonel Gardiner having, when a gay yoimg man, at Paris, made an assignation with a lady, was, as he pretended, not only deterred from keeping his ap- pointment, but thoroughly leclaimed from all such thoughts in future, by an apparition. See his Life by Doddridge. And Caddell drest, amang the rest. With gun and good clayinore, mau. On gelding grey he rode that way, With pistols set before, man ; The cause was good, he'd spend his blood, Before that he would yield, man ; But the night before he left the cor. And never fac'd the field, niaru But gallant Roger, like a soger, Stood and bravely fought, man ; Fm wae to tell, at last he fell, But mae down wi' him brought, maa : At point of death, wi' his last breath, (Some standing round in ring, man), Ou's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat. And cry'd, God save the king, man. Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs^ Neglecting to pursue, man, About they fac'd, and in great haste Upon the booty flew, man ; And they, as gain, for all their pain, Are deck'd wi spoils of war, man ; Fow bald can tell how her nainsell Was ne'er sae pra before, man. At the thorn-tree, which you may see Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; There mony* slain lay on the plain, Th? clans pursuing still, man. Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, I never saw the like, man ; . Lost hands and heads cost them their deada, That fell near Preston-dyke, man. That afternoon, when a' was done, I gaod to see the fray, man ; But hal I wist what after past, I'd better staid away, man : On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, Tliey pick'd my pockets bare, man; But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear. For a' the sum and mair, man. STREPHON AND LYDIA. Tune — " The Gordon's had the Guiding o't." 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 by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the Gentle Jean, celebrated somewhere in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. — Having fre- quently 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 elu^e the bad consequences of such a connection, Strephon was sent abroad with a SONGS. 123 eominission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena. The author of the song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire Burns, All lovely on the sultry beach, Expiring Strephon lay, No hand the cordial draught to reach, Nor chear the gloomy way. Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh, To catch tl.y fleeting breath. No bride, to fix thy swimming eye, Or smooth the face of death. Far distant from the mournful scene, Thy parent? 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, Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind. Thy country, unredress'd ' I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. The chorus of this song is old. — The rest of ,, such as it is, is mine Burns. I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young to marry yet ; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin To take me frae my mammy yet. Theie is a stray, characteristic verse, which ought to be restored. My minnie coft me a new gown. The kirk ntaun hae the gracing o't ; Ware I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. I'm o'er young, &c. MY JO, JANET. Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of thi- humorous ballad. — Burns. Sweet Sir, for your courtesie, When ye come by the Sass then, For the luve ye bear to me. Buy me a keeking-glass, then.— . Keek into the drau'-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, Syne a' my kin will say and swear, I drown'd mysell for sin. — Hand the better be the brae, Janet, Janet, Hand the better be the brae. My Jo, Janet. Good Sir, for your courtesie, Coming through Aberdeen, then, For the luve ye bear to me. Buy me a pair of sheen, then.— Clout the auld, the new are dear, Janet, Janet ; Ae pair may gain ye ha'f a year. My Jo, Janet. But what if dancing on the green, And skipping like a maukin. If they should see my clouted shooc, Of me they will be taukin'. — Dance ay laigh, and late at e'en, Janet, Janet ; Syne a' their faitts will no he seen. My Jo, Janet. Kind Sir, for your courtesie. When ye gae to the Cross, then, For the luve ye bear to me, Buy me a.pacing-horse, then. — Pace upo' your s])inning-icheel, Janet, Janet ; Pace upo' your spinning-wheel. My Jo, Janet. My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff, The rock o't winna stand. Sir, To keep the temper-pin in tiflF, Employs right aft my hand. Sir.— Mak the best o't that ye can, Janet, Janet ; Sut like it never wale a man. My Jo, Janet. GUDE YILL COMES, AND GUDE YILL GOES. This song sings to the tune called The bot- tom of the punch bowl, of which a very good copy may be found in M' Gibbon's Collection.—' Burns. Tune — " The Happy Farmer." O gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, Gude yill gars me sell my hose. Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh, And they drew teugh and weel eneugh ; I drank them a' ane by ane, For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. Gude yill, §"c. I had forty shillin in a clout, Gude yill gart me pyke them out ; 12* BURN'S' WORKS. That gear should moule I thought a sin, Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. Gude yill, ^c. The meikle pot upon my back, Unto the yill-house I did pack ; It melted a' \\'\ the heat o' the moon, Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. Gude y^ll, §-c. Gude yill hauds me bare and busy. Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand in the kirk when I hae done, Gude yill keeps my heart aboou. * Gude yill, §"c. I wish their fa' may be a gallows, Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows. And keep a soup 'till the afternoon, Gude yill keeps my heart aboon, O yude yill comex, and gude yill goes, Gude yill gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, aiid pawn my shoon, Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of the first Earl of Jlarchmont, and wife of George Baillie, of Jerviswood. — Burns. There was aues a May, and she Ino'd na men, She biggit her bonny bow'r down in yon glen ; But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! Come down the green gate, and come here away. Sut now she cries, Sfc. Wlien bonny young Johny came o'er the sea. He said he saw naithing sae lovely as me ; He hecht nie baith rings and mony braw things ; And were na my heart light I wad die. JJe hecht me, §'c. He had a wee titty that loo^l na me. Because I was twice as bonny as she ; She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and his mo- ther, That were na my heart light, I wad die. Hhe rais'd, §-c. 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. She luain'd §'C. • ITie hanj of Bums is viiible here. tth verses only are the original ones. The 1st and 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 was na for Johny : And were na my heart light, I wad die. » Albeit I was, Sfc. They said, I had neither cow nor cafF, Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the draff, Nor pickles bf meal rins throw the mill-ee ; And were na my heart light, I wad die. iVbr pickles of, Sfc, His titty she was baith wylie and slee, She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ; And then she ran in and made a loud din, Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. And then she, Sfc, His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new : But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. Jiut now he, Sfc. And now he gaes ' dandering' about the dykes, And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, And were na my heart light, I wad die. The live-lang, Sfc. Were I young for thee, as I hae been, We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon greeOf And linking it on the lily-white lee ; And wow gin I were but young for thee ! And linking &^c. MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. Mr. Robertson, in his statis-tical account of the pai isli of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry hope, 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 cf marriage that merits attention, as it strongly marks the predatory spiiit 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 profit* of the first Mifhaelmas-moou. — Burns. Happy's the love which meets return, When in soft flames souls equal burn ; But words are wanting to discover The torments of a hopeless lover. Ye registers of heav'n, relate, If looking o'er the rolls of fate. Did you there see me mark'd to marrow Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow ? SONGS. 125 Ah no ! her form's too heav'nly fair, HtT love tlie gods above must share ; VVhile mortals with despair explore her, And at 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 the banks of Yarrow Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair ; I\Iy 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 in Yarrow. THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sol- bay man of war. — This I had from Dr. Black- lock. — ^BuilNS. TuBC—" The Highland Queen.", No more my song shall be, ye swains, Of purling streams or flowrie plains : More pleasing beauties now inspire, And Phcebus deigns the warbling lyre. Divinely aided, thus I mean To celebrate, to celebrate, To celebrate my Highland Queen. In her sweet innocence you'll find With freedom, truth and virtue join'd : Strict honour fills her spotless soul, And gives a lustre to the whole. A matchless shape and lovely meia All centre in, all centre in, All centre in my Highland Queen, No sordid wish or trifling joy Her settled calm of mind destroy : From pride and affectation free, Alike she snjiles on you and me. The brightest nymph that trips the green 1 do pronounce, I do pronounce, I do pronounce my Highland Queen. How blest the youth, whose gentle fate Has destined to so fair a mate. With all those wondrous gifts in store. To which each coming day brings more. No man more happy can be seen Possessing thee, possessing thee, Possessing thee, my Highland Queen. THE MUCKIN' O' GEORDIE'S BYRE. The chorus of this song is old. — The rest ii the work of Balloon Tytler.* — Burns. ! Thme — " The Muekin' o* Geordie's Byre." The muekin' o' Geordie's byre. And the shool an' the graip sae clean, Has gar'd me weet my cheeks. And greet wi' baith my een. It teas ne'er my fat/ter's will, Nor yet my mit/ier's desire, That e'er I slimdd fyle my finyers Wi' muckiii' o' Geordie's byre. The mouse is a merry beast. The moudiwort wants the een. But the warld shall ne'er get wit, Sae merry as we hae been. It tvas ne'er my father's will, Nor yet my mithers desire. That e'er I should fyle my fingers WV muekin^ o' Geordie's byre. MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL, ALSO KNOWN AS MACPHERSON'S RANT. He was a daring robber in the beginning of this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to be hanged at Inverness. He is said, when un- der sentence of death, to have composed this tune, which he called his own Lament, or Fare- well. Gow has published a variation of this fine tune, as his own composition, which he calls " The Princess Augusta." — Burns. I've spent my time in rioting. Debauch 'd my health and strength : I've pdlaged, plundered, murdered. But now, alas ! at length I'm brought to punishment direct • Pale death draws near to me ; This end I never did project To hang upon a tree. To hang upon a tree, a tree. That cursed unhap|)y death ; Like to a wolf to worried be, And choaked iu the breath : IMy very heart would surely break WTien this I think upon. Did not my courage singular Bid pensive thoughts begone. " A singularly learned but unhappy person. He lived at too early a stage of the world : before there was toleration in Britain, which he was obliged to quit (1793) because of his deraocKitical writiiii;s: when he took refuge at Salem as a newspaper editor. He also lived before there were Temperance Societies any I where. 126 BURNS' WORKS. No man on eartVi, tnat draweth breath. More courage had than I : I dated my foes unto their fa<;e, And would not from them fly. This grandeur stout, I did keep out, Like Hector, manfully : Then wonder one like me so stout Should hang upon a tree. The Egyptian band I did command, With courage more by far. Than ever did a general His soldiei-s in the war. Being feared by all, both great and small, I liv'd most joyfullie : Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, To hang upon a tree. As for my life I do not care. If justice would take place, And bring my fellow-plunderers Unto the same disgiMce : But Peter Brown, that notour loon, Escaped and was made free : Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, To hang upon a tree. Both law and justice buried are. And fiaud and guile succeed ; The guilty pass unpunished, If money intercede. The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Saunt, His mighty majestie, He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, And lets Macphersou die. The destiny of my life contrived. By those whom I obliged, Rewarded me much ill for good. And left me no refuge : But Braco Duff, in rage enough, He first laid hands on me ; And if that death would not prevent. Avenged would I be. As for my life, it is but short, When I shall be no more ; To part with life, I am content. As any heretofore. Therefore, good people all, take heed. This warning take by me — According to the lives you lead. Rewarded you shall be.* Up in the morning's no for me. Up in the morning early ; When a the hills are covered wV STtaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly ; Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Burns. IT IN THE MORNING EARLY. The chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas are mine. • Burns' own set of the Lament, appears liker the natural effusions of the high-spirited criminal, Uiaa this homily UP, IN THE MORNING EARLY BY JOHN HAMILTON. Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south, The drift is driving sairly. The sheep are courin' in the heuch : O, sirs, its winter fairly. Now up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the murnin' early ; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed Than rise in the mornin' early. Loud roars the blast amang the woods. And tirls the branches barely ; On hill and house hear how it thuds, The frost is nipping sairly. Now up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early ; To sit a' nicht wad better agree • Than rise in the mornin' early. The sun peeps ower yon southland hills Like ony timorous carlie, Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, And that W3 find severely. Now up in the mornin's no for me. Up in in the mornin' early ; Wlien snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek, Wha'd rise in the mornin' early. Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush ; Poor things they suffer sairly. In cauldrife quarters a' the night, " A' day they feed but sparely. Now up in the mornin's no for me. Up in the mornin' early ; A pennyless purse I wad rather dree Than rise in the mornin' early. A cozie house and canty wife. Aye keep a body cheerly ; And pantries stou'd wi' meat and drink. They answer unco rarely. But up in the mornin's no for me. Up in the mornin' early ; The gowan maun glint on bank and brae, When I rise in the mornin' early SONGS. 127 GALA.WATER. I HAVE heard a concludiag verse sung to these words — it is, An' ay she came at e'enin fa', Atnang the yellow broom, sae eerie, To seek the snood o' silk she tint ; — She fan na it, but gat her dearie. — Burns. The original song of Gala-water was thus re- cited by a resident in that very pastoral district. Bonnie lass of Gala-water ; Braw, hraw lass of Gala- water ! I would wade the "Stream sae deep. For yon braw lass of Gala-water. Braw, braw lads of Gala-water ; O, braw lads of Gala-water ! I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water. Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie ; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', I often kiss her till I'm wearie. O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae. O'er yon moss amang the heather ; ril kilt my coat aboon my knee. And follow my love thro' the water. Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom, my dearie ; The lassie lost her silken snood, That gart her greet till she was wearie. DUMBARTON DRUMS. This is the last of the West Highland airs ; and from it, over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a tune or song that one can say has taken its ori- gin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Steio^ arton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter IMontgomery Cunning- ham, alias Lord Lyle ; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty. — Jo/inie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- tensive county of Ayr. — Burns. The poet has fallen under a mistake here : — the drums here celebrated were not those of the town, or garrison of Dumbarton ; but of the regiment commanded by Lord Dumbarton — a cavalier of the house of Douglas — who signalized himself on the Jacobite side in 16S5. — The old Bong was as follows : — Di'MBARTON'g drums beat bonny, O, ^Mien thev mind me of my dear Juhnie, O. 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 invite me, O : 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, O : Tho' commissions are dear. Yet I'll buy him one this year ; For he shall serve no longer a cadie, O. A soldier has honour and bravery, O, Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, Ol He minds no other thing But the ladies or the king ; For ev'ry other care is but slavery, O. Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ; 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's drums sound bonny, O, They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O : How happy shall I be, When on my soldier's knee, And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O • FOR LACK OF GOLD. The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of Um line say, She me forsook for a great duke, For Athole's duke she me forsook ; which I take to be the original reading. These words were composed by the late Dr. Austin, physician at Edinburgh. — 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 accepted of, and she jilted the Doctor.— - Burns. dr. austin. Tune—" For Lack of Gold." For lack of gold she has left me, O ; And of all that's dear she's bereft me, O; She me forsook for Athole's duke, And to endless wo she has left me, O. A star and garter have more art Than youth, a true and faitliful heart ; • Jean, daughter of John Drummond, of Megg- inch, Esq. 128 BURNS' WORKS. For cinptv titles we niii'st ]iait ; Fill ^littt'Hiig n1u)\v kIic has left mc, O. Ni> cruel f;ii|- shall ever move My iiijiirM heait ajjain to love ; Tlni)' distant climates I must rove, Since Jeany she has left me, O. Ye powers above, I to your care Resign my faithless lovely fair ; Your choicest Wessings be her share, Tho' she has ever left me, O 1 MILL, MILL O. The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus : The mill, mill O, arid the kill, kill O, And the cogpin o' Peggy^s wheel O, The suck and the sieve, and a' she did leave, And danced the miller^ s reel O. As I cam down yon waterside, And by yon shellin-hill O, There I spied a bonnie bonnie lass, And a lass that I lov'd right weel O. — * • — Bl'rns. MILL, MILL O. Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid Was sleeping sound and still-0, A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, Around her with good will-O : Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest, She stir'd na my joy to spiIl-0 ; While kindly she slept, close to her I crept, And kiss'd, and kiss'd her my fill-0. Oblig'd bv command in Flanilcrs to land, T' employ my courage anil »kill-0, Frae 'er (juietly I stiw, hcist'd sails and awa. For wind blow fair on the hill-O. Twa years brought nie hame, where loud-fraslng fame Tald me with a voice right shrill-O, My lass, like a fool, had nmunted the stool. Nor ken'd wha'd done her the ill-0. Mair fond of her charms, with my son ir her arms, A ferlying speer'd how she fell-0 ; Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0. * The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, partake rather too much of the rude simplicity of the " Olden time" to be admitted hexe.—Ed. Love gae the command, I took her by the hand] And bad her a' fears expel-O, And nae niair look wan, for I was the man Wha bad done her the deed mysell-O. My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass, Beneath the shilling-hill-O, If I did offence, I'se make ye amends. Before I leave Peggy's mill-0. O ! the mill, mill-6, and the kill, kill-O, And the cogging of the wheel-0. The sack and the sieve, a' thae ye man leave, And round with a soger reel-0. WALY, WALY. I>f the west country I have heard a different edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the four lines, beginning with, " When cockle shells." Sfc. the other way ran thus : — O WHEREFORE need I busk niy head, Or wherefore need I kanie n^y hair. Sin my fause luve has me forsook. And says he'll never luve me mair.— Burns. WAi.Y waly up the bank. And waly waly down the brae. And waly waly by yon burn-side. Where I and my love were wont to gae. 1 leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trustie trie ; But first it bow'd, and syne it brake. And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. O waly waly gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new ; * But when its auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning-dew. O wherefore shu'd I busk my head ? Or wherefore shu'd I kame ray hair ? For my true love has me forsook. And says he'll never loe me mair. Now Arthur-seat shall be my bp''. The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me : Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, < Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the trie? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum ? For of my life I am wearie. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes nie cry. But my love's heart grown cauld to me. Whan we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see ; SONGS. 129 My love was clad i' tii' black velvet, And I mysell 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 ! if my young babe were borne, And set upon the nurse's knee. And I mysell were dead and gone, For a maid again He never be ! TODLEN HAME. This is, perhaps, the first bottle song ever was composed — Burns. that When I've a saxpence under my thumb. Then I'll get credit in ilka town : But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by ; O ! poverty paits good company. Todlen liame, todleii hame, Coudna my loove come todlen hame ? Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale, She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale, Syne if her tippony chance to be sraa', 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 pintstoups at our bed-feet ; And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? Todlen hut, and todlen ben, Sae round as my loove comes todlen hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your niou ; When sober sae sour, ye'U fight wi* a flee, That 'tis a blyth sight to the bairns and me, When todlen hame, todlen hame, When round as a neep ye come todlen hame. CAULD KAIL IN ABEKDEEN. This >ong is by the Duke of Gordon. — The lid verses are, There's cauid kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie ; When ilka lad maun hae his lass, Then fye, gie me my cogie. My cogie. Sirs, my cogie. Sirs, I cannot ivant my coyie : Jwadna gie my three-girr'd stoup For a' the queries on Bogie, There s Johnie Smith has got a wife That scrimps him o' his cogie. If she were mine, upon my life I'd douk her in a bogie. My cogie, Sirs, §*c. — Burns. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. There's cauld kail in Alierdeen, And castotks in Stra'bogie ; Gin I but hae a bonny lass, Ye're welcome to your cogie : And ye may sit up a' the night, And drink till it be braid day-light ; Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, To dance the Reel of Bogie. In cotillons the French excel ; John Bull loves countra-dances ; The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; Mynheer an allemande prances : In foursome reels the Scotch delight. The threesome maist dance wond'rous ligQt) But twasome's ding a' out o' sight, Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. Come, lads, and view your jjirtners well, Wale each a biythsome rogie ; I'll tak this lassie to mysel, She seems sae keen and vogie ! Now ])iper lad bang up the spring ; The countra fashion is the thing, To prie their mou's e'er we begin To dance the Reel of Bogie. Now ilka lad has got a lass, Save yon auld doited fogie ; And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, As they do in Stra'bogie : But a' the lasses look sae fain, We canna think oursel's to haln. For they maun hae their c«me again To dance the Reel of Bogie. Now a' the lads hae done their best, Like triie men of Stra'bogie ; We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. And tipjile out a cogie : Come now, my lads, and tak your glan, And try ilk other to surpass, In wishing health to every lass To dance the Reel of Bogie. WE RAN AND THEY RAN. The author of We ran and they ran, and they ran and we ran, Sfc, was the late Rev Murdoch IM'Lennan, minister at Crathie, 0»»- side. — Burns. m: Jk 130 BURNS' WORKS. There's some say that we wan, Some say that they wan, Some say that nane wan at a', man ; But one thing I'm sure, That at Sheriff Muir * A battle there was, which I saw, man ; And we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and we ran, and ice ran, and they ran awa', man. Brave Argyle f and Belhaven, \ Not like flighted Leven, § Which Rothes || and Haddington f sa*, man; For they all with Wightman ** Advanced on the right, man. While others took flight, being ra', man. And we ran, and they ran, SfC. Lord Roxburgh f f was there. In order to share With Dmiglas, \\ who stood not in awe, man, Volunteerlv to ramble With lord Loudon Campbell. || || Biave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. And ice ran, and they ran, §-& Sir John Schaw. ^^ that great knight, Wi' broad-sword most bright. On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; An hero that's bold. None could him with-hold, He stoutly encounter'd the targemen. And we ran, and they ran, §'c. For the cowardly Whittam, *** For fear they should cut him, 'Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man, And that in such thrang, Made Baird edicang, ff f And from the brave clans ran awa', man. And ice ran, and they ran, §"c. • The battle of Dumblain or Sheriff muir was fought the l.jth of November I'ti, between the Earl of Mar. for the ChevaMer, and the Puke of Argyle for the po- vernment. Both sides claiiticd the victory, tlie lift wing of either army beinp; routed. The c^iptiire of Preston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same day. t John (Campbell) 'Jd Dukeof Avgyle, commander, in-chiefof toe government forces; a nobleman of great talents and integrity, much respected by all parties : died XH^. % John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven; served as a vo- lunteer; and had the command of a troop of horse raised by the county of Hadduigton : perisjied at sea, 1721. 5 David (Leslv) Earl of Leven; for the government. [| John (Leslyj Earl of Rotlies; for the government. U Thnmas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the goveniii ent. »* Mnjor-r.eneral Joseph Wightman. tl John (Ker) first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go- ment. it Archibald (Douglas) Duke of Douglai. nil Hugh (Campbell) Kail of Loudon. n Arehib.ild Earl of Hay, brother to the Dukeof Argyle. He was dangerously wounded. nil An (ilfiecr in the troop of gentleman Tolunteers, »** Miijor-geiieral Thomas Whitham. ttt i- e. Aid riu camp. Brave Mar * and Panraure -f* Were firm I am sure, The latter was kidnapt awa', man, With brisk men about, Brave Harry \ retook His brother, and laught at them a', man. And we run, and they ran, Sfc. Grave MarshiUl |] avid Lithgow, § And Glengary's^ pith too. Assisted by brave Loggie-a- man, •• And Gordons the bright So boldly did fight. The redcoats took fliglit and awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. Strathmore f f and Clanrcmald || Cry'd still, advance, D(miild ! Till both these heroes did fa', man ; || |l For there was such hashing. And broad-swords a clashing, Brave Forfar §§ himself got a cla', man. And we ran, and they run, Sfc. * John (Er.skine) Ear! of Mar, commander-in-chief of the Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit, honour, and abilities. He died at Aix.la-Chapelle in 1752. t James (Maule) Earl of Panmure ; died at Paris, 17':;3. I Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the Earl. The cireumstanee here alluded to is thus related in the Earl of Mai's printed :iei'ount of the engagement : — " The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used, and none of them stript Some were allow'd to return to .Stirling upon their parole, &e. . . The few prison, ers taken by the enemy on qui left were most of them stript and wounded .ifter taken. The Earl of Pan- mure being first of the prisoners wounded after taken. They having refused his parole, he was left in a vil- lage, and bv the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the approach of our army, was leseu'd by his brother and his servants " II George (Keith) Farl Marischall, then a youth at college He died at his government of Neufchatel in 1771. His brother, the celebrated Mar.shall Keith, was with him in this battle. (. James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith. gow : attainted. n Alexander M 'Donald of Glengary, lairdof a clan ; a brave and spirited chief: attainted.' ■»* Thomas Dnimmond of Logie-Almond ; com- manded the two battalions of Drummoiids. He was wounded. ft Jnhn (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; "a man of good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- ter." |± Ranald M'Do^ald, Captain of Clan Ranald. JV. B. The Captain of a elan was one who, being next or ne.ir in blood to the Chief, headed them in his infan cy or absence ■ II II " We have lost to our regret, the Earl of Strath, more and the Captain of Clan Ranald." Eari of Mar's Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- count : — " We cann't find above BO of our men in all kill'd, among whom were the Earl of .Strathimore [andj the Captain ot Clan Ranald, both much lamented." The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish- ments, was look'd upon as the most gallant and gener- ous youns; gentleman among the elans. . . . He was lamented bv both parties that knew him." His servant, who lav on the field watching his dead body, being asked next day who that vins, answered. He was a man yesterday.— iJoiitW/'s Journe;/ to the He- brides, p. 5.i9. {§ Archibald (Douglas) Earl of Forfar, who com- manded a regiment in the Duke's army. He is said to have been shot in tlie knee, and to have had ten or twelve cuts in his head from the broadswords. H« died a few days after of his wounds. SONGS. 131 Lord Perth * stood the storm, Seafurth f but lukewarm, Kilsyth \ iind Strathallan || not sla', nan ; And Hauiilton § pled The men were not bred, Por he had no fancy to t'a', man. And we ran, and thty ran, §•<-. Brave generous Southesk, ^ Tdebairn ** was brisk, WJiose father indeed would not dra', man, Into the same yoke, Which serv'd for a cloak. To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. And we run, and ihey ran, S^c. Lord Rollo ^■f not fear'd, ^ Kiutore \\ and his beard, Pitsligo II li and Ogilvie §§ a*, man. And brothers Balfours, W They stood the first show'rs, Clackmannan and Burleigh •'* did cla', man. And we ran, and they ran, §"c. But Cleppan f f f acted pretty, And Strowan the witty, \\\ A poet that pleases us a', man ; For mine is but rhinie, In respect of what's fine. Or what he is able to dra', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. * James Marquis of Drummond, son of James (Drunimonil) Duke of Perth, was Ueutenant-peneial of horse, and " behaved with great gallantry." rie was attainted, but escaped to France, where he soon after died. f William (Mackenzie) Earl of Seaforth. He was attainted, and died in I74l>. :j: William (Livingston) Viscount Kilsyth : attainted. II William (Dnnnmond) Viscount Strathallan ; whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit and activity he manifested in the cause. Ho was ta- ken prisoner in this battle, which he survived to per- ish in the still more fatal one of CuUoden-muir. § Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, command- ing under the Karl of Mar. ^ James (Carnegie) Karl of Southesk; was attaint- ed, and. escaping to France, died there in 17^9. ♦* William (Murray) Marquis of Tullihardin, eldest son to the D'.ike of Athole. Having been attainted, he was taken at sea m IT^ti, and died soon after, of a flux, in the Tower, tf Robert (Rollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular merit and great nitegril^ :" died in 1758. IX William (Keith) Earl of Kiutore. nil Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo; "amanofgood pans, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved and esteemed." He was engaged again in the affair of 174.1, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- vanced age in \76-2. H James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- vie) Earl of .\irly. He was attainted, but afterwards pardoned. His father, nut dra'ing into the same yoke, aved the estate. Tit Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- »*« Robert (R.ilfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- tain'ed. and died in ^757- t+t Major William Clephanc, adjutant-general to the Marquis of Drummond. XXX .Mexand r Robertson of Struan; who, liavmg experienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical firmness, died in peace 17-lU. He was an excellent let, an4 h?> left ekgies worthy of Tibullus. For Hutitlcy • and Sinclair, f They both playM the tinclair, With consciences ttl.ick like a era", man. Some Angus and Fifenien They r.in for their life, man, And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. And we ran, and they ran, §t. Then Laurie the traytor, Who betray'd his master, His king and his country and a', man. Pretending Mar might Give order to fight, . To the right of the army awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, §*c. Then Laurie, for fear Of what he might hear. Took Druminond's best horse and awa', man. Instead o' going to Perth, He crossed the Firth, Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. To London he press'd. And there he address'd. That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; And there without strife Got settled for life. An hundred a year to his fa', man. And we ran, and they ran, §*c. In Burrowstounness He resides wi' disgrace, Till his neck stand in need of a dra', maik And then in a tether He'll swing frae a ladder, [And] go aft" the stage with a pa', man. And we ran, and they ran^ ifc, Rob Roy stood watch On a hill for to catch The booty for ought that I sa', man, For he ne'er advanc'd From the place he was stanc'd. Till nae mair to do there at a', man. And we ran, and they ran, 8fC. So we a' took the flight. And Moubray th« wright ; But Letham the smith was a bra' man, For he took the gout. Which truly was wit. By judging it time to withdra', man. And we ran, and they ran, S^c. , And trumpet M'Lean, Whose breeks were not clean, * Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest son to the Duke of Gordon, who, accordir4; to the usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet with several other instances), remained neutral. t John Sinclair, Esq. commonly called Master of Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair; was at- tainted, but afterwards pard< ned, and died in 17.'^0. The estate was preserved of course. 132 BURNS' WORKS. Thro' misfortune he happen'd to fa", man, By saving his neck His trumpet did break, Came aff without musick at a', man.* And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. So there such a race was, As ne'er in that place was, And as little chase was at a', man ; Frae ither they * run' Without touk o' drum ; Thev did not make use of a pa', man. And we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and we ran, and we ran, and they ran awa\ man. BIDE YE YET. There is a beautiful song to this tune, be- ginning, Alas, my son, you little know — which is the composition of a Miss Jenny Graham of Dumfries Burns. Alas ! my son, you little know The sorrows that from wedlock flow : Farewell to every day of eas^e, VVhen you have gotten a wife to please. Sae hide you yet, and bide you yet, Ye little ken trhat's to betide you yet ; The half of that will gane you yet. If a wayward wife obtain you yet. Your experience is but small, As yet you've met with little thrall ; The black cow on your foot ne'er trod, Which gars you sing alang the road. Sae bide you yet, §"c. Sometimes the rock, sometimes the rr el, Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, She will drive at you wi' good will, And then she'll send you to the de'il. Sae bide you yet, Sfc. When I like you was young and free, T valued not the proudest she ; ' Like you I vainly boasted then, That men alone were horn to reign. Sae bide you yet. Sec Great Hercules and Sampson too. Were stronger men than I or you ; Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the sheers. Sae bide you yet, §•«. Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls. Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls ; But nought is found 'oy sea or land, That can a wayward wife withstand. " le hide you yet, §"C. » Tfie particulars of tliis anecdote no wliere appear. The hero is supposed to be the =:ime Jalin M'Lean, trumpet, who was sent from Lord Mar, then at Perth, with a^Ietterto the Duke of ArgvV, at Siiiliiif; camp, on the oOth of October. V~Jt t 'Lrhial Lctlers 1751). Two copies, however, printed not long alter 1715, read, " And trumpet Slarine." In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter .Varhie told the Earl of Haddington (then Lord Bmninji) that the first circuit he ever attended, as oneof Iiis Majesty's honse- hold trumpeters, was the Northern, in the \car 1716, a- longwithold Lord Minto. That thereason of liisgoing there was, that the circuit immemE YE YET. OLD SET. Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fire, A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn ; Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourc Sae hide ye yet, a7id bide ye yet, Ye little ken what may betide ye yet, Some bonny wee body may be niv lot, And I'll be canty wV thinking o't. When I gang afield, and come home at e en, I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean ; And a bonny wee bairne u|)on her knee, That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. Sae bide ye yet, §"c. And if there happen ever to be A diff'rence atween my wee wilie and me. In hearty good humour, although she be teaz'4i I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. Sae hide ye yet, §•«. THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. BY ALEXANDER ROSS. There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow. All' she wad gae try the spinning o't, She liiuted her down, an' her rock took a low, And that was a bad beginning o't : She sat an' she grat, an' she ilet and she flang, An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an'' wraug. An' she choked, an' boaked, an' cry'd like to mang, Alas ! for the dreary spinning o't. I've wanted a sark for these eight years an* ten. An' this was to be the beginning o't. SONGS. 133 But I vow I slnll want it for as lang again, Or ever I try the spinning o't ; For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' nie, Did sic a mishap an' raisanter befa* me, But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' draw me, The neist time I try the spinning o't. I hae keeped my house for these three score o' years, An' ay I kept free o* the spinning o't. But how I was sarked foul fa' them that speers. For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. But our women are now a days grown sae bra'. That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, The warlds were better when ne'er an awa' Had a rig but aae at the beginning o't. Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin, That had been so lang a beginning o't, I might well have ended as I did begin. Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't. But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her ain weerd, I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd. How loot ye the low take your rock be the beard. When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart sob. When I think upo' the beginning o't, I thought ere I died to have aues made a web, But still I had weers o' the spinning o't. But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three, The safest and soundest advice I cud gee. Is that they frae spinning wad keep tlieii* hands free, For fear of a bad beginning o't. Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run The drearysorae risk of the spinning o't, Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun. And there venture o' the beginning o't : But to do as I did, alas, and awow ! To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low. Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, And as little ado with the spinning o't. But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves Myjieirt to think o' the beginning o't, Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves, Then there had been word o' the spinning o't ; This I wad ha' washen an' bleech'd like the snaw, ;Vnd o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw, An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy was bra', An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't. But gin I wad shog about till a new spring, 1 should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't, A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling. For a' the wan chunsie beginning o't. I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how, An' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow, Of good ranty-tree for to carry ray tow, An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't. For now when I min^ s^-- . st-et Maggy Grina This morning just as. ■» beginning o i. She was never ca'd i^Jincy, but canny an* slim. An' sae it has fair'd . my spinning o't : But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry, I'll a* Maggies can an' her cantraps defy. An* but onie sussie the spinning I'll try, An' ye's a' hear o* the beginning o't. Quo' Tibby, her dather, tak tent fat ye say, The nevei- a ragg we'll be seeking o't. Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day, Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't. Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa, An* never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma*. An' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra', As thrummy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. To labor the lint-land, an' then buy the seed. An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't. An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed, Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain, An' then after a' may be labor in vain. When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't. But tho' it should anter the weather to byde, Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't. An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aff the hide, With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw. The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low. The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right. Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't. We may tak our advice frae our ain mither's fright That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns indeed, An* sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need To sickan an amshack that we drive our head, As langs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now heard you a', An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't, Gin ye, fan the cows flings, the cog cast awa', Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning o't. But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra', But gae by the name of a dilp or a da, Sae lack where ye like I shall anes shak a fa'. Afore 1 be dung with the spinning o't. For well I can mind me when black Willie Bel) Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't. What blew up the bargain, she kens well hersell, Was the want of the knack of the spinning o't. 134 BURNS* WORKS. An' now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken, She may never get sic an offer again. But pine away bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen, An' naetbing to wyte but the spinning o't. But were it for naething, but just this alane, I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't, They may cast me for ca'ing me black at tlie bean, But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. But, he that as it happens, I care not a strae, But nane of the lads shall luie it to say,^ When they come till woo, she kens naething avae, Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had but won. To a siirkoat hough side for the winning o't, Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun, They never sought mair o' the spinning o't. A pair of grey hoggers well clinked benew, Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew, With a pair of rough ruUions to scuff thro' the dew, Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, An' how get we that, but the spinning o't? How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee, Except we can help at the winning o't ? An' we maun hae pearlins and mabbies an' cocks. An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks. An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks, And pow what we can at the spinning o't ? 'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks Frae our niither's miscooking the spinning o't, She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks, Frae this aback to the beginning o't. Twa three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought By oui auld warld bodies, an' that boot be bought, For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, So little they kend o' the spinning o't, HOOLY AND FAIRLY. It is remark-worthy that the song of Hoohj ind Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is cal- ed The Drunken Wife o' Galloway, which ocalizes it to that country.— Burns. THE DRUNKEN WIFE o' GALLOWAY. Oh ! what had I to do for to marry? My wife she drinks naething but sack and Ca- nary, 1 to her friends complain'd right earlv, O ! (fin my wife wad drink honly and fair.y, Hohly and fairly, hnoty and fairly; O ! ijin my wife wad drink I »-., rnd fairly. First she drank crummie, and syne she drank garie ; Now she has druken my bonny grey marie, That carried me thro' a' the dubs and the larie O ! gin, Sfc. She has drukea her stockins, sa has she hei shoon, And she has druken her bonny new gown ; Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely, O ! gin, §-0. If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na mucb care. But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare, When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, O ! gin, 8fc. My Sunday's co;it she's laid it a wad, The i)est blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; At kirk and at market I'm cover'd Ijut barely, O I gin, §-c. The verra gray mittens that gaed on my hao's. To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns ; My bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly, O ! gin, Sfc. If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll curse, She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, O ! gin, ^c. 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 ay for a parley. O / gin, ^e. A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow. But when she sits down she tills herself fou ; And when she is fou she's unco camstarie, O J gin, ij-c. Wlien ' she comes to the street she roars and she rants. Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds the house wants ; She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'er heart, Charlie." O ! gin, Sfc. And when she comes hame she lays on the lads. She ca's the lasses baith limmers and jads, And 1, my ain si'll. an auld cuckold carlie, O ! gin my icife wad drink hooly and fairly^ JJooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. SONGS 135 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. BY THE REV. J. SKINNER. T^itt — " Dumbarton Drums." O ! WHY shbuld old age so much wound us I* There is nothing in it all to confound us : For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oys j- all ai'ound us ; For how happy now am I, S^c, We began in the warld wi' naething, And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing ; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad ; Wlien we got the bit meat and the claithing, We made use of what we had, Sfc. We have liv'd all our life-time contented. Since the day we became first acquainted : It's true we've been but poor, And we are so to this hour ; But we never yet repin'd or lamented. It's true we've been but poor, Sfc. When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit ; But we alw^ays gave a share Of the little we cou'd spare, When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. Sut we always gave a share, Sfc. We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, By means that were cunning or stealthy ; But we always had the bliss, (And what further could we wiss), To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy. Jiui we always had the bliss, Sfc. What the' we cannot boast of our guineas, We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; And these, I'm certain, are More desirable by far Than a bag full of poor yellow sleenies. And these, I'm certain, are, ^c. We have seen many wonder and ferly, Of changes that almost are yearly, Among rich folks up and down, . Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely, Amor,.^ ■•'"h folks up and down, Sfc. Then why should people brag of prosperity ? A straiten'd life we see is no rarity ; Indeed we've been in want. And our living's been but scant. Yet we never were reduced to need charity. Itdeed we've been in want, Sfc. ' In this house we first came together. Where we've long been a father and mither ; And tho' not of stone and lime, It will last us all our time ; And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither. And tho' not of sfone and lime, ^c. And when we leave this poor habitation, We'll depart with a good commendation ; We'll go hand in hand, I wiss. To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation. Then why should old age so much wound us. There is nothing in it all to confound us t For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by. And our bairns and our oys all around us. • Thii tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in readmg the song the O is better omitted. + Oj/*— Grand-children. TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. A PART of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. *— Burns. In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill. And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill : Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, She said to me right hastily. Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life. And tak your auld cloak about ye. My Cromie is an useful cow, And she is come of a good kyne ; Aft has she wet the bairns' mou. And I am laith that she shou'd tyne. Get up, goodman, it is fou time,. The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; Sloth never made a gracicius end. Go tak your ^uld cloak about ye. My cloak was anes a good grey cloak, WTien it was fitting for my wear ; But now it's scantly worth a groat, For I have worn't this thirtv year ; Let's spend the gear that we have won, We little ken the day we'll die : Then I'll be jjroud, since I have sworn 1 o have a new cloak about me. * In the drinking scene in Othello ; lago sings,— King Stephen was a worthy peer, His lireeohes cost him but a crown ; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he called the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown. Anil thou art but of low degree ; 'Tis pride that pulls the country down. Then take thine auld cloak about thee. The old song from which these stanzas were taken was recovered by Dr. Percy, and preserved by liim i» his Reliquei of Ancient Poetry. 136 BURNS' WORKS. In days wLen our king Robert rang, His trews they cost but hatf a crown ; He said they were a groat o'e"- dear. And call'd the taylor thief and loun. He was the king that wore a crown, And thou the man of lalgh degree, *Tis pride puts a' the country down, Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. Every land has its ain laugh, Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, I think the warld is a' run wrang, When ilka wife her man wad rule ; Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, As they are girded gallantly. While I sit hurklen in the ase ; I'll have a new cloak about me. Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years. Since we did ane anither ken ; And we have had between us twa, Of lads and bonny lasses ten : Now they are women grown and men, I wish and pray well may they be ; And if you prove a good husband. E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; But she wad guide me; if she can, And to maintain an easy life, ' I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman . Nought's to be won at woman's hand, Unless ye give her a' the plea ; Then I'll leave aff where I began. And tak my auld cloak about me. " Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed. And my good lord beside me ; This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn, Whatever shall betide me." Come to your bed, says Johny Faa, Oh ! come to your bed, my deary ; For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword. That your loid shall nae uiair come near ye " I'll go to bed to my Johny Faa, And I'll go to bed to my deary ; For I vow and swear by what past yestreen. That my lord shall nae raair come near mew " I'll mak a hap to my Johny Faa, And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; And he's get a' the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me> And when our lord came home at e'en. And speir'd for his fair lady. The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd. She's away wi*- the gypsie laddie. " Gae saddle to me the black, black steed, Gae saddle and mak him ready ; Before that I either eat or sleep, I'll gae seek my fair lady." And we were fifteen well-made men, Altho' we were nae bonny ; And we were a' put down for ane, A fair young wanton lady. JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. The people in Ayrshire begin this song — The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett. They have a groat many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. The castle is still remaining at Alaybole, where bis lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life. — Burns. The gypsies came to our good lord's gate. And wow but they sang sweetly ; They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, That down came the fair ladie. And she cnme tripping down the st^ir, Aud a' her maids before her ; As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face, They const the glamer o'er her. " Gar tak fra me this gay mantile. And bring to me a plaidie ; For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, I'll follow the gypsie laddie. TO DAUNTON ME. The two following old stanzas to this tuna have some merit : — Burns. To daunton me, to daunton me, ken ye what it is that'll daunton me ?-^ There's eighty eight and eighty nine, And a' that I bae born sinsyne, There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me. But to wanton me, to wanton me, ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?— • To see gude corn upon the rigs. And banishment amang the Whigs, And right restored where rigl. . ...^u ue, 1 think it would do meikle for to wanton me. TO DAUNTON ME. * There is an old set of the song : not politi cal, but very independent. It runs thus :— - The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, , The siuuuer lilies blume in snaw. SONGS. 137 The frost may freeze the deepest sea, But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton nie, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue, That is the thing ye ne'er shall see, For an auld man shall never daunton me. For a' his meal, for a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef, and his saut, For a' his gowd and white monie, Au auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, &c. His gear may buy him kye and yowes. His gear may buy him glens and koowes, But me he shall not buy nor fee. For an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, &c. He hirples twa fau'd as he dow. Wi' his teethless gab, and his bald pow, And the rheum rins down frae his red blue e'e. But an auld man shall never daunton me. THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. " The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," was composed on an amour of Charles H. when skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the time of the usurpation. He formed une petite affaire with a daughter of the House of Port- letham, who was the laas that made the bed to him : — two verses of it are, I Kiss'n her lips sae rosy red, While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; I said my lassie dinna cry. For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. . She took her mither's winding sheet, And o't she made a sark to me ; BIythe and merry may she be. The lass that made the bed to me. Burns. I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. This story was founded on fact. A John Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family who live in a place in the parish, I think, of Galston, called Barr-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 feed 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-grand- child to our hero, — Burns. I HAD a horse, and I had nae mair, I gat him frae my datldy ; My purse was light, and my heart was sair But my wit it was fu' ready. And sae I thought me on a time, Outwittens of my daddy, To fee mysel to a lawland laird, Wna had a bonnie 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 tho' ye kend it : For I get little frae he laird, And far less frae my daddy, And I would biythely be the man Would strive to please my lady." She read my letter, and she leugh, " Ye needna been sae blate, man ; You might hae come to me yoursel, And tauld me o' your state, man : Ye might hae come to me yoursel, Outwittetis o' ony body, And made Jolin Gowkston of the laird^ And kiss'd his bonnie lad/." Then she pat siller in my purse, We drank wine in a coggie ; She feed a man to rub my horse, And wow ! but I was vogie. But I gat ne'er sa sair a fleg. Since I came frae my daddy, The laird came, rap rap, to the yett. When I was wi' his lady. Then she pat me below a chair, And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ; But I was like to swarf wi' fear. And wish'd me wi' my daddy. The laird went out, he saw na me, I went when I was ready : I promis'd, but I ne'er gade back To kiss his bonnie lady. AULD ROBIN GRAY. This air was formerly called The Sridg' groom greets when the sun gangs doicn. The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay. — Burns. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee, When my gudeman lyes sound 'by me. Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naething beside ; To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gade to sea. And the crown and the pound were baith for me 138 BURNS' WORKS. He had nae been awa a week but only twa. When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. IVIy father coudna work, and my mother coudua spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- na win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi* tears in his ee, Said, " Jenny, for their sokes, O marry me.", My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die, And why do I live to say, waes me ? My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna speak, She look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ; So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea. And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four. When sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he, 'Till he said, '' I'm come back for to marry thee." sair did we greet, and mickle did we say. We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away, 1 wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die, And why do I live to say, waes me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, I darna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gudewife to be. For auld Robin Grav Ls kind unto me. UP AND WARN A' WILLIE. The expression, " Up and warn a' WiUie," alljjdes to the Crantara, or warning of a High- .and Clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up and waur them a, &c. This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel,* of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. Up and warn a', Willie, Wain, ream a , To hear my canty Highland sang. Relate the thing I saw, TFi'/i/e.— Burns. * Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and lived chiefly py making coffins. He was also Hrecentor, or Clerk, in one of the churches. He had a good strong voice, and was greatly distinguished by his powers of mimicry, and his humorous manner of singing the old Scottish balladg. , When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, Wi' true design to serve the king. And banish whigs awa, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For lords and lairds came there bedeen. And wou but they were braw, Willie But when the standard was set up, Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie ; The royal nit upon the tap Down to the ground did fa', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Then second-sighted Sandy said. We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. But when the army join'd at Perth, The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, We didna doubt the rogues to rout^ Restore our king and a',' Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; The pipers play'd frae right to left, O wjiirry whigs awa, Willie. But when we march 'd to Sherra-muir, And there the rebels saw, Willie, Brave Argyle attack'd our right. Our flank and front and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Traitor Huntly soon gave way, Seaforth, St. Clair and a', WiUie. But brave Glengary on our right. The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; He there the greatest slaughter made That ever Donald.saw, Willie. Up and warn a' Willie, Warn, warn a' ; And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear, And fast did rin awa, Willie. For he ca'd us a Highland mob, And soon he'd slay us a' Willie, But we chas'd him back to Stirling brig^ Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; At length we rallied on a hill. And briskly up did draw, Willie. But when Argyle did view our line. And them in order saw, Willie, He streight gaed to Diimblane again, ■ And back his left did draw, Willie Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Then we to Auchteraider march'd, To wait a better fa', Willie. Now if ye spear wha wan the day, I've tell'd you what I saw, W-'li», SONGS. 139 We biith did fight and baith did beat, And baith did rin awa, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For second-sighted Sandie said, We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. I FIND the Blythsome Bridal in James Wat- ion's Collection of Scots Poems, printed at Edinburgh in 1706. This song has humour and a felicity of ex- pression worthy of Ramsay, with even more than his wonted broadness and sprightly Ian guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with their Historical Epithets, are done in the true Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when every householder was nicknamed either from some prominent part of his character, person, or lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — *' Skape-fitted Rob." " Thrawn-mou d Rah o' the Z)ubs." " Roarin Jock i' tite Swair " Slaverin Simynie o' Tods/iaw." " Souple Kate o' Lrongray" &c. &c. — Burns. Fy let us all to the bridal, For there will be lilting there ; For Jockie's to be married to IMaggie, The lass wi' the gauden hair. And there will be lang-kail and pottage, And bannocks of barley-meal, And there will be good sawt herring. To relish a cog of good ale. Fy let us all to the bri'>"nie boys playing at the ba', The youngest ne was the flower amang them a' ; My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. " O father, O father, an' ye think it fit, We'll send him a year to the college yet ; We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew. Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue. And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet. Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik, Bonnie, and blooming, and straight was its make, The sun took delight to shine for its sake, And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. The simmer is gane, when the leaves they were green ; And the days are awa that we hae seen ; But fan better days, I trust, will come again, For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's groW' in' yet. \ KILLYCRANKY. The battle of Killycranky was the last stand made by the Clans for James, after his abdica- tion. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. — General Mackay, when he found the High- landers did not pursue his flying army, said, " Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell. — Burns. Clavers and his highland-men. Came down upo* the raw, man, Who being stout, gave mony a clout, The lads began to claw, then. With sword and terge into their hand, Wi' which they were nae slaw, man, Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, The lads began to claw, then. O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, She Hang amang them a', man ; The butter-box got mony knocks, Their riggings paid for a' then ; They got their pjiks, wi' sudden straiks. Which to their grief they saw, man ; Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns. The lads began to fa' then. ' Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, And flang auiang them a', man ; The English blades got broken heads. Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then. The durk and door made their last hour, And prov'd their final fa, man ; They thought the devil had been there. That play'd them sic a paw then. The solemn league and covenant Came whigging up the hills, man, Thought highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then : Li Willie's name * they thought nae ane Durst stop their course at a', man ; But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock, Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. Sir Evan Du, and his men true, Came linking up the brink, man ; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, They bred a horrid stink, then. The true Maclean, and his fierce men, Came in amang them a', man ; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, All fled and ran awa' then. 0/»' on a ri, oh' on a ri. Why should she lose king Shames, man? Oh' rig in di, oh' rig j« di, She shall break a' her banes then ; With furichinish, an' stay a while, And speak a word or twa, man. She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, Before ye win awa' then, O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, Hur naiie-sell's won the day, man ; King Shame's red-coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa' then : Had bent their brows, like highland trows. And made as lang a stay, man. They'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing. And Willie'd ' ran' awa' then. THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKIT HORN Another excellent song of old Skinner's.— Burns. Were I but able to rehearse My Ewie's praise in proper verse, I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce As ever piper's drone could blaw ; The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Wha had kent her might hae sworn Sic a Ewe was never born. Hereabout nor far awa', Sic a Ewe was never born. Hereabout nor far awa'. I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo' hip or' heel. ♦ Prince of Orane*. 148 BURNS' WORKS. Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by arao' them a' ; She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit ay her ain jog trot, Baith to the fauld and to the coat. Was never sweir to lead nor caw, Baith to the fauld and to the coat, &c. Cauld nor hunger never dang her. Wind nor wet could never wrang her, Anes she lay an ouk and langer, Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw : Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, And eat the kail for a' the tyke. My Ewie never play'd the like, But tyc'd about the barn wa* ; My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. A better or a thriftier beast, Nae honest man could weel hae wist, For silly thing she never mist. To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' ; The first she had I gae to Jock, To be to him a kind o' stock, And now the laddie has a flock O' mair nor thirty head ava' ; And now the laddie has a flock, &c. I lookit aye at even' for her. Lest mischanter shou'd come o'er her, Or the fowmatt might devour her. Gin the beastie bade awa ; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, Sic a Ewe was never born, Here-about nor far awa. Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, (Wha can speak it without weeping ?) A villain cam when I was sleeping, Sta' my Ewie, horn and a' ; I sought her sair upo' the morn. And down aneath a buss o' thorn I got my Ewie's crookit horn, But my Ewie was awa'. I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. ! gin I had the Ioum that did it. Sworn I have as well as said it, Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a ihra' : 1 never met wi' sic a turn, As this sin ever 1 was born. My Ewie wi' the ciookit horn, Silly Ewie stown awa'. My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. O ! had she died o' crook or cauld. As Ewies do when they grow auld. It wad nae been, by mony fauld, Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' : For a' the claith that we hae wuru, Frae her and ber's sae aften shorn, The loss o' her we cou'd hae born. Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'. The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I'm really fley't that our guidwife Will never win aboon't ava; O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call your muses up and mourn. Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 8ec. ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN, This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu- mour and convivial merriment, is an intiraaie favourite at Bridal Trystes, and House-heat- ings. It contains a spirited picture of a country ale-house touched off with all the lightsome gaiety so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when at a fair. Instead of the line, 4 " Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," I have heard it sung, " Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown." These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, and toasted over the red embers of wood on a gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale. On winter market nights the landlady heats them, and diops them intg the quaigh to jyarm the ale : Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken To gar the swats gae glibber down." Burns. BLYTH WAS SHE BIyth, blyth, blyth was she, BIyth was she butt and ben ; And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill, And leugh to see a tappit hen. She took me in, and set me doxfrn. And hcght to keep me lawing-free ; But, cunning calling that she was, She gart me birle my bawbie. We loo'd the liquor well enough ; But waes my heart my cash was done Before that I had quencli'd my drowth. And laith I was to pawn my shoon. When we had three times toom'd our stoup, And the niest chappin new begun, Wha started in to hecze our hope, But Andro' wi' his cutty gun. SONGS. 149 The carling brought her kebbuck ben, With girdle-cakes weel-toasted brown, Well does the canny kimmer ken, They gar the swats gae glibber down. We ca'd the bicker aft about ; Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun, And ay the cleanest drinker out Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. He did like ony mavis sing, And as i in his oxter sat, He ca'd me ay his bonny thing, And mony a sappy kiss I gat : I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been far ayont the sun ; But the blythest lad that e'er I saw Was Andro wi' his cutty gun ! HUGHIE GRAHAM. There are several editions of this ballad. — This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song. — It originally, had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten. — Burns. Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o' the fallow deer, And they have gripet Hughie Graham For stealing o' the bishop's mare. And they have tied him hand and foot. And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun. O lowse my right hand free, he says, And put my braid sword iu the same ; He's no in Stirling town this day. Dare 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'U let Hughie Graham free. O baud your tongue, the bishop says. And wi' your pleading let me be ; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die. Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop's knee ; Five hundred white pence I'll gie you. If ye'U gie Hughie Graham to me. O hand your tongue now lady fair, And wi' your pleading let it be ; Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat. Its for my honor he maun die. They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek. Nor ever did he blink his ee. At length he looked round about. To see whatever he could spy : And there he saw his auld father, And he was weeping bitterly. O baud your tongue, my father dear, And v;i* 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 brovn. And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brother Hugh cut down. Remember me to Maggy my wife. The niest time ye gang o'er the moor, Tell her she staw 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. LORD RONALD, MY SON. This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- sical shepherd, composed the simple artless ori- ginal air, which being picked up by the more learned musician, took the improved for tim bears. — Burns. The name is commonly sounded Ronald, or Randal. Where have ye been hunting, Lord Randal, my son ? Where have ye been hunting. My handsome young man ? In yon wild wood. Oh mother, So make my bed soon ; For I'm wae, and I'm weary, And fain would lie dowa. Where gat ye your dinner, Lord RandaV, my son ? Where gat ye your dinner, My handsome young man? 150 BURNS' WORKS. O, I dined witli my true love, So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weary, And iiiin would lie down. O, what was your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? O, what was your dinner, My handsome young man ? Eels boiled in bioo, mother ; So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weary. And fain would lie down. O, where did she find them. Lord Randal, my son ? O, where did she catch them. My handsome young man ? 'Neath the bush of brown brekan. So make my bed soon : For I'm wae, and I'm weary And fain would lie down. Now, where are your bloodhounds. Lord Randal, my son ? What came of your bloodhounds, My handsome young man ? They swelled and died, mother, And sae maun I soon : O, I am wae, and I'm weaiy, And fain would lie down. I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son ! I fear you are poisoned, My handsome young man ! yes I am poisoned, — So make my bed soon : 1 am sick, sick at hes.rt. And I now must lie down. LOGAN BRAES. Theae were two old songs to this tune ; one of them contained some striking lines, the other entered into the sweets of wooing rather too freely for modern poetry. — It began, ♦' Ae simmer night on Logan braes, I helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes. First wi* her stockins, an' syne wi' her shoon, But she gied me the glaiks when a' was done." The other seems older, but it is not so charac- teristic of Scottish courtship. •' Logan Water's wide and deep. An' laith am I to weet my feet ; But gif ye'U consent to gang wi' me, I'll hire ahorse to carry thee." Burns. ANOTHER SET. LOGAN WATER. BY JOHN MAYNE. By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, I've herded sheep, or gather 'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : But, wae's my heart, thae days are gan^ And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes, Far , far frae me and Logan Braes ! Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, Atween the preachings, meet wi' me— Meet wi* me, or, when it's mirk. Convoy me hame frae Logan Kirk ! I Weil may sing, thae days are gane — Frae Kiik and Fair I come my lane. While my dear lad maun face his faes. Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. This song is the composition of a Jean Gloveir, a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a thief; and in one or other character has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West.— She was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took the song down from her singing as she was strolling through the country, with a slight-of- hand blackguard. — Burns. Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie blooming heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keeping a' her yowes thegither. O'er tl^e moor amang the heather. O'er the moor amang the heather. There I met a bonnie lassie, Keeping a' her yowes thegither. Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame. In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? She says, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the blooming heather, O'er the moor, ifc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather. She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bounie blooming heather. O'er the moor, ifc While thus we lay she sang a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther, And ay the burden o' the sing Was — o'er the moor amaiig tlie heather. O'er the moor, ^c. i SONGS. 151 She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsy^, I could na think on any ither : By sea and sky she shall be mine ! The bonnie lass amang the heather. O'er the moor, §"c. BONNIE DUNDEE. WHARE gat ye that hauver-meal bannock, O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye see ! 1 got it frae a sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee : May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, And sen* him safe hame to his babie and me ! May blessias light on thy sweet, we lippie ! May blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree! Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplan by sae clear ; An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine. An' mak thee a man like thy daddie dear ! OLD VERSE. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood. Ye' re like to the bark o* yon rotten tree, Ye slip frae me like a knotless thi-ead, An' ye'll crack your credit wi* mae than me. DONOCHT-HEAD. Tune — " Gordon Castle." Kken biaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,* The snaw drives snelly thro* the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. " Cauld is the night, O let me in, *' And dinna let your minstrel fa', " And dinna let his windin-sheet " Be naething but a wreath o* snaw ! *' Full ninety winters hae I seen, " And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, " And mony a day ye've dane'd, I ween, " To lilts which frae my drone I blew." My Eppie wak*d, and soon she ci"y*d, " Get up, Guidmau, and let him in ; " For weel ye ken the winter night " Was short when he began Lis din.'* My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet E'en tho* she bans and scaulds awee ; But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, O haith, it's doubly dear to me ! Come in, auld Carl ! I'll steer my fire, I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame ; Your blude Js thin, ye've tint the gate, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. " Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, " Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; " And, weeping at the eve o' life, " I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw.* THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. This song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appel- lation of Anglo- Scottish productions. The mu- sic is pretty good, but the verses are' just above contempt. — Burns. BARNETT. I LEFT the sweet banks of the deep flowing Tweed, And my own little cot by the wild wood. When Fanny was sporting through valley and mead. In the beautiful morning of childhood And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, When the billows of twilight were flowing, I thought, as I mus'd on the days that were o'er, How the rose on her cheek would be blowing. I came to the banks of the deep flowing Tweed, And mine own little cot by the wild wood, When o'er me ten summers had gather'd their speed. And Fanny had pass'd from her childhood. I found her as fair as my fancy could dream, Not a bnd of her loveliness blighted, And I wish'd I had ne'er seen her beauty's soft beam. Or that we were for ever united. THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. This Song is one of the many effusions of Scots jacobitism. — The title, Flowers of Edin- burgh, has no manner of connexion with the present verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains. * A mountain in the North. • Tliis affecting poem was long attributed to Burns. He thus remarks on it. " Donoc/it-Head is not mine : I would give ten ))ounds it were. It .ippeared first in tiie Kdinburpti Herald ; and came to tile editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." It was the composition of William Pickering, a north of England puet, who is not known to have written any thing more. BURNS' WORKS. By the oye, it is singular enough that the Scottish Muses were all Jacobites 1 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 fami- lies of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hundreds satirizing them. This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I wou'd always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head ; and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting than * • — Burns. My love was once a bonny lad, He was the flower of all his kin, The absence of his bonny face Has rent my tender heart in twain. day nor night find no delight, In silent tears I still complain ; And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, That ha'e ta'en from me my darling swain. Despair and anguish fills my breast, Since I have lost my blooming rose ; 1 sigh and moan while others rest, His absence yields me no repose. To seek my love I'll range and rove, Thro' every grove and distant plain ; . Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days, To hear tidings from my darling swain. There's naething strange in Nature's change, Since parents shew such cruelty ; They caus'd my love from me to range. And knows not to what destiny. The pretty kids and tender lambs IMay cease to sport upon the plain ; But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent For the absence of my darling swain. Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat. To send a fair an And tirled at the pin ; And wha sae ready as hersell, To let the laddie in ! And Charlie, §•«. He set his Jenny on his knee. All in his Highland dress ; For brawly weel he kenned the way To please a bonnie lass. And Charlie, SfC. It's up yon heathy mountain, And down yon scroggy glen. We daurna gang a- milking, For Charlie and his men. And Charlie, §•« THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. Up with the souters of Selkirk, And down with the Earl of Home ! And up wi' a' the brave lads, Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! O ! fye upon yellow and yellow. And fye upon yellow and green ; And up wi* the true blu» and scarlet, And up wi' the single-soted shoon ! Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — Up wi' the lingle and last ! There's fame wi' the days that's coming. And glory wi' them that are past. Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — Lads that are trusty and leal ; And up with the men of the Forest, And down wi' the Merse to the deil • O ! mitres are made for noddles. But feet they are made for shoon ; SONGS. 153 And fame is as sib to Selkirk As light is true to the muoa. There si»s a souter in Selkirk, Wha sings as he draws his thread^ There's gallant soutcrs in Selkirk As lang there's water in Tweed. CRAIL TOUN.« " Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." And was ye e'er in Crail toun ? Igo and ago ; And saw ye there Clerk Dishington ? f Sing irom, igon, ago. His wig was like a doukit hen, Igo and ago ; The tail o't like a goose-pen, Sing irom, igon, ago. And d'nna ye ken Sir John Malcolm? Igo and ago ; Gin he's a wise man I mistak him, Sing irom, igon, ago. And hand ye weel frae Sandie Don, Igo and ago ; He's ten times dafter nor Sir John, Sing irom, igon, ago. To hear them o' their travels talk, Igo and ago ; To gae to London's but a walk. Sing irom, igon, ago. To see the wonders o' the deep, Igo and ago. Wad gar a. man baith wail and weep, Sing irom, igon, ago. To se» the leviathan skip, Igo and ago, And wi* his tail ding ower a ship, Sing irom, igon, ago. • There is a somewhat different version of this strange song in Herd's Collection, 1776- The present, which I think the best, is copied from the Scottish Minstrel. t The person known in Scottish song and tradition by the epithet Clerk Dishington, was a notary who re. sided about the middle of the last century in Crail, and acted as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. 1 have been informed that he was a person of great local celebrity in his time, as an uncompromising humour- ist MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O, Tune—" My only jo and dearie, O Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue. My only jo and dearie, O ; Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew, Upon the liank sae briery, O. Tliy ttetli are o' the ivory, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me. My only jo and dearie, O. When we were bairnies on yon brae. And youth was blinkiu' bonuie, O, Aft we wad (hiff the lee lang day. Our joys f'u' sweet and monie, O. Aft I \vad chase thee ower the lee, And round about the thorny tree ; Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, O. 1 hae a wish I canna tine, i 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, Oj A wish that thou wert ever mine, And never niair to leave me, O ; Then I wad daut thee nicht and day, Nae ither warldly care I'd hae, Till life's warm stream forgat to play. My only jo and dearie, O. FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. Tune — " Fairly shot o' her." O gill I were fairly shot o' her/ Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her I O gin I v)ere fairly shot o her ! If she were detid, I wad dance on the top o' her* Till we were married, I couldna see licht tit her ; For a month after, a' thing aye gaed richt w? her : But these ten years I hae prayed for a wrigai to her — O gin I were fairly shot •' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her I Sfc. Nana o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her : The neebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her; And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot u' her ! 8fc. She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her ; There's no a gudewife in the haill couniiy-side like her ; * Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furniture in St. Mary's Wynd, Edinburgh, was brought up to the business of a printer, and died at an early aga about the beginning ot the present uentury. N2 154 BURNS' WORKS. Wi' dress aud wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! §*c. If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi' her, And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi' her : O gin I were fairly shot o* her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! Sfc. FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D ME THIS. False luve ! and hae ye play'd rae this, In summer, 'mid the flowers ? I shall repay ye back again In winter, 'mid the showers. But again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, Will ye not turn again ? As ye look to other women Shall I to other men ? • FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE. And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bee, berry, bum ; Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my auld wife. The steerer up o' sturt and strife. The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. And fare ye weel, my pike-staflF ; Sinff bum, bre, berry, bum : Fare ye weel, my pike-stutf ; Sine bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, ^W'"' vou oae mair my wife I'll baff; The maut's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. It fell about the Martinmas time. And a gay time it was than, » From Herd's Collection, 1776— A slightly differ, ent version is put by -Sir Walter Scott into the mouth of Davie Gellatley, in t]ie celebrated novel of Waver- lev •- " False love, and hast thou play'd me tilia. In summer, among the flowers? I will repay thee back again In winter, among the showers. " Unless again, again, my love. Unless you turn again, • As you with other maidens rove, I'll smile on other men " When our gudewife had puddins to mak, And she boil'd them in the pan. Aiid the barrin' o* our door well, weil, weil, And the barrin' o' our door weil. The wind blew cauld frae south to norths It blew into the floor ; Says our gudeman to our gudewife, Get up and bar the door. And the barrin', ^c. My hand is in my hussyfe skep, Gudeman, as ye may see ; An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner year. It's no be barr'd for me. And the barrin, §-c. Th6y made a paction 'tween them twa. They made it firm and sure, The first that spak the foremost word Should rise and bar the door. And the barrin', Sfc, Then by there came twa gentlemen, At twelve o'clock at night ; And they could neither see house nor ha', Nor coal nor candle-licht. And the barrin', i^c. Now whether is this a rich man's house. Or whether is this a puir ? But never a word wad ane o' them speak. For the barrin* o' the door. And the barrin', tfc. And first tuey ate the white puddins, Aud syne they ate the black ; And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersell. But never a word she spak. And the barrin', Sfc, Then said the tane unto the tother, Hae, man, take ye my knife, Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard. And I'll kiss the gudewife. And the barrin, ifc. But there's nae water in the house. And what shall we do than? What ails ye at the puddin' broo. That boils into the pan? And the barrin', S^c. O, up then startit our gudeman, And an angry man was he : Wad ye kiss my wife before my face. And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? And the barrin', Sfc. Then up and startit our gudewife, Gi'ed three skips on the floor : Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word. Get up and bar the door.* And the barrin', §•£. • From Herd's Collection, 1776. — Tradition, as re. ported in Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that the SONGS. 155 LOGIE O' BUCHAN. Tune—" Logie o* Buchan." O, Logie o' Buchan, O, Logie, the laird, They hae ta'en awa Jamie that delved in the yard ; He play'd on th^ pipe and the viol sae sma' ; They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o' them a*. He said. Think na long, lassie, though I gang awa ; He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa ; For the simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa. And I'll come back and see thee in spite o' them a\ O, Sandie has owsen, and siller, and kye, A house and a liaddin, and a' things forbye, But I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's hand. Before I'd hae Sandy wi' houses and land. He said, ^c. My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour. They frown upon Jamie, because he is poor ; But daddie and minnie although that they be, There's natie o' them a' like my Jamie to me. He said, §■€. I sit on my creepie, and spin at my wheel, And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ; He had but ae sixpence — he brak it in twa. And he gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa. Then, haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa, T'hen liasteye back. Jamie, and bide na awa ; Simmer is comin , cauld winter's awa, And ye' II come and see me in spite o' them " si'rteman" of this song was a person of the name of John Blunt, who hveil of yore in Crawford-Muir. There are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes ; the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems to have been preserved by tradiiion alone, as we have never seen it in print. A third tune, to which we have heard this song sung, by only one person, an American student, we suspect to have been -mported from his own country. • " Logie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan of I'eterhead, in his (ileanings of Scarce Old Ballads (18 '71. to have been the composition of Mr. George Halim Glasgow, formiug a sort odovertf uxUk for the lads and latses of that citv. SONGS. 157 Gin a body meet a body, Comin' tVae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown? Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Naiie, they say, hae I ! Yet a' ili^ lads they smile at me, When coBiin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysell ; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. Tune — " The Smith's a gallant firemao." O DINNA tliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaim to leave thee ; I'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee. Ear's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the night and eerie ; Par's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the night and eerie ; Ear's the gate ye hae to gang; dark's the night and eerie ; O stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me. It's but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll come again and see thee. Di)ina gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me ; Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me ; When a' the lave are sound asleep, I'm dull and eerie ; And a' the lee-lang nig-ht I 'm sad, wi' think- ing on my dearie. O dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dmna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; When e'er tlie sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come again and see thee. Waves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw loud and fear me ; VVxves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw loud and fearane. While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and dreary ; And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me. never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and- leave thee ; Never mair, bonnie lassie ,will I gang and leave thee ; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee; E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay at hame and cheer thee. Erae his hand he coost his stick ; I winna gang and leave thee ; Threw his plaid into the neuk ; never can I grieve thee ; Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my lass, be cheerie ; I'll kiss the tear frae aff thy check, and never leave my dearie. BONNIE MARY HAY. > CRAWFORD Bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet; Eor thine eye is the slae, and thy hair is the jet , The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek ; O, bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet ! O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me, When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn tree. To the hawthorn tree, and the bonnie beiry den? And I'll tell thee, Mary Hay, how I loe thoe then. O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to me. When thou art couthie, kind, and free ; There's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, Bbnnie Maiy Hay, when thou art nigh. O, bonnie Mary Hay, thou manna say me nay, But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae ; But come to the bower, and I'll tell ye a' what's true. How, wnnie Mary Hay, I can loe nane but yon. CARLE, AN THE KING COME. Tune — " Carle, an the King come." Carle, an the king come. Carle, an the king come, Thou shalt dance and I will sing, Carle, an the kina: come. 158 BURNS' WORKS An somebody were come again, Tiien somebody maun cross the main ; And every man shall hae his ain, Carle, an the king come. I trow we swappit for the worse ; We ga'e the boot and better horse ; And that we'll tell them at the corse. Carle, an the king come. Wlien yellow corn grows on the rigs, And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs, O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs, Carle, an the king come. Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine, As we hae done — a dog's propine — But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine, Carle, an the king come. Cogle, an the king come, Cogie, an the king come, I'se be fou and thou'se be toom Cogie, an the king come.* COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. 3Vn<— " Johnny M'Gill." Come under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to fa' ; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw : Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae 'wa ; I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye ; Ye micht be my giitcher ! auld Donald, gae 'wa. I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's bonnie ; He's been at INIeg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw ! Nane dancas sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly. His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw I Dear INIarion, let that flee stick to the wa' ; Ybur Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; The hiiill o' his pack he has now on his back ; He's thietty, and I am but thref score and twa. • This is an old favourite cavalier song ; the chorus, St least, is as old as the time of the Commonwealth, when the return of King Charles U. was a matter of iaily prayer to the Loyalists. Be frank now and kindly — I'll busk ye aye finely ; To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw ; A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'. My father aye tauld me, my mother and a*, Ye'd niak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw ; It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's bonnie ; But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava ! I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; I'm now mair than twenty j my time is but sma' ! Sae gie my your plaidie ; I'll creep in beside ye ; I thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and twa! She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a'. The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstin' in twa. He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it wa» drearie, And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw ; The howlet was screamin', while Johnnie cried, Women Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye braw. O, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang' now sae braw. They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa ; The hail o' their marriage is gowd and a car- riage; Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw. Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye marry ; Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whip and they'll ca', Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youth-. fu' and bonnie. And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw. DUSTY MILLER. Tune—" The dusty Miller." Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat ! He will win a shilling, Ere he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour; Dusty was the kiss. That I gat frae the miller ', SONGS. 159 Hey, the dusty miliar. And his dusty sack ! Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck ; Fills the dusty peck. Brings the dusty siller i I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller. THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. FROM RECITATION. Tunir — " The weary pund o* tow." 1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o* lint As good as ere did grow, And a' that she could make o' that Was ae weary pund o' tow. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow, I thought my wife would end her life Before she span her tow. I lookit to my yarn-nag, And it grew never mair ; I lookit to my beef-stand— My heart grsx^ wonder sair ; I lookit to my meal-boat. And O, but it was howe ! I think my wife will end her life Afore she spin her tow. But if your wife and my wife Were in a boat thegither, And yon other man's wife Were in to steer the ruther ; And if the boat were bottomless, And seven mile to row, I think they'd ne'er come harae again, To spin the pund o' tow I THE LANDART LAIRD. There lives a landart * laird in Fife, And he has married a dandily wife : She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew. But sit wi' her cummers, and fill hersell fu'. She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ; But she wad sit and crack wi' the laird. Sae he is doun to the sheep-fauld, And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld.:f He's whirled aff the gude wether's skin, And wrapped the dandily lady therein. " I downa pay you, for your gentle kin ; But weel may I skelp my wether's skini§ KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE LASSIE. T^ne — " Keep the Country, bonnie Lassie." Keep the country, bonnie lassie. Keep the country, keep the country ; Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; Lads will a' gie gowd for ye : Gnwd for ye, bonnie lassie, Gowd for ye, gowd for ye : Keep the country, bonuie lassie ; Lads will a' gie gowd for ye. HAP AND ROW THE FEETIE O'T. WILLIAM CREECH.* Tune—" Hap and Rowe the Feetie .\^~^" The Campbells are coming." TTte Campbells are coming, O-hn, O-ho / The Campbells are cnmiiirj, O-lio ! The Campbells are coming to boniiic JLiich- leven ! ' The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, O-hu Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; Upon the Lomimrls I lay ; I lookit doun to bonnie Lm-hlcveu, And saw three peixlies play. The Campbells are coming, §*c. Great Argyle he goes before ; He makes the cannons and guns to roar ; With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and (h uni ; The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, O-ho ! The Campbells are coming, 8fC. The Campbells they are a' in arms, Their loyal faith and truth to show, With banners rattling in the wind ; The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 0-ho ! • The Campbells are coming, §*c. MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A HECKLE. Tune — " Lord Breadalbane's March." O MEaRY hae I been teething a heckle. And merry hae I been shajiin a spune ; O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, And kissin my Katie when a' was dune. O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ; A' the lang niclit I cuddle my kimmer. And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a king. Bitter in dule I lickit my wiiinins, O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : Blest be the hour she cooled in her linens, And blythe be the bird that sings over her grave ! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, And come to my arms, my Katie again ! Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! And blest be the day I did it again ! • From Johnson's Musical Museum, Part III., 1790, where it is insinuated, as an on dit, that it was com- fiosed on the imprisonment of Queen Mary in Loch- pven Castle. The Lomonds aie two well-known hills, overhanging Lochleven to the east, and visible from Edinburgh. The air is the well-known family tune or march of the Clan Campbell. SONGS. 165 MY AULD MAN. Tune—" Saw ye my Father ?" In the land of Fife there lived a wicked wife, And in the town of Cupar then, Who sorely did lament, and made her complaint, Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? In cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing late. She said. What's gude for an auld man ? O wheit-breid and wine, and a kinnen new slain ; That's gude for an auld man. Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn. And what for cam ye in ? For bear-bread and water, I'm sure, is much better — It's ower gude for an auld man. Now the auld man's deid, and, without remeid. Into his cauld grave he's gane : Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae missing ; I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man. Within a little mair than three quarters of a year, She was married to a young man then, Who drank at the wine, and tippled at the beer, And spent more gear than he wan. O black grew her brows, and howe grew her een, And cauld grew her pat and her pan : And now she sighs, and aye she says, 1 wish I had my silly auld man ! * FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY OLD VERSES. Tune—" Somebody." For the sake of sointhndy, For the sake nf somebody, I could wake a winter nicht, For the sake of somebody, I AM gaun to seek a wife, I am gaun to buy a plaidy ; I have three stane o' woo' ; Carline, is thy daughter ready ? For the sake of somebody, S^c. * From Ritson's " Scottish Songs," 1793. into which the editor mentions that it was copied from some common collection, whose title he did not re. member. It has often been the task of the Scottish muse to point out the evils of ill-assorted alliances; but she has scarcely ever done so with so much hu- mour, and, at the same time, so much force of moral painting, as in the present ca^e. No tune is a-ssigned to the song in Ritson's Collection ; but the present editor has ventured to suggest the fine air, *' Saw ye my father," rather as being suitable to the peculiar rhythm of the verses, than to the spirit of the compo- lition. Betty, lassy, say't thysell. Though thy dame be ill to shoe : First we'll buckle, then we'll tell ; Let her flyte, and syne come to. Wliat signifies a mother's gloom. When love and kisses come in play? Should we wither in our bloom. And in simmer mak nae hay ? For the sake of somebody, Sfc. Bonny lad, I carena by. Though I try my luck wi' thee, . Since ye are conten,t to tie The half-mark bridal-band wi' me. I'll slip hanie and wash my feet. And steal on linens fair and clean ; Syne at the trysting-place we'll meet, To do but what my dame has done. For the sake of somebody. For the sake of somebody, I could wake a winter nicht, For the sake of somebody. SANDY O'ER THE LEE. Tune — " Sandy o'er the lee." I wiNNA marry ony man but Sandy ower the lee, I winna marry ony man but Sandy ower the lee ; I winna hie the dominie, for gude he canna be ; But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower the lee : For /le's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kiss ing me ; He's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kissing me. I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks ; Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily crooks ; I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor yet will I the miller, But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny siller. For he's aye a-kissing, S^c. I winna hae the soldier lad, for he gangs to the wars ; I winna hae the sailor lad, because he smells o* tar ; I winna hae the lord, or laird, for a' their meikle gear. But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy o er the niuir. For he's aye a-kissing, SfC. MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET Tune—" My Love is but a lassie yet" 3Iy love, she's but a lassie yet ; My love, she's but a lassie yet 166 BURNS' WORKS. Til let her stand a year or tu-a ; She'll no he half sae saucy yet. I RUE tlie day I sought her, O ; I rue the day I sought her, O ; Wha get^ her, needua say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O. My love, she's, SfC. Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will — But here I never miss'd it yet. My love, she's, 8j-c. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, And couldna preach for thinking o't. My love, she's, Sfc. MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE. Tune—" My Wife has ta'en the Gee." A FRIEND o' mine cam here yestreen, And he wad hae me down To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him In the neist burrows town : But oh, indeed, it was, Sir, Sae far the waur for me ; For, lang or e'er that I cam harae, My wife had tane the gee. We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, The truth I tell to you. That, lang or e'er the midnicht cam, We a' were roarin' fou. My wife sits at the fireside, ^ And the tear blinds aye her ee ; The ne'er a bed wad she gang to. But sit and tak' the gee. In the mornin' suno, when I cam doun, The ne'er a word she spake ; But mony a sad and sour look. And aye her head she'd shake. My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee, To look sae sour on me ? I'll never do the like again, If you'll ne'er tak' the gee. When that she heard, she ran, she flang Her arms about my neck ; And twenty kisses, in a crack ; And, poor wee thing, she grat. If you'll ne'er do the like again, But bide at hame wi' me, I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife That never taks the gee.* THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME ALLAN RAMSAY. Tutu — " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.* As I came in by Teviot side. And by the braes of Branksonie, There first I saw my bonny bride, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome. Her skin was safter than tlie down, And white as alabaster ; Her hair, a shining, waving brown; In straightness nane surpass'd her. Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek. Her clear een were surprising, And beautifully turn'd her neck, Her little breasts just rising : Nae silken hose with gushats fine, Or shoon with glancing laces. On her bare leg, forbade to shine Weel-shapen native graces. Ae little coat and bodice white Was sum o' a' her daithing ; E'en these o'er muckle; — mair delyto She'd given clad wi' naethiog. We lean'd upon a flowery brae, By which a burnie trotted ; On her I glowr'd my soul away. While on her sweets I doated. A thousand beauties of desert ^ Before had scarce alarm'd me, Till this dear artless struck my heart. And, bot designing, charm'd me. Hurried by love, close to my breast I clasp'd this fund of blisses, — Wha smiled, and said. Without a priest. Sir, hope for nocht but kisses. I had nae heart to do her harm, And yet I couldna want her ; What she demanded, ilka charm O' hers pled I should grant her. Since heaven had dealt to me a routh. Straight to the kirk I led her ; There plighted her my faith and trouth. And a young lady made her.* • From Heri's collection, 1776. MY WIFE'S i^ WANTON WEE THING. Tune — " My wife's a wanton wee thing." Mv wife's a wanton wee th'Og, My wife's a wanton wee thing. ♦ This song, which appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, (1724), was founded upon a real incident. The bonnie lass was daughter to a woman who kept an alehouse at the hainlet n ar Branksonie Castle, in Teviotdale. A voung officer, of some rank,— his name we believe was Maitland,— happened to be be quarter- ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, and married her. So strange was such an alliance deenned in those days, that the old mother, umier whose aus- pices it was performed, did not escape the imputation of witchcraft SONGS. 167 My wife's a wanton wee thing; She winna be guided by me. She play'd the loon ere she was married, She play'd the loon ere she was married, She play'd the loon ere she was married ; She'll do't again ere she die ! She selPd her coat, and she drank it. She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, . She row'd hersell in a blanket ; She winna be guided by me. She mind't na when I forbade her, She mind't na when I forbade her ; I took a rung and I claw'd her, And a braw gude bairn was she ! * WE'RE A* NODDIN. Tune — " Nid noddin.' O, we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin, O, we're a' noddin, at our house at hame. How's a' wL' ye, kimmer? and how do ye thrive ? And how mony bairns hae ye now ? — Bairns I hae five. And are they a' at hame wi' you ? — Na, na, na ; For twa o' them's been herdin' sin' Jamie gaed avva. And weWe a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ; And we're a' noddin, at our house at hame. Grannie nods i' the neuk, and fends as she may, And brags that we'll ne'er be what she's been in her day. Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she was braw. And she had rowth o' wooers ance, I'se warrant, great and sma.' And we're a' noddin, Sfe. Weary fa' Kate, that she winna nod too ; She sits i' the corner, suppin' a' the broo ; And when the bit bairnies wad e'en hae their share, She gies them the ladle, but deil a drap's there. And we're a' noddin, SfC. Now, fareweel, kimmer, and weel may ye thrive ; They sae the French is rinnin' for't, and we'll hae peace belyve. The bear's 'i the brear, and the hay's i' the stack. And a' '11 be right wi' us, gin Jamie were come back. And we're a noddin', Sfc. * From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, vol. III. 1790. The two first stanzas, however, appear in Herd's collection, 1776. MY NATIVE CALEDONIA. Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my Jean, And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood in my een ; Fur my daddie is but poor, and my fortune it but sma' ; Which gars me leave my native Caledonia. When 1 think on days now gane, and how hap- py I hae been, While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim- rose blaws unseen ; I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daddie's sim- ple ha'. Or the hills and healthfu' breeze o' Caledonia. But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean ! Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has ever been ! Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll bear them a'. Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie still be true, Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my native land I view ; Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the heart-felt tear shall fa*, And never leave mv Jean and Caledonia. O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN. Tune — " O, an ye war deid, Guidman." O, AN ye were deid, guidman, And a green truff on your held, guidman, That I mif^'ht ware my widowheid Upon a rantin Highlandman. There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman, There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman; There's ane to you, and twa to me. And three to our John Highlandman. There's beef into the pot, guidman, There's beef into the pot, guidman ; The banes for you, and the brne tor me, And the beef for our John Highlandman. There's sax horse in the sta', guidman, There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; There's ane to you, and twa to me. And three to our John Highlandman. There's sax kye in the byre, guidman, There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ; There's nane o' them yours, but there's twa « them mine, And the lave is our John Highlandman's. 168 BURNS' WORKS. OH, WHAT A PARISH ! ADAM CRAWFOKD. T^ne—" Donnie Dundee." O, what a parish, irhat a terrible parish, O, what a parish is that nf Dunkell ! They hue hanr/it the minister, drouned the precentor, DuTtg down the steeple, and drucken the Ml! Though the steeple was doun, the kirk was still stanniti ; They biggit a lum where the bell used to hang ; A stell-pat they gat, and they brewed Hieland whii'ky ; On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang! O, what a parish, §'c. Oh, had you hut seen how gracefu' it luikit. To see the crammed pews sae socially join ! Macdonald, the |)iper, stuck up i' the poupit, He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! O, what a parish, §*e. When the heart-cheerin spirit, had mountit the garret. To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn ; Maids, wi' their coats kiltit, they skippit and liltit ; When tired, they shook hands, and a hame did return. O, what a parish, S^c. Wad the kirks in our Britain haud sic social meetings, Nae warning they'd need frae a far-tinkling bell; For true love and friendship wad ea' them the- gither. Far better than roaring o' horrors o' hell.* O, what parish, SfC, OLD KING COUL. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, And a jolly olil soul was he ; And old King Coul he had a brown bowl. And thev brought him in fi(lr will yit get, unless ye hire, A. young man with your snishing. BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. O BESSY Bell and Mary Gray, They are twa bonny lassies, They bigg'd a bow'r on yon burn-brae, And theck'd it o'er wi' rashes. Fair Bessy Bell I luo'd yestreen, And thought 1 ne'er could alter ; But IMary Gray's twa pawky een, They gar my fancy falter. Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap ; She smili'S like a May morning, When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, The hills with rays adorning : Wliite is her neck, saft is her hand, Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; With ilka grace she can command ; Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty. And Mary's locks are like a craw. Her een like diamonds glances ; She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw, ■ She kills whene'er she dances : Blythe as a kid, with wit at will. She blooming, tight, and tall is ; And guides her airs sae gracefu' still. O Jove, she's like thy Pallas. Dear Bessy Bell and Marj- Gray, Ye unco sair oppress us ; Our fancies jee between you twa, Ye are sic bunny lassies : Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, To ane by law we're stented ; Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate. And be with aiie contented. BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. It was in and about the Martinmas time. When the green leaves were a- falling, That Sir John Giaeme in the west country Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his man down through the town. To the place where she was dwelling, O haste, and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan. , O hooly, hoolv rose she up. To the i^ice where he was lying, And when she drew the curtain by, Young man, I think you're dying O its I'm sick, and very very sick. And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. O the better for me ye's never be, Tho' your heart's blood were a spilling. O dinna ye mind, young man, said she. When he was in the tavern a-drinking. That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan ? He turn'd his face unto the wall. And deith was with him dealing ; * Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allan. And slowly, slowly raise she up. And slowly, slowly left him ; And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay. Since death of life had reft him. She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the dead-bell ringing, And every jow that the dead-bell gied. It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and n-^.trow. Since my love dy'd for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow. ETTRICK BANKS. On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night. At glowmiiig when the sheep drave hame , I met my lassie braw and tight, Came wading, barefoot, a' her lane : My heart grew light, I ran, I flang Mv arms aliout her lily neck, And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fou lang ; My words they were na mony, feck. I said, my lassie, will ye go To the highland hills, the Earse to learn I'd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew, When ye come to the brigg of Earn. At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, And herrings at the Broomy Law; Chear up your heart, my bonny lass, There's gear to win we never saw. All day when we have wrought enough, When winter, frosts, and snaw begin, Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. At night when you sit down to spin, I'll screw my pipes and play a spring : And thus the weary night will end, Till the tender kid and laudi-tiuie bring Our pleasant summer buck ugaio. SONGS. 179 Syne whtn the trees are in their bloom, And gowans glent o'er ilkii field, I'll meet my lass among the liroom. And iea the Cnwdenknowes ! I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and my yowes. I wanted neither yowe nnr Iamb, While his flock near me lay ; He gather'd in my sheep at night, And cheer'd me a' the day. Oli, the brume, §'c. He tuned his pipe, and play'd sae sweet» The birds sat listening bye ; E en the dull cattle stood and gazed, Charm'd with the melodye. Oh, the brume, 8fc. While thus we spent our time, by turns. Betwixt our flocks and play, I envied not the fairest dame. Though e'er so rich or gay. Oh, the brume, §c. » The celebrated Tenducci used to sing this song, wiih great effect, in St. Cfcilia's Hall, at Edinburgh, about fitty \ears ago. Mi. Tytler, who was a great pa.. tr(in of that obsolete place of amusement, says, in his Dissertation on Scottish Music, " Who c(>uld hear «ith insensibility, or without being moved in the high- est dei^ree, I eiiducei sinj;, • I'll never leave thee,' or, ' The Uraes o' Ballcudean.' The air was composed by Oswald. 180 BURNS' WORKS. Hard fate, that I should banish'd be, Gang heavily, and mourn, Because I loved the kindest swain That ever yet was born. Oh, the brume, Sfc. He did oblige me every hour ; Could I but faithful be ? He stawe my heart ; could I refuse M^hate'er he ask'd of me ? Oh, the brume, SfC. My doggie, and my little kit That held ray wee soup whey, My plaid ie, brooch, and crookit stick, May now lie useless by. Oh, the brume, §*c. Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! Ye gods, restore me to my swain- Is a' I crave or care. Oh, the brume, Sfc* THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE CRAFT. Tune—" The Carle he cam ower the Craft." The carle he cam ower the craft, Wi' his beard new-shaven ; He looked at me as he'd been daft, — The carle trowed that 1 wad hae him. Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! For a' his beard new-shaven, ■ Ne'er a bit o' me will hae him. A siller brooch he gae me neist. To fasten on my curchie nookit ; I wore 't a wee upon my breist, But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook' ; And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! Twice-a-bairu's a lassie's jest ; Sae ony fool for me may hae him. The carle nas nae fault but ane ; For he has land and dollars plenty ; But, wae's me for him, skin and bane Is no for a plump lass of twenty. Hout awa, I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! What signifies his dirty riggs, And cash, without a man wi' them ? But should my cankert daddie gar Me tak him 'gainst my inclination, 1 warn the furabler to beware That antlers dinna claim their station, Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! I'm flee'd to crack the haly band, Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae him. • As the reader may be supposed anxious to know •omethins of the pl.ue which has thus been the subject of so much poetry, theeditor thinks it proper to inform him, that, " ilie Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes gpfllcd in old writings, the Coldingknowes, are two little hills on the east side of the vale of Lauderdale, Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of the village of Earlstoii, celebrated as the residence of Uie earliest known Seottisli poet, Tliomas the Rhymer, THE WEE THING. MACNEIL. Time — " Bonnie Dundee." Saw ye my wee thing ? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the g5oan». in'.? Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- tree ? Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it b milk- white ; Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ; Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ?^ I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin, Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- tree. Her hair it was lint-white ; her skin it was milk-white ; Dark was the blue o' her saft-t oiling ee ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me !— It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing. It was na my true love ye met by the tree : Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature ! She never loed onie till ance she loed me. Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer. Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee ! — It was, then, your Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary ; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree : Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me. — Sair gloom 'd his dark brow — blood-red hit cheek grew — Wild flash 'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee ' SONGS. 81 Ye'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your Sforninu; Defend ye, fause traitor! tor Ui\ui\y \e \ic. — Awa wi' l)eguiling cried the youth, smilingf : Aff went the bonnet ; the lint-white locks flee ; "^he belted plaid fa'iug, her white bosom shaw- iiig — Fair stond the loved maid wi' the dark-roll- ing ee ! Is it itiy v/ee thing ! is it mine ain thing ! Is it my true love here that I see ! — O Jamie, forgie me ; your heart's constant to me ; rU never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee ! THE WHITE COCKADE. Tune—" The White Cockade." Mr love was born in Aberdeen, The bonniest lad that e'er was seen ; But now he makes our hearts fu' sad — He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade. O, he's a ranting roving Made I O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad ! Betide what may, my heart is glad To see my lad wi' his white cockade, O, leeze me on the pbilabeg, The hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! But aye the thing that glads my ee, Is the white cockade abown the bree. O, he's a ranting, Sfc. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, My rippling kame, and spinning wheel, To buy my lad a tartan plaid, A braids\yord and a white cockade. O, he's a ranting, S^c. I'll sell my rokely and my tow, My gude grey mare and hawket cow. That every loyal Buchan lad May tak the field wi' his white cockade. O, he's a ranting, §-c. THE WIDOW. ALLAN RAMSAY. The widow she's youthful, and never ae hair 'l]:e waur of tlie wearing, and has a good skair Ote\M!ry thi-.g lovely ; she's witty and fair, And has a rich jointure, my laddie- WKat could ve wish better, your pleasure to crown, Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town. With, Naething but— draw in yciur stool and sit down, 'And spoit with the widow, my laddie. Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead, Though stark love and kindness be all you can plead ; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed With the bonnie gay widow, my laddie. Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wa'.d ; For fortune ay favours the active and bauld. But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld, Unfit for the widow, my laddie. THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. OLD VERSES. The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, The widow can shape, and the widow can sew. And mony braw things the widow can do ; Then have at the widow, my laddie. With courage attack her, baitli early and late : To kiss her and clap her ye niaunna be blate : Speak well, and do better ; for that's the best gate To win a young widow, my laddie. Tun*—" The yellow-hair'd LaddiA." The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae, Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nana o" them gac; And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gude- The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. The yowes are new dipt, and they winna bucht in; They winna bucht in, although I should dee ; Oh, yellow-haiid'd laddie, be kind unto me. And aye as she milkit, §-c. The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come ben ; The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn. Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang sour, ( I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. It's ae lung half hour, and we'll e'en mak it three. For the yellow-hair'd laddie my gudeman shall be. * • From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 17S*. 182 BURNS' WORKS. IHE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATIE. Tune—" Tartan Screen." Now wat ye wha I met yestreen. Coming down the street, my joe ? My mi.^tress, in her tartan screen, Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my joe ! My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht That never wiss'd a lover ill. Sin* ye're out o' your mither's sicht, Let's tak* a walk up to the hill.* Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave the dinsome toun a while ? The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, And a' creation's gaun to smile. The mavis, nichtingale, and lark. The bleating lambs and whistling hynd, In ilka dale, green shaw, and park, Will nourish health, and glad your mind. 3 Sune as the clear gudeman o' day Does bend his mornin' draught o' dew, We'll gae to some burn-side and play. And gather flouirs to busk your brow. We'll pou the daisies on the green, The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; Between hands, now and then, we'll lean And sport upon the velvet fog. There 's, up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father's tower, A canny, saft, and flowery den, Which circling birks have foira'd a bower. Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, We'll to the caller shade remove ; There will I lock thee in my arm, And love anil kiss, and kiss and love. > MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER ME; IN Answer to the young laird and EDINBURGH KATY. 1 un< — " My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me." My mother's aye glowrin' ower me. Though she did the same before me ; * It is quite as remarkable as it is true, tliat the mode of courtship among people of tlie middle ranks in Edinburgh has undergone a complete change in the course of no more than the last thirty years. It used to be customary for lovers to walk together for hours, both during the day and the evening, in the Meadows, or the King's Park, or the fieUls now occupied by the New Town ; practices now only known to artizans and serving-girls. The song appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. I canna get leave To look at my love, Or else she'd be like to devour me* Right fain wad I tak' your oflFer, Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, And wyte your puir Kate, Whene'er ye keek in your t'lom coffer For though my father has plenty Of silver, and plenishing d.iinty, Yet he's unco sweir To twine wi' his gear ; And sae we had need to be tenty. Tutor my parents wi' caution, Be wylie in ilka motion ; Brag weel o' your land, And, there's rny leal hand. Win them, I'll be at your devotion. WANDERING WILLIE. OLD VERSES. Tune — •• Wandering Willie." Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie ' Here awa, tlicre awa, hand awa hame ! Lang have I sought thee, dear have I boughi thee ; Now I have gotten my Willie again. Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie ; i Through the lang muir I have followed hina hame. Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain. Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me. Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. * CAM' YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. Cam' ye o'er frae France, came ye doun bj Lunnon, Saw ye Geonlie Whelps and his bonny woman War' ye at the place ca'd the kittle-housie. Saw ye Geordie's grace, ridin* on a goosie. Geordie he's a man, there '3 little doubt o't, He's done a' he can, wha can do without it ; Down there cam' a blade, linkin' like a lordie, He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.f * From Herd's Collection, 1776. t Tliis plainly alludes to Count Koningsmaik and the (iueen. SONGS. 183 Tho* the claith were bad, blythely may we niflFer, Gin we get a wab, it niak's little difler ; We hae tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, Ha's and maillins braid, but we hae a Geoidie. Hey for Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum, Hey for Bobbin' Jehu and his Highland quo- rum ; Many a sword and lance swings at Highland hiirdie. How they'll skip and dance o'er the bum o* Geordie. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. ANOTHER SET. The lawland lads think they are fine ; But O they're vain and idly gaudy ! How much unlike that gracefu' mien, And manly looks of my highland laddie ? O my bonny, bonny highland laddie. My handsome, churming highland laddie ; May heaven still guard, and love reward Our lawland lass and her highland laddie. If I were free at will to chuse To be the wealthiest lawland lady, I'd take young Donald without trews, With bonnet blue, and belted plaidy. O my bonny, S^c. The brawest beau in borrows- town, In a' his airs, with art made ready, Compar'd to him, he's but a clown ; He's finer far iu's tartan plaidy. O my bonny, S^c. O'er benty hill with him I'll run. And leave my lawland kin and dady ; Frae winter's cauld, and summer's sun. He'll screen me with his highland plaidy. O my bonny, Sfc, A painted room, and silken bed, May please a lawland laird and lady ; But I can kiss, and be as glad, Behind a bush in's highland plaidy. my bonny, §-c. Few compliments between us pass, I ca* him my dear highland laddie. And he ca>'s nie his lawland lass, Syne rows me in beneath his olaidy. O my bonny, l(c. Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. Than thit his love prove true and steady. Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end, While heaven preserves my highland laddie. O my bonny, ^c. JENNY NETTLES. Saw ye Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Saw ye Jenny Nettles Coming frae the market ? Bag and baggage on her back, Her fee and bountith in her lap ; Bag and baggage on her back, And a babie in her oxter ? I met ayont the kairny, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Singing till her bairny, Robin Rattle's bastard ; To flee the dool upo' the stool. And ilka ane that mocks her, She round about seeks Robin out, To stap it in his oxter Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, Use Jenny Nettles kindly : Score out the blame, and shun the shamc^ And without mair debate o't, Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain The leel and leesome gate o't. O MERRY MAY THE MAID BR SIR JOHN CI.ERK OF FENNYCUICK. Tune—" Merry may the Maid be.* O, MERRY may the maid be That marries the miller ! For, foul day or fair day. He's aye bringing till her. H'as aye a penny in his pouch. For dinner or for supper ; Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheese, An' lumps o' yellow butter. Behind the door stands bags o' meaj, And in the ark is plenty. And good hard cakes his mither bakes, And moiiy a sweeter dainty. A good fat sow, a sleeky cow, Are standing in the byre; Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mon, Is playing round the fire. Good signs are these, my mither says. And bids me take the miller ; A miller's wife's a merry wife. And he's aye bringing till her. For meal or maut she'll never want. Till wood and water's scanty ; As lang's there's cocks and clockin' heni^ She'll aye hae eggs in plenty. 184 BURNS' WORKS. THE TAILOR. The Tailor ftll thro' the bed thimbles an' a', The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a', The blankets were thin and the sheets they were sma', The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbl°s an' a*. The lassie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; The weather was caiild and the 'lassie lay stiU ; The ninth part o' manhood may sure hae its will; She kent wcel the Tailor could do her nae ill. The Tailor grew droo'^y, and thought in a dream, How he caulked out the claith, and then felled in the seam ; A while ayont midnight, before the cocks craw, The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a'. The day it has come, and the nicht it has gane, Said the bonnie young lassie when sighing alane : Since men are but scant, it wad gee me nae pain, To see the bit Tailor come skippin again. AWA, WHIGS, AWA! JACOBITE SONG. 7^^u^— " Awa, Whigs, awa !" Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonny blooni'd our roses, But Whigs came, like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies. ^wn, Whit/s, awa ! Awa, Whigs, awa ! Yere hut a pack o' traitor loons ; Ye II ne'er do good at a'. Our sad decay in church and state Surpasses my descriving ; The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we have done wi' thriving. Awa, Whigs ! awa, !fc. A foreign WHiiggish loon bought seeds. In Scottish yird to cover ; But we'll ])u' a' his dibbled leeks, And pack him to Hanover. Awa, Whigs! awa, Sfc. Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, Deil bliml them wi' the stuur o't ! And write thtir names in his black beuk, Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't ! Awu, Whigs! awa, gfc. Grira Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, But we may see him wauken : Gude help the day, when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin ! Awa, Whigs ! awa, S^e. ' The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, And ramping came amang us ; But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,— He turn'd and wadna ^\Tang iis. Awa, Whigs / awa, 8fC Sae g^-im he sat amang the reek, Thraug bundling brimstone matches ; And croon'd, 'inang the beuk-taking Whiga, Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. Awa, WItigs, awa ! Awa, WItigs, awa ! Ye'll rin me nut o' wun spunks. And Tie'er do good at a'. LOCH-NA-GARR. AwAT ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of rosei^ In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flaie re poses. If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, deir are thy mountains. Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead ! have I heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale, Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- thers, Winter presides in his cold icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers. They dwell 'raid the tempests of dark Loch. THE MERRY MEN, O. When I was red, and ripe, and crouse. Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse, My father built a wee bouse, a wee house. To baud me frae the men, O. There came a lad and g.ie a shout, Gae a shout, gae a shout. 185 The wa*s fell in, and I fell out, Amaug the merry meu, O. I dream sic sweet things in roy sleep, In my sleep, in my sleep. My minny says I"ivinna keep, Amang sae rtiony men, O. T\hen plums are ripe, they should he poo'd, Should be poo'd, should be poo'd, When maids are ripe, they should be woo'd At seven years and ten, O. My love, I cried it, at the port. At the port, at the port. The captain bade a guinea for't, The colonel he bade ten, O. The chaplain he bade siller for't, Siller for't, siller for't. But the sergeant bade me naething for't. Yet he cam farthest ben, O. KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE. Tune—" Kenmure'i on and awa." O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, O, Kenmure's on and awa ; And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw. Succes to Kenmure's band, WiUie, Success to Keimiure's band ! There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. O, Kecmure's lads are men, Willie, O, Kenmure's lads are men ! Their hearts and swords are metal true j And that their faes shall ken. They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, They'll live or die wi' fame ; But sune wi' sound and victoiie May Kenmure's lord come hame ! Here's him that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far awa ; And here's the flower that I lo'e best, The rose that's like the snaw. POL WART ON THE GREEN. At Polwart on the green. If you'll meet me the morn, Where lasses do convene To dance about the thorn. A kindly welcome you shall meet Frae her wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete. The lad and lover you. Let dorty dames say Na, As laog as e'er they please, Seem caulder than the sna'. While inwardly they bleeze ; But I will fritnkly shaw my mind. And yield my heart to thee j Be ever to the captive kind, That langs na to be free. At Polwart on the green, Amaog the new-mawn hay, With saiigs and dancing keen We'll pass the heartsome day. At night, if beds be o'er thraiig laid. And thou be twin'd of thine. Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lady To take a part of mine. HAME NEVER CAME HE. Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode be, A phime in his helmet, a sword at his knee ; But toom cam'^he saddle, all bluidy to see, And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cam' he. Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sae sair, Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, Down cam' his sweet wife wi' bonnie bairns three, Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the spot. There stood his gray father, weeping sae free. So hame cam' his steed, but hame never cam' he. THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, And I'll lend you my thripling kame; For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle. If ye'll go dance the Bob of Dunibline. Haste ye, gang to the ground of your truukies. Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ; Consider in time, if leading of monkies Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane. Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle. And tike my word and offer again. Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle. Ye did na accept the Bob of Dumblane. 186 BURNS' WORKS. The dinner, the piper, and ))ripst shall be ready, And I'm a;ro\vn dowy with lying my lane ; Away then, leave baith miiiny and dady, And try with me the Bob of Dumblaoe. LOCHABER NO MORE. Tune — " Lochaber no more." Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been ; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. These tears tliat I shed, they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir, Tho bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, May be to return to Lochaber no more. Tho' hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in ray mind. Tho' loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd, By ease that's inglorious, no fame can begaia'd. And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, Since honour comniands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. JocKY said to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't ? Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeariv, for my tocher -good, For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be, I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough, I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh, Ganging in a pleugh, and hnking o'er the lee, And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre, A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, I'll make a rantin fire, and merry ^nall we be ; And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell, Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell. Ye' re a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be. THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND ANOTHER VERSION. The luve that I hae chosen I'll therewith be content; The saut sea will be frozen Before that I repent ; Repent it Avill I never Until the day I die. Though the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined ray love and me. My luve lies in the saut sea, And I am on the side ; Enough to break a young thing's heart Wha lately was a bride — Wha lately was a happy bride And pleasure in her ee ; But the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me Oh ! Holland is a barren place, In it there grows nae grain, Nor ony habitation Wherein for to remain ; But the sugar canes are plenty, And the wine draps frae the tree. But the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me. My love he built a bonnie ship, And sent her to the sea, Wi' seven score guid mariners To bear her companie. Three score to the bottom gaed. And three score died at sea ; And the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me. JENNY DANG THE WEAVE* Jenny lap, and Jenny iiang, Jenny dang the weaver ; The piper played as Jenny sprang, An' aye she dang the weaver. As I cam in by Fisherrow, Musselburgh was near me, I threw aff the mussel-pock, And courtit wi' my deerie. Had Jenny's apron bidden down The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it ; But now the word 's gane thro the town. The devil canna meud it. Jenny lap, and Jenny fiang, Jenny dang the weaver ; The piper played as Jenny sprang, And aye she dang the weaver. SONGS. 187 AS I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING. As I went out ae May morning, Ae ]\Iay mnining it happened to be, there I saw a very bonnie lass Come linkin' o'er the lea to me. And O she was a weel-faud lass, ^ Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung ; 1 said, fair maid, an' ye fancy me, When she laughing said, I am too young. To be your bride I am too young. And far our proud to be your loon ; This is thfi merry month of May, Rut ril be aulder, Sir, in June. . The hawthorns flourished fresh and fair. And o'er our heads the small birds sing, And never a word the lassie said. But, gentle Sir, I am too young. THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE. Wha the deil liae we gotten for a king, But a wee, wee Geiman lairdie ? And, when we gaed to bring him, He was delving in his yardie : Sheughing kail, and layinsj leeks. But the hose, and but the brceks ; And up his beggar duds he cleeks— This wee, wee German lairdie. And he's clapt down in our gudemau's chair. The wee, wee German lairdie ; And he's brouj^ht fouth o' foreign trash, And dibbled them in his yardie. He's pu'd the rose o' English loons. And broken the harp o' Irish clowns ; But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs— This wee, wee German lairdie. Come up amang our Highland hills, Thou wee, wee German lairdie, And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive We dibbled in our yardie : And if a stock ye dare to pu'. Or baud the yoking o' a plough, We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou', Thou wee bit German lairdie. Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, Nae fitting for a yardie ; And our Norland thistles winna pu*, Thou wee bit German laiidie : ■ And we've the trenching blades o' weir. Wad prune ye o' your German gear — We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear. Thou feckless German laudie ! Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole For nursin' siccan vermin ; But the very doui^s o' England's court They bark and howl in German. Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand. Thy spade but and thy yardie ; For wha the dell hae we gotten for a king, But a wee, wee German laiidie? THE FORAY. • SIR WALTER SCOTT. The last of our steers on riie board has been spread. And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red : Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! — belt swords and begone ; There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to won ! The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours^ For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers. And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom. The prance of the steeds and the top of the plume. The rain is descending, the wind rises loud. The moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud — 'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh. Our steeds are impatient — I bear my blythe grey; There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his neigh ; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the dark- uess and rain. The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff' yet — then mount and begone : To their honour and peace that shall rest with the slain ! To their health and their glee that see Tevio* again ! 188 BURNS'S SONGS. ADIEU ! A HEART- WARM FOND ADIEU ! Tune—" The Peacock." Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! Dear brothers of the rayslic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, CoinpanioDS of my social joy ! Though I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba'. With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, though far awa'. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful festive night ; Oft, honour*d with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light; And by that hieroglyphic bright. Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong memory on my heart shall write ' Those happy scenes when far awa ! May freedom, harmony, and love. Unite you in the grand design, Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, The glorious architect divine ! That you may keep th* unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine — Shall be my prayer when far awa. And you, farewell I whose merits claim. Justly, that highest bad^e to wear ! Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name. To masonry anil Scotia dear ! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a'. One round, I ask it with a tear. To him, the bard, that's far awa,* AE FOND KISS. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. • Written as a sort of farewell to the Masonic com- panions of his vinith, when the poet was on the point of leaving Scotland fot Jamaica, 1 786. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy ; But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly. Had we never loved sae blindly ; Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell,, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. AFTON WATER. Time—" The Yellow-hair'd Laddie." Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy greeu braes. Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; I\Iy IMary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen. Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowery den. Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- bear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far inark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills ; There daily I wander, as morn rises high. My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft, as mild evening cree))s o'er the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Marv and mo SONGS 189 Thy crystal streum, Afton, now lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. Tune—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks." Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues ; Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. All freshly steep'd in morning dews. In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team ; Wi' joy the tentie seedman stauks ; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims ; Amang the reeds the ducklings cry ; The stately swan majestic swims ; And every thing is blest but I. The shepherd steeks his faulding slaps, And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blithe waukens by the daisy's side. And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree ; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me ! A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS BORN. THE " RAUCLE CARLINE's" SONG IN THE " JOLLY BEGGARS." Tune — " O an ye war dead, guidman 1" A Highland lad my love was born, The Lawland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithful to his Cian, My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! Sing hey, mi/ hraw John, Highlandman ! Sing ho, myhraiv John Highlandman t There's not a' lad in a the land. Was match for my braw John Highlandman* With his philabeg and tartan plaid, And gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, |rc. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, And lived like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lawland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, Sfc. They banished him beyond the sea ; But, ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my checks the pearls ran, Embracing my braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, Sfc. But, och ! they catched him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast ; My curse upon them every one. They've hanged my braw John Highlandman • Sing hey, Sfc. And now, a widow, I must mourn Departed joys that ne'er return. No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing hey, Sfc. AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM- MING BEES. Tune—" The King of France, he rade a Race.* Amang the trees where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, O ; Auld Caledon drew out her drone. And to her pipe was singing, O ; f'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, She dirl'd them aff, fu' clearly, O ; When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. That dang her tap.salteerie, O — Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, . They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; The hungry bike did scrape and pike 'Till we were wae aiid weary, O— But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'-d A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the North That dang them tapsalteerie, 0* ^ 190 BURNS' WORKS. A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. Tune—" For a' that, and a' that. Is there, for honest poverty> That han^s his head, and a' that ? The oo«"ircl-sljve, we pass him by ; We daur he puir for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Our toils ohsture, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea-stamp^ The man's the gowd for a' that. What thousjh on hamely fare we dine,i(^ Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that ? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A man's a man for a' that ; For a* that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that, The honest man, though e'er sae puir, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,, Wha struts and stares, and a' that ; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's hut a cuif for a' that. For a' that, and a' that. His ril)bon, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his micht, Gude f.iith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that. The pith o' sense, the pride o' worth, Are higher ranks for a' that. Then let us pray, that come it may, As come it will, for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. May bear tin.' gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's coniin' yet for a" that. That man to man, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that. ANNA. TuTie—" Banks of Banna." Yestreen I hud a pint o' wine, A |)lace where body saw na ; Yestreen lay (m this breast o' mine The raven locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness, Uejuicing ower his Uianna, Was naethiuiT to my hinny bliss, I' pun the lips of Anna. Ye nionarchs tak the cast and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana, While dying raptures, in her arms I give and take with Ansa. Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! Awa, thou pale Diana ! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night. Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn «' , And bring an angel pen to write My transports with my Anna. • ANNIE. Tunt—" Allan Water." I WALKFD out with the Museum in my hand, and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure. By Allan stream I chanced to rove. While Phcfibus sank beyond Benledi, » The winds were whisp'ring through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen'd to a lover's sang. And thought on youthful pleasures many; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! O, happy be the woodbine bower ; Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; Nor ever so-row stain the hour, ' The place and time I meet my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! While many a kiss the seal impress'd. The sacied vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ; The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheerie, through her short'ning day, Is Autumn in her weeds o." yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or through each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? • This song, like " Highland Mary," affords a strong proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising and subliming olijects. Highland Mary was the dairy- maid of Coilstielil ; Anna is said lo have been some- tlung meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy- rollin)» when he said, " I tliink this is the best lovi^ song 1 ever wrote." ^ONGS. 191 A RED RED ROSE. 7'une—" Low down in the Brume.' O, MY luve's like a red red rese, That's newly sprung in June ; O, my luve's like the melodie. That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bortnie lass, Sae deep in luve am I ; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a* the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun; will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o* life shall run. 4nd fare thee weel, my only luve. And fare thee weel a whlJe ! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. William Cruikshank of the High-School, Edin- burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quotidcim merchant, now schoolmaNtcr, in Irvine ; the Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle, A ROSE-BUD by my eaily walk, ' Adown a corn-inclosed buwk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread. And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her bjeast Sae early in the morning. She soon shidl se° her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed. Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. On trembling string or vocal air. Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt Ijeauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent's evening ray That watched thy early morning. A SOUTHLAND JENNY. This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken .down before. — It, aa well as many of the ballail tunes in this colle3- tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. A Southland Jenny that was right bonny. Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, But he was sicken a bashfq' wooer, That he could scarcely speak unto her. But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, Forced^iim at last to tell his mind till her ; My dear, quo' he, we'll nao lunger tarry. Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry Come awa then, my Norland laddie, Tho we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; Albeit I hae neither land nor money, Come, and I'll ware my beiuty on thee. Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for dressin ; Lasses o' the North, mind milkin and threshin ; My niinnie wad be angry, and sae wad my dadilie. Should I marry ane as dink as a lady. I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a scauldin ; Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my niinnie, A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. My father's only dochter, wi' fanns and siller ready, Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; A' that I said was to tiy what was in thee, Gae hame, ye Norland Jockie, and court your Norland Jenny ! AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne ! Fur auld lung syne, my jo, Fur auld lun^ oy>'^t We'll tak a cup o' kindtiess yet, For auld laug syne I And surely ye'll be your pint stoup ! And surely I'll l;e mine ! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld, ifc. We twa hae run about the braes, And pou't the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot Sin auld laiig syne. For auld, ^c. 192 BURNS' WORKS. We twa hae paiill't i' the bwn, Fnie morning siiti 'till dine ; Rut seas between us biaid hae roar'd, Sin auid lang syne. I-Or iiulil, ^'c. And there's a han', my trusty fiere, And jjies a han' o' thine ! And we'll tak a right gude willy-waught For auld lang syne ! For auld, §-c. AULD ROB MORRIS. There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coflFers ; he has ousen and kino, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; .\s blythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the lea ; And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cothouse and yard. A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed. The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day conies to me, but delight brings me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; I wander my laue like a night-troubled ghaist. And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast ! Oh had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'a she wad smil'd upon me ; O how past deserving liad then been my bless, As now my distraction, no words can express. BESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. Tune—" The bottom of the Punch Bowl.* O LEizF. me on my spinning-wheel ! O leeze me on my rock and reel ! Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. And haps me fell * and warm at e'en ! I'll set me doun, and sing, and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun ; • Covers me with a stuff agreevM' to ihe uun. Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal^ O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! On ilka hand the bnmies trot, And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest ; The sun blinks kindly in the biel, Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. J On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel brae8,N Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirring ower the lea, The swallow jinkin' round my shiel ; Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flaring idle toys. Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend, Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- allan's Lament, and two or three others in thii work. Ye gallants bright I red ye right, Beware o' bonnie Ann ; , Her comely face sae fu' o* grace. Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night. Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span. Youth, grace, and love, attendant move. And pleasure leads the van : In a' their charms, and conquering urma, iney wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands, But love enslaves the man ; Ye gallants braw, I red you a*. Beware o' bonnie Ann. SONGS. 193 BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT ARRIVE. TuTie—" Oran Gaoil." BEHOi.n the hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou darlins; of my heart! Sever'd from tliee, can I survive? But fate has willM, and we must part, I'll often greet this surging swell. Yon distant isle will often hail : " E'en here I took my last farewell, There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While through thy sweets she loves to stray. Oh, tell rae, does she muse on me ? BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con - fine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music, (so far as from the title, words, fee. we can localize it), has been com- posed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarce- ly one slow air of any antiquity. The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Wlielp- dale.— The young lady was born at Craigie- burn wood The chorus is part of an old fool- isli ballad. — Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O to be lying beyond thee, sweetly, soundly, wce.l may he sleep, That's laid in the bed beyond thee. - CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. Sweet closes the evening on Cralgie-bura wood, And blythely awakens the morrow ; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn wood, Can yiehl me to nothing but sorrow. Beyond thee, Sfc. I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing ; But pleasure they hae nane for me, While care my heart Ls wringing. Beyond thee, SfC. canna tell, I maun na tell, I dare na for your anger ; But secret love will break my hearty If I conceal it langer. Beyond, thee, §*c. I see thee gracefu', straight and talL I see thee sweet and bonnie. But oh, what will my torment* be, If thou refuse thy Johnie ! Beyond thee, dfc. To see thee in anither's- arms. In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen. My heart wad burst wi' anguish. Beyond thee, Ifc. But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; And a' my days o' life to come, I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, Sfc, BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOr ttlLL. Tunt — " Liggcram cosh." Blythe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me ; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me : Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me : Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring : Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws, In my bosom swelling ; Underneath the graSs-green sod. Soon maun be my dwelling. BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, blythe and merry teas she, Blythe was she but and ben ,- Blythe by the banks of^Urn, And blythe in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik. On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw } But Pheinie was a bunnnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, §-c. Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 19t She trippeil liy the l);mks of Ern, As light's a hlid upon a thorn, Blythe, §-c. Her bonny face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lee ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. ait/the, 8fc. The Highland hill's I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blytlie, §-c. BURNS WORKS. BONNIE WEE THING Tune—" Bonnie Wee Thing.'- Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing; Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wistfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. Lest my wee thing be na mine. W\t, and grace, and love, and beauty. In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. BONNIE LESLEY. BONNIE BELL. The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies ; ^ Now crystal clear are the falling waters. And bofinie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains bleaks forth the mor- ning. The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning. And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 'Till smiling Spring as^ain appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. Old Time and N.itnre their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging I adore my bonnie Bell. Xune — " The Colliers bonnie Lassie. O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed o'er the Border ? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farthei. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever ; For nature made her what she is, And never made anither ' Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we befori' thee : Thou art divine, fair Lesley ; The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he couldni scalth thee. Or aught that wad l»ehing thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face. And say, I canna wrang thee ! The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortime shanna steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Calcdonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.* BONNIE JEAN. Tunc—" Bonnie Jean." There was a lass, and slie was fair, At kirk and market to be seen ; When a' the fairest maids were met. The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And aye she wrought her maminie's wark. And aye she sang sae merrilie ; The blythest bird upim the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. ' But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers. And love will break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the hrawest lad. The flower and pride of a' the glen ; , And he had ows^en, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten. He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. He danced wi' Jean'e on the down ; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. * Written in lionour ot Miss Losiey Baillie of Ayr. iliire, (now Mrs. Cunimini; of I.ogie), when on hei way to England, through Dumfries. SONGS. 195 \i in the bosom o' the stream The moonJjeam dwells at dewy e'en, So trembling, pure, was tender love, Witliin the breast o' bonnie Jean. And now she rrorks her mamniie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' grief and i)ain ; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad make her weel again. But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her ee, As Robie tauld a tale o' love, Ae e'ening, on the lily lea? The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And wRisper'd thus his tale of love : O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; O canst thou think to fancy me ? Or wilt thou leave thy m:imniie''S cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee ; But stray amang the heather-bells. And tent the waving corn wi' me. Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was aye between them twa. HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. I have met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce's march at the Battle of Ban- nockbura. BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF' BANNOCKBURN. Tune—" Hey tuttie taittie." Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! Scots, wham Bruce has atten led ! Welcome ta_your gory bed, Or to victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour : See the front of battle lour : See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slaverie ! Whii will he a traitor knave? Wlia can till a coward's grave? Wha sue b,i>e as be a slave ? Let him turn and tlee ! Wh:i, for Scotland's king and law. Freedom s swoid will strongly draw, Freeman staml, or fieenian fa', Let hiui follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free. Lay the proud usurpers low, Tyrants fall in every foe. Liberty's iu every blow, Let us do, or die ! CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca* them where the burnie rowes. My bonnie dearie. Hark, the mavis' evening sang. Sounding Cluden's woods amang; Then a-f.iuliling let us gang, Jly bonnie dearie. We'll gang doun by Cluden side, Through the hazels spreading wide O'er the waves that sweetly glide, My bonnie dearie. Yonder Cluden's silent towers. Where, at moonshine midnight hours. O'er the dewy budding flowers Tile fairies dance saefcheerie. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stoun my very heart ; I cau die — but canna part, My bonnie dearie. CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? Tune — " Roy'g wife." Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou knowest my aching heart. And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? Is this thy plighted fond regard. Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this tliy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 196 BURNS' WORKS. Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- But not a love like mine, my Katy. REPLY TO THE ABOVE. BY A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS DECEASE. Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, Stay, my Willie — yet believe me; 'Tweel, thou kno%v'st na every pang Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. Tell me that thou yet art true. And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; And when this heart proves false to thee, Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. But to think I was betray'd. That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! To take the floweret to my breast. And find the guilefu' serpent under ! Coum' I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me. Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains, Save love's willing fetters — the chains of hi» Jean. • CHLOE. altered from an old ENGLISH SOMO It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay, One morning by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe ; From peaceful slumber she arose, Gilt on her mantle and her hose. And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Ynvthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly liiwn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feather'd people you might see Perch'd all around on every tree, CALEDONIA. Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, ' Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per fume ; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan. With the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 'For there, lightly tripping aniang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny vallies. And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; Their sweet-scented woodlands, that skirt the proud palace. What are they .' — the haunt o' the tyrant and slave ! The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; • Burns wrote this song in compliment to Mrs. Bums during their honeymoon. The air. with many utheri of equal beauty, was the com|)Osition of a Mr. Mar* shall, who, in Bums's time, was butler to the Duke of Gordon. This beautiful song — beautiful for both its amatory and its patriotic sentiment — seems to have beei com- posed by Bums during the period when he was court, mg the lady who afterwards became his wife. The present generation is much interested in this laciy, and deservedly ; as, in addition to her poetical history, which is an extnemelv interesting one, she is a person- « age of the greatest private worth, and in every respect deserving to be esteemed as the widow of Scotland's best and most endeared b,ird. The following anecdote will perhaps be held as testifying in no inconsiderable degree, to a quality which >he may not hitherto have been supposed to jiossess — her wit. It isgeiierally known, that Mrs. Burns h,as, ever since her husbind's death, o;'Cupied exactly the same house in Dumfries, which she inhabiteil before that event, and that it is customary for strangers, who happen to pass through or visit the town, to pay their respects to ner, with or without letters of introduction, precisely as they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, or any other public object of curiosity about the place. A gay young Knglish gentleman one day visited Mrs. Burn's,' and after he had seen all that she had to show — the bedroom in v. of their author. Mr. Syriu' isnl'oiimion thai he coulii ■ not have !> en in any ilaiif;or of a j.iil at Dumfries,, where eertainlv he h.ul many firm Irierid., nor unilel any necessity ot imiiloniig anl from I'Miiibiirgh. But aUmI this time his miiul l)i-i;.iii to \k al tunes iinset- tlci), and the horrors i>f ajai; |icr|>ctiiallv h^iuiiicd his inuitinaUoii. He Jiuil on the iiUl of this niontli. SONGS. 201 I could range the world around, For the sake of somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O sweetly smile oq somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe rny somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not. For the sake of somebody ! FORLORN, MY LOVE. 7^ne~" Let me in this ae night." Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee I wander here ; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou love, but near me, But near, near, near me ; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in these arms of thine, love. O wert, Sj-c. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison fortune's ruthless dart- Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. O wert, Sfc. But dreary tlio' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet ! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Cliloris shine, love. O wert, Sfc. FROM THEE, ELIZA. Tun*—" Gilderoy." From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore ; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : But boundless oceans, roaring wide Between my l"ve and me. They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. Faiewell, farewell, Eliw dear, The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear. We part to meet no more. P2 But the last throb that leaves my heart, While death, stands victor by. That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh. • GALA WATER. Tune—" Gala Water. ' There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander through the bluming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws. Can match the lads o' Gala Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Abune them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. t Although his daddie was nae laird. And though 1 hae na mickle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks on Gala Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! GLOOJIY DECEMBER. Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,- Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft piiting hour ; But the dire feeling, O fareive/l for ever, Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope at.d last comfort is gone. Still as 1 hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting thou makes me re- member. Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. • Miss Miller of Maudiline, (probably the same lady whom the poet has celebrated in his catalogue of the beauties of that village — " Miss Miller is fine" ) afterwards Mrs. Templeton, was tjie heroine of this b^utifu) song. iOS« BURNS' WORKS. GREEN GROW THE RASHES: A FRAGMENT. Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend, Are spent amang thet lasses, O ! There's nougjit but care on every ban', In every liour that passes, O ; What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, §"c. The warly race may riches chase. An' riches still may fly them, O ; r^u though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, §"c. But gie me a canny hour at e'en. My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a gae tapsalteerie, O. Green grow, SfC. For you so douse, ye sneer at this. Ye' re nought hut senseless asses, O ; The wisest man the warld e'er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O. Green grow, Sfc. Auld natuie swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ; Her '[irentice han* she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, ^c. GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. Tune — " Gudewife, count tlje Lawin." Gane is the day, and mirk's the night ; But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light; For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And blude-red wine's the rising sun. Then, gudewife, count the lawin. The lawin, the lawin. Then, gudeicife, count the lawin. And bring a coggie mair. There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And semple folk maun fecht and fen; , Hut here we're a' in ae accord, ,For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. Then, gudewife, §"c. My coggie is a halv pool. That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; And pleasure is a wanton trout — An* ye drink but deep, ye'll find him ouV. Then, gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, 7'hen, gudewife, count the lawin. And hring's a coggie mair. HANDSOME NELL. Tune — '* I am a man unmarried. O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, Av, and I love her still, And whilst that virtue warms my bTeast) I'll love my handsome Nell. Tal lal de ral, §-c. As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw, But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. Tal lal de ral, tfe, A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the ee, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. Tal lal de ral, §-c. But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweety And what is best of a' Her reputation was complete, And fair without a flaw. Till lal de ral, §-c. She dresses ays sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel ; And then there's something in her gait Gars ony diess look weel. 2'a/ lal de ral, SfC, A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart. But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. Tal lal de ral, §-c. *Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. Tal lal de ral, §-c. It must be confessed that these lines give m indication of the future genius of Burns ; bu he himself seems to have been fond of them, probably from the recollections they excited. SONGS. 203 HAD I A CAVE. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, There would I weep my woes, ''^here seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close^ Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as aif ! To thy new lover hie. Laugh o'er thv perjury. Then in thy bosom try What peace is there. Compare this with the old crambo-clink, — to the same air — You R we.come to Paxton, young Robin Adair, Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair, How does Johnnie Mackeral do ? Aye, and Luke Gardener too ? Come love me and never rue, Robin Adair. HIGHLAND HARRY. Mt Harry was a gallant gay ; Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; But now he's banish 'd far away, I'll never see him bick again. Oh, for Jiim back ai/nin ! Oh, fiir him back again ! I wad ffie a Knochhnspie's land For Highland Harry back again. When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen ; I sit me down, and greet my fill, Aud aye I wish him back again. Oh, for him back again ! ^c. Oh, were some villains hangit hie, And ilka body had their ain. Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht, J\Iy Highland Harry back again. Oh, for him back again ! §"c. Sad was the d.iy, and sad the hour, He left me in his native plain. And rush'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ; But, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again ! Oh, for him buck again ! S^c. Strong was my Harry's arm in war, Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ; But vengeance marks him for her ain— I'll never see him back again.* Oh, for him back again ! 8fc, * The first three verses of this song, excepting the chorus, are by Hums. The air to which it is sunc, is the Highlander's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter- ations, sung slowly. HIGHLAND MARY. Tune — " Katherine Ogie." Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The Castle o' IVIontgomery ! * Green be your woods, and fair your flow'ri, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfaiild her robes, And there they langest tarry ! For there I took the last fareweel O* my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk i How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ' The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me, as tight and life. Was ray sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu* tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again. We tore ourselves asunder : Biit, oh ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly I And closed for aye the sparkling glance. That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mmild'ring now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary. HER FLOWING LOCKS i A FRAGMENT. Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling. And round that neck entwine her ! Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner. • Coilsfield House, near Mauehline ; but noetteally titled as above, on account of the name of the pnv prietor. 201 BURNS' WORKS. HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST FRIEND. Here's, a luittle and an honest friend ! What wad ye wish fur mair, man ? Wlia kens, before his life may end. What his share may be of care, man. Then catch the moments as they fly, .\nd use them as ye ought, man :— < Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not ay when sought, man. HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. PATRIOTIC UNFINISHED. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa ; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never glide luck be their fa' ! It's gude to be merry and wise, It's gude to be honest and true, It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a. heaith to them that's awa ; Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success ! May prudence protect her frae evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil ! Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to Taiiiniie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug of the law ! Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write ! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard. But they wham the truth would indite. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain ^orth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE I LO'E DEAR. Tune—" Here's a Health to them thafs awa." Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear — Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; Thou art sweet as the smile when kind lovers meet. And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ! Although thou maun never be mine^ Although even hope is denied — 'Tis 'sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! I mourn through the gay gaudy day. As hopeless ! muse on thy charms ; But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie ! I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love-rolling ee ; But why urge the tender confession, 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie !• HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. Tune—" John Anderson my jo." How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize. And to the wealthy booby, Poor woman sacrifice. Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife ; To shun a tyrant father's hate. Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flie% To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries ; 'Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet. HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen How lang and dreary is the night. When I am frae my dearie • I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Though 1 were ne'er sae weary. For, oh, her lanely nights are lang. And, oh, her dreiims are eerie, And, oh, her widiiw'd heart is sair. That's absent frae her dearie. • Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson, of Diimfries; a true friend and a great favourite of the poet, ai)d, at liis death, one of the most tymp». thiziiig friends of his aillictcU widow. SONGS. 205 When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; And now what seas between us roar, How can I but be eerie ? For, oh, Sfc. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; The joyless day how dreary ! It wasna sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. For, oh, Sfc. I AM A SON OF MARS. Tune—" Soldier's Joy." I AM a son of Mars who have been in many wais, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Xiol de dandle, Sfc. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the t)loody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. X,al de daudfe, 8fc, I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Z>al de dandle, Sj'c. And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Z,al de dandle, SfC, What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. £,al de daudle, Sfc. I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING. These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the oldest of my print- ed pieces. I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, Gaily in the sunny beam ; Listening to the wild birds singing, By a falling, crystal stream : Straight the sky grew black and daring ; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; Trees with aged arms were warring, O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning. Such the pleasures I enjoy 'd ; But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. She promis'd fair, and perforni'd but ill ; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still. I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUW Tune — " I'll gang nae mair to yon tmnk" I'li, aye ca' in by yon toun, And by yon garden green again ; I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall guss What brings me back the gate again, But she, my fairest faithfu' lass ; And stowlins we shall meet again. She'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin time draws near again J And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she's doubly dear again. I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. And by yon garden green again ; I'll aye ca' iu by yon toun, And see my bonnie Jean again. I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. The chorus is old : IS, is mine. -the rest of it, such u h I'm my mammy's ae baii*n, Wi' unco folk, I weary. Sir; And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd wad mak me irie. Sir. I'm o'er young, I'm o'er yourg, * Tm o'er yonng to marry yet ; ir 206 BURNS' WORKS. rm n'er ynuvg, twad be a sin To tak ■■'e frae my mammy yet. Hallowmas is jome and gane, The niglUs are lang in winter, Sir ; And you and I in ae bed, In tiowth I daiena venture. Sir. /'m o'er young, ^-c. My minnie coft me a new gown, The kiik maun hae the gracing o't ; War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. Fm o'er young, ^c. Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro' the leafl'ss timmer, Sir ; But should ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir. I'm o'er young, §"c. IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. These were originally English verses : — I gave them their Scotch dress. It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty ana'^- But the cheerful spring came kindly on. And show'rs began to fall , John Barleycorn got up again. And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came. And he grew thick and strong. His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, Tliat no one should him wrong. • This is partly composed on the plan of an old long known by the same name. SONGS. The sober autumn enter'd mild, Wiien he grew wan and paJe ; V}s bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To sliow their deadly rage. They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee ; Then fy'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgeiie. They laid him down upon his back. And cudgeli'd him full sore ; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Baileycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe, And still as signs of life appear'd. They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er a scorching flame. The marrow of his bones ; But a miller used him worst of all. For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood And drank it round and round ; Anil still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of n(;ble enterprise. For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. Twill make a man forget his woe ; 'Twill heighten all his joy; Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fai in old Scotland ! JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, BIPROVED. John Anberson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mcoO, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e en, g07 and why Ye'll blear out a' your een, Joht should you do so, Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man ; And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae lap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, < And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and neat ; Tho' some folk say je're auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns. And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms. And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquaint, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head's turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw. Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander- son, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai we've past. And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last : But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John An- derson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John,' we clam the hill thegither. And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi ane anither ; 208 BURNS' WORKS. Now we mnun tnttcf down, Jolin, but liand in hand we'll n;o, And we'll kloep thenither at the foot, John An- derson, my jo. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. Tune — " The Lothian Lassie." Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men : The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe me. The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black een. And vow'd for my love he was deein'. I said he niicht dee when he liked for Jean ; The guid furgi'e me for leein', for leein', The guid furgi'e me for leein' ! A weel-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird. And marriage aft-hand, were his proffer. I never loot on that I kenn'd it or cared ; BiU thoch* I might hae a waur offer, waur offer, But thought I might hae a waur offer. But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less, — The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! — He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her, could liear her. Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her ! But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock ; And wha but my braw fickle wooer was there ? Wha giowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a warlock, Wha giowr'd as he had seen a warlock. Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink. Lest neebors micht say I was saucy ; My wooer he Vaper'd as he'd been in drink. And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. And vow'd I was his dear lassie. I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet, Gin she had recover'd her hearin' ? And how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled feet ?■* Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin', a- swearin', Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin*. He l)egged. for gudesake ! I wad be his wife^ Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; Sae, e'en to preserve the pair body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-BiOf« row, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. • In Scotland, when a cast-off lover pays his ad- dresses to a new mistress, that new mistress is said to have got the auld slioon (old shoes) of the former one. Here ihe metaphor is made to carry an extremely in- genious sarcasm at tlie clumsiness or the new mistress'* person. LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS Tune — " Rothiemurehus' Rant." Lassie wi' the lint white locks, JBonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wP me tend the flocks ? Wilt thou be my dearie, O 9 Now Nature cleads the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee, O, wilt thou share its joys wi* me, And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? Lassie wi\ Sj'C. And when the welcome simmer stiower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll M the breathing woodbine bower, At sultry noon, my dearie, O. Lassie wi, &;c. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Through yellow-waving fields we'll stra^. And talk o' love, my dearie, O. Lassie, wV, ^c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest. Enclasped to my faithtul breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie, wi', 8fc. LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS Tune—" O lay the loof in mine, Ian." O LAY thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. A slave to love's unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me muckle wae j But now he is my deadly fae, Unless thou be my ain. There's mony a lass has broke my rest. That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; But thou art queea within my breast, For ever to remain. SONGS. 209 I,E NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. TVne— " Duncan Gray." Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain, Fickle man is apt to rove. [,0()k abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should, then, a moaster prove? Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow. Sun and moon but set to rise ; Round and round the seasons go. Why, then, ask of silly man, To oppose great nature's plan ? We'll be constant while we can, You can be no more, you know. LONG, LONG THE PLIGHT. T^fi*— " Aye wakin'." Long, long the night. Heavy comes the morrow. While my soul's delight, Is on her led of sorrow. Can I cease to care, Can I cease to languish, While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish ? Long, Sf'c. Every ho|ie is fled. Every fear is terror : Slumber e'en I dread, Every dream is horror. Long, §-c. Hear me, pow'rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! Long, Sfc. LOGAN BRAES, Titne—" Logan Water." 0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide, That day I was niy Willie's bride ; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now the flowery banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark an drear. While iny dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry moath o' May, Has made our hills and valleys gay ; The birds lejoice in leafy boweis, The bees hum round the breathing flowen; BIythe morning lifts his rosy eye, And evening's tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a' surveys. While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. Or wi' his sorvg her cares beguile ; But I, wi' my sweet nurslitigs here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. While Willie's far frae Logan braes. O wae upon you, men o' state. That brethren rouse to deadly hate ' As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return ! How can your flinty hearts enjoy. The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* But soon may peace bring happy days. And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! LORD GREGORY. Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. And loud the tempests roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower. Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! An exile fme her father's ha'. And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw. If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gro» By bonnie Irvine side. Where first I o\Vn'd that virgin love I lang lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge the vow, Thou wad for aye be mine ! And my fond heait, it-ell sae true, It ne'er mistrusted tuiae. Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast ! Thou dart of heaven that flashes by. Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mustering thunders from above. Your willing victim see ; Originally, " Ye mind na 'mid your cruel joys, •' the widow's tears, the orr>ha'>'< cr nc BURNS* WORKS. But spare anfi pardon my false love His wronffs to heaveu and me ! • LINES ON LORD DAER. This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Roltiii, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprackled f up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. I've been at diuiiken tvrifers' \ feasts, Nay, been bitch fou "mang godly priests, Wi' rev'renre be it spoken ; I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When miijhty Squireships of tiie quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, Up higher yet my bonnet ; An' sic a Lord — iang Scotch ells twa. Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' As I look o'er a sonnet. But O for Hogarth's magic power ! To show Sir Burdy's willyart glowr,§ And how he stared and stammer'd, Whan goavan || as if led wi' braiiks,^ An* stumpan on his ploughman shanks. He in the parlour hammer'd. I sidling shelter'd in a nook. An' at his Lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen ; Except good sense and social glee. An' (what surprised me) modesty, 1 marked nought uncommon. I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, The gentle pride, the lordly state The arrogant assuming; The fient a pi ide, nae pride had he. Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Hencel'ortn to meet with unconcern, One rank as well's another ; Nae honest worthy man need tare, To meet with noble youthfid Daer, For he but meets a brother. These lines will be read with no common in- terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- • This sonR was composed upon the subject of the well-known and very beautiful ballad, entitled " The Lass of Lochrovan." t Clambered'. % Attorneys. \ Frightened stare. {j Walking stupidly. II A kind of bridle. plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte- nance and mannerji, and the unsuspecting bene- volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It Mas a younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk, became so well known as the advocate ol volun- tary emigration, and who settled the colony upon the Red River. MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. Tune — " Maepherson's Rant.' Fa RE WEIL, ye prisons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie ! Maepherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree! Sae rantinijly, sue wdntojily, Sae dantanly gaed he. He play'd a spring, and danced it round, Jitneath the gallows tree ! Oh, what is death, but parting breath? On mony a bluidy plain I've daur'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again. Sae rantingly, ^c. Untie these bands frae aff my hands, And bring to me my sword ; And there's nae man in a' Scotland But I'll brave him at a word. Sae rantingly, §*c. I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; I die by treacherie ; It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be. Sae rantingly, ifc. Now farewell, light, thou sunshine brigh^ And all bi'ne.ith the sky ! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! Sae rantingly, §-c. MARIA'S DWELLING. Tune—" The last time I cam o'er the Moor.* Farewell thou stream that winding flows Around Maria's dwelling ! Ah cruti mem'ry ! spare the throes Within my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And still in secret languish ; To feel a fire in ev'ry vein. Yet dare not speek my anguish. The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, I fain my crime would cover ; soNcrs. 211 The bursting si;rli, th' unweetlng groan Betray tlie hopeless lover. I know my doom must be despair, Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; But oh, Maria, iiear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me. The music of thy tonsTue I heard. Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'a, 'Till fears no more had saved me. The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing ; 'Mill circling horrors yields at last To overwhelming ruin. To thee my fancy took its wing — i I sat, Imt neither heard nor saw. Though this was fair, ap.d that was braw. And you the toast o' a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', Ye are na Mary Morison. O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown ; A thocht ungentle canna be The thocht of Mary Morison. MARK YONDER POMP. Tub Deil tak* the wars." Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compared with real passion. Poor is all that princely pride. What are their showy treasures ? What are their, noisy pleasures ? The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. Tfee polish'd jewel's blaze, May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright, The fancy may delight, But never, never can tome near the heart. But did yoTj see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- ling soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown. Even Av'rice would deny His worshipp'd deity. And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. MARY MORISON. T\tne — " Bide ye yet" O, Mary, at thy window be ; It is the wished, the trysted hour: Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor. How blythely wad I liyde the stoure, A weary slave fiae sun to sun, Conld I the rich reward secure. The lovely Jlary Morison ! Yestreen, when to the stented string The dance gaed tlimugh the lichtit ha*. MEG O' THE MILL. Tune—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack." O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley miller. The miller was sti-appin', the miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : The laird was a wuddiefu* bleerit knurl ; She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl. The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving: The laii-d did address her wi' matter niair mo- ring ; A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle. O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ; And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin' ! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an of- ficer in the East Indies. Tune — " Drumion Dubh." Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me ; Wearyirrg heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whispring spirits round my pillow, Talk of hin: that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded) Ye who never slied a tear, 212 BURNS* WORKS. Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me, Downy sleep the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of hiin that's far awa ! MY BONNIE MARY. This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest mine.* Go fetch to me a pint o* wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie ; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. , The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard aftir. The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. Mv heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here — My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; A-chasing the wil BURNS' WORKS. Yet I'll try to make a snift, My spouse Nancie. My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it ; When you lay me in the dust, Think — think how you will bear it. I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancie, Nancie, Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancie. Well, Sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. I'll wed another like my dear Nancie, Nancie ; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancie ! MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. O MEiKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty. And raeikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve 1 ken brawlie. My tocher's the jewel has charms fur him. it's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna h'ae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' raae nor me. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. Tune—" My wife's a wanton wee thing." Shk is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bunnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine ! I never saw a fairer, I never loo'd a dearer ; And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a. winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't ; W' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. NAE-BODY. I HAE a wife o' my ain, I'll partake wi' nae-body ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. I hae a penny to spend, There — thanks to nae-body ; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae nae-body. I am nae-body 's lord, I'll be slave to nae-body ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body ; If nae-body care for me, I'll care for nae-body. NANCY. Thine am I, my faithful fair. Thine, my lovely Nancy ; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart. There to throb and languish ; Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish. Take away these rosy lips. Rich with balmy treasure : Turn away thine eyes of love. Lest I die with pleasure. What is life when wanting love ? Night without a morning : Love's the cloudless summer sun Nature gay adorning. NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROV^B IN GREEN. Now spring has clad the grove m green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; Tlie furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers < SONGS. 215 While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weaiy steps of woe ! ^ The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art ; My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, vvi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. In yonder cliff that grows, Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom. And now beneath the withering blast. My youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winndwing blytlie her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power. Until the flowery snare O* witching love, in luckless hour. Made me the thrall o' care. O had my fate been Greenland's snows. Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes. So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair. That tongue his woes cau tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD IN GREEN. Now bank and brae are clad in green An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly sprir«f. By Girvan's fairy haunted stream The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fii's, Thei J wi' my IMary let me flee. There catch her ilka glance of love The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! The child wha boasts o' warld's walth. Is aften laird o' nieikle care ; But Mary she is a' my ain, Ah, fortune canna gie me mair! Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, Wi' her the lassie dear to me, And catch her ilka glance o' love. The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! NOW WESTLIN' WINDS. Tune — " I had a horse, I had nae mair." Now westlin' winds, and slaughtering guns, Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; The muircock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather. Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. Delights the weary farmer ; And the moon shine's bright, when I rove at night. To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves' the fruitful fells ; The plover loves the mountains ; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains. Through lofty groves the cushat roves, Tlie path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet. Thus every kind their pleasure find. The savage and the tender ; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander : Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion ; The sportman's joy, the murdering cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion. But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleat. Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading green and yellow : Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. And every happy creature. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't, And swear I love thee de.uly. Not vernal showeis to budding flowers. Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me. My fair, my lovely charmer ! OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Tune—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. It was during the honey-moon. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, ■ I dearly like the west. For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lass that I loe best : Tho* wild woods grow, and rivers xaw^ Wi' mony a hill between. 216 BURNS' WORKS. Baith day and night, my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flow'r, Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; I hear her voice in ilka bird, Wi' music charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, shaw, or green, Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde The lasses buNk them braw ; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie dings them a' ; In haraely weeds she far exceeds The fairest o' the tows ; Baith sage and gay confeee it sae, Tho' drest in russet gown. The gamesome lamb, that sucks its duo, Mair harmless canna be ; She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't). Except her love for me : The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, Is like her shining een ; In shape and air, nane can compare Wi' my sweet lovely Jean, O blaw, ye wesflin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ; Wi' gentle gale, frae niuir and dale, Bring hanie the laden bees. And bring the lassie back to me That's ave sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad lianish care, Sae lovely is my Jean. What sighs and vows amang the knowes, Hae past atwecn us twa ! How fain to meet, how wae to part That day she gaed awa ! The powers abiion can only ken. To whom tlie heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me ( As my sweet lovely Jean. O, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. Tune—" O, ay my Wife sfie dang me." O, ay my wife site dang me, ./iitd aft my wife she bmiyed me I If ye pie a U'ii7na7i a' her will, Gude faith, Jie'll soon owerynng ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent, And, fool 1 was, I married ; But never honest man's intent As cursedly liiiscarried ! O, ay my wife, §"C. Some sair o' comfort still at last. When a' thir days are dune, man— My pains o' hell on earth is past, I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man. O, ay my wife, Sfc. O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. O BONNIE was yon rosy brier. That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! It shaded frae the e'eniu' sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower. That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wish, nor scoio. Its joys and griefs ahke resign. O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM. Tune—" The Moudiewort." An' O, fir ane and twenty, Tarn I An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam f ni learn my kin a rattling sang. An' I saw ane and twenty, Taml Thev smol me sair, and hand rae down. And gar me look like Bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun , And then comes ane and twenty, Tam ! An O, far, Sfc, A gleib o* Ian*, a claut o' gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I need na' spier, An* I saw ane and twenty, Tam. All O, for, SfC. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coot, Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loo^ I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An' Oyfor, Sfc. SONGS. 217 on, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. Tune—" Hughie Graham. •* Oh, gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa*, And 1 mysell a (Irap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on lieaiity a* the nicht ; Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fieyed awa by Phoebus' licht. ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS. O, WERE my love yon lilac fair, Wi* purple blossoms to the spring ; And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing ; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! How I wad sing on wanton wing. When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast. On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My plaidie to tlie angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee biaw, around thee blaw. Thy bield should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise. If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch of the globe. With thee to reign, with thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. O LEAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE BELLES. A FRAGMENT. Tune—" Donald Blue." LEAVE novelles, ye Mauehline belles, Ye' re safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching books are baited books. For rakish rooks like Rob MossgieL Sing tal, lal, lay. Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel, They heat your brains, and fire your veins. And then you're prey for Rob MossgieL Sing tal, lal, lay. Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; That feeling heart but acts a part, 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. Sing tal, lal, lay. The frank address, the soft caress. Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, The frank address, and politesse. Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. Sing tal, lal, lay. O LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT TuM—" Let me in this ae night" O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet. Or art thou wakin, I would wit. For love has bound me hand and foot. And I would fjin be in, jo. O let me in this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night. For pifi/'s sake this ae night, rise and let me in, jo. Thnu hear'st the winter wind and wee^ Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, Tiik pity on my weary feet. And shield nie frae the rain, jo. O let me in, Sfc. The bitter blast that round me blaws Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and ])ain, jo. O let me in, §'c. IIER ANSWER. O TELL nae me o' wind and rain. Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, Gae buck the road ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. / tell you now this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night ; And ance for a', this ae night} 1 winna let you in, jo. The snellest blast at mirkest hours. That round the pathless wand'rer poun. Is nought to what poor she endures That's trusted faithless man, jo. / tell you now, §-c. The sweetest flower that deck'd the meac^ Now trodden like the vilest weed : Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo^ J tell you tiow, j'C. a 218 BURNS' WORKS. The bird that charm'd his summer-day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Let witless, trustinsi; woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo. / tell you now, Sfc. O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been, But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green. And a' to pu' a posie to ray ain dear May. The primrose I will pu*, the firstling o' the year. And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, wben Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue. And a to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o day, But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu*, when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The violet's for modesty-which weel she fa's to wear ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. rU tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve. And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve. And this will be a posie to n>r gin dear May. O MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, As the mirk night o* December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine. And private was the chamber : And dear was she I darna name, Bnt I will aye remember. And dear, §"c. And here's to them, that like oursel, Can push about the jorum ; And here's to them that wish us weel, May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; And here's ti^hem we darna tell, The dearest o' the quorum. And f'f to, Sfc. ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES A LASS.* Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trim." On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, Could I describe her shape and mien ; The graces of her weelfar'd face. And the glancin' of her sparklin' e*en. She's fresher than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. She's stately like yon youthful ash. That grows the cowslip braes between. And shoots its head above each bush ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn With flow'rs so white and leaves so green. When purest in the dewy morn ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her looks are like the sportive lamb, When flow'ry May adorns the scene, That wantons round its bleating dam ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her hair is like the curling mist That shad«s the mountain side at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; , An' she's twa glancin' spaiklin' e'en. Her forehead's like .the show'ry bow, When shining sunbeams intervene And gild the distant mountain's brow ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. * 1 his soHg was an early production, .t was re. covered from the oral communication of a lady resid- ing at Glasgow whom the Bard in early hfe affection- ately aduxirsd SONGS. 219 Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the hush ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her lip? are like the cherries ripe, That sunny walls from boreas screen, They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; An' she's twa glancia* sparklin' e'en. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising step ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen. But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace An* chiefly in her sparklin' e'en ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY Tune — " O'er the hills and far away." How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad ? How can I the thought forego, He's on the seas to meet his foe ! Let me wander, let me rove. Still my heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that's far away. On tlie seas ami far awoy. On stormy seas and far away ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day. Are aye with him that's far away. When in summer's noon I faint. As weary flocks around me pant. Haply in this scorching sun My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : Bullets, spare my only joy ! Bullets, spare my darling boy ! Fate, do with me what you may, Spare but him that's far away ! On the seas and far away, tfc. At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power, As the stoims the forests tear. And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore. All I can — I weep and pray For his weal that's far away. On the seas and far away, §•(;. Peace, thy olive wand extend, ■ And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet. And as a brother kindly greet. Then may heaven with prosperous gales Fill ray sailor's welcome sails. To my arms their charge convey. My dear lad that's far away. On the seas and far away, SfC, ON A BANK OF FLOWER& Tune — " On a bank of flowers." On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay. With love and sleep opprest ; When Willie, wandering through the wood. Who for her favour oft had sued ; He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed. And trembled where he stood. Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed. Were sealed in soft repose ; Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed. It richer dyed the rose. The springing lilie, sweetly prest. Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed. His bosom ill at rest. • Her robes, light waving in the breeze. Her tender limbs embrace ; Her lovely firm, her native ease, All harmonv and grace : Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed* And sighed his very soul. As flies the partridge from the brake, On fear-inspired wings ; So Nellv, stirting, half awake. Away affrighted springs , But Willie followed — as he should ; He overtook her in the wood ; He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid Forgiving all and good ! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH. Oh, open the door, some pity show, Oh, open the duor to me, oh ! Though thou hast been false, I'll evei prOT« true, Oh, open the door to me, oh ! Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh ' y% 220 BURNS WORKS. the frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! She has open'd the door, she has opened it wide, She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his side. Never to rise again, oh ! O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. Tune — " The sow's tail." HE. O Philly, happy be that day When roving through the gather'd liay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly. SHE. O Willie, aye I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love. Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, To be my ain dear Willie. Ks songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Fhilly. As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willie. The milder sun and bluer sky. That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight of Philly. SHE. The little swallow's wanton^ving, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' ray Willie. The bee, that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly. SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet^ Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willie. Let fortune's \v>heel at random rin. And fools may tyne, and knaves may win} My thoughts are a' bound upon ane. And that's my ain dear Philly. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? I care nae wealth a single flie ; The lad I love's the lad for me. And that's my ain dear Willie. O STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOODu LARK. Tvne — " Loeh.Erroch side." O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray ! A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining. Again, again that tender part. That I may catch thy melting art ; For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind. And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes of woe could wauken. Thou tells o' never-ending care, • O' speechless grief and dark despair ; For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! , Or my poor heart is broken 1 O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOUN. Turu — " I'll gang nae mair to yon toun." O WAT ye wha's in yon toun Ye see the e'ening sun upon ? The fairest maid's in yon toun. That e'ening sun, is shining on. Now haplv down yon gay green shaw. She wanders by yon spreading tree ; How blest, ye flow'rs, that round her blaw! Ye catch the glances o' her ee. How blest, ye birds, that round her sing. And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Jeanie dear ! The sun blinks biythe on yon toun, Amang yon broomy braes sae green ; But my delight, in yon toun. And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. Without my love, not a' the charms Of Pai-a4ise could yield me joy j SONGS. 22 1 But gie me ucan.e in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreane sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tlinugh raging winter rent tlie air; And she a lovely little flower, That 1 wad teat and shelter there. O sweet is she in yon toun, The sinking sun's gane down upon ; Ths dearest maid's in yon toun. His setting beam e'er shone upon. !f angry fate be sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear, I'll careless quit aught else below ; But spare, oh ! spare me Jeanie (kar. For, while life's dearest blood runs warm, My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart ; For, as most lovely is her form. She has the truest, kindest heart. O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. This air is Oswald's : the song I made out J compliment to Mrs. Burns. were I on Parnassus' hill. Or had o' Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my Muse's well, My Muse maun be thy bonnie sell ; On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet Jluse, inspire my lay ! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 1 coudna sing, I coudna say. How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — By heaven and earth 1 love thee ! By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; And ay I muse and sing thy name, 1 only live to love thee ! Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. Till my last weary sand was run ; 'Till then, and then I love thee ! O WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME. Tune—" Morag." O WHA is she that loes me, And has my heart a-keeplng ? O Bweet is she that loes me, As dews o' simmer weeping. In tears tlie lose-bud steeping: O that's the lassie o' my heart. My lassie ever dearer ; O that's the queen o' womunkind, Ajid ne'er a ane to peer her. If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming. That e'en thy chosen lassie, Ere while thy breast sae warming, Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; O that's, Sfc. If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attentions plighted. That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted ; And if thou art delighted ; O that's, §-c. If thou hast met this fair one. When frae her thou hast parted ; If every other fair one But her, thou hast deserted. And thou art broken-hearted ; O that's, Sfc. OUT OVER THE FORTH I LOOK TO THE NORTH. Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. The far foreign land, oi^ the wild rolling sea. But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. The lad that is dear to my babie and me. ' PEGGY ALISON. Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy 'them ; Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am ! I'll kiss thee yet, yet. An' I'll kiss thee o'er agaijlf An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison, When in my arms, wi' a' thy charii]% I clasp my countless treasure, I seek nae niair o' Heaven tu share, Than sic a moment's pleasure 1 rU kiss, ite. 225 BURNS' WORKS. And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ; And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall I never ! ril kiss, ^c. POWERS CELESTIAL. Powers celestial, whose protection Ever guards the virtuous fair, WJiile in distant climes I wander, Let my Mary be your care : Let her form sae fair and faultless, Fair and faultless as your own ; Let my ]Mar,y's kindred spirit, Draw your choicest influence down. Jlake the giles you waft around her. Soft and peaceful as her breast ; Breathing in the breeze that fans her, Sooth her bosom into rest : Guardian angels, O protect her. When in distant lands I roam ; To realms unknown while fate exiles me, Make her bosom still my home. * PHILLIS THE FAIR. Tune — " Robin Adair." While larks with little wing Fanned the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare ; Gay the sun's golden eye Peeped o'er the mountains high j Such thy morn ! did I cry, Philli's the fair. In each bird's careless song Glad I did sliare. While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there : Sweet to the opening day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; Such thy bloom ! did 1 say, Pljillis the fair. Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were ; I marked the cruel hawk Caught in a snare ; So kind may fortune be ! Such make his destiny, He who WBuld injure thee, Phillis the fair"! ^ PUIRTITH CAULD. Tune — " I had a horse." O, PUIRTITH cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye ; Yet puirtith a' I could forgie. An 'twere na for my Jeanie. O, why should fate sic pleasure havtf Lijes dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae siveet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining 9 This world's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; Fie, fie onlbilly coward man, That he should be the slave o't. O, why should fate, §"c. Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her owerword aye. She talks of rank and fashion. O, why should fate, Sfc. O, wha can prinlence think upon And sic a lassie by him ? O, wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am ? O, why should fate, §«. How blest the humble cottar's lot ' He woos his simple dearie ; The sillie bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O, why should fate, §•<% • Probably written on Highland Mary, en the eve 0/ the I'oet's departure for the West Indies. RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. - The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was composed out of compliment to one of the wor- titiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- lonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments. O RATTLIN, roarin Willie, O he held to the fair. An* for to sell his fiddle, And buy some ither ware ; But parting wi' his fiddle. The siiut tear blint his ee ; And rattlin roarin Willie, Ye're welcome haine to me. O Willie, come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine ; O willie come sell your fiddle, And buy a pint o' wine. If I should sell my fiddle. The waVr wou'd think I was mad. For many a rantin day My fiddle and I hae had ' SONGS. 223 RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon. • Tun*—" M'Grigor of Roro's Lament." Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woiidlands strewing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring. Farewell hours, that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; Hail ! thou gloomy night of sorrow. Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! O'er the Past t^o fondly pondering. On the hopeless Future wandering ; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing. Load to misery most distressing ; Gladly how would I resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee ! So may you have auld stanes in store, Igo, and ago. The very stanes that Ailam bore, Irani, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo, and ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. SAW YE OUGHT O" CAPTAIN GROSE. Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo and ago, If he's among his friends or foes ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he South, or is he North ? Igo, and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies ' Igo, and ago, And eaten like a wether-haggis ? . Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abiam's bosom gane ? Igo, and ago. Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er lie be, the Lord be near him ; Igo, and ago. As for the deil he daur na steer him, Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit th' inclosed letter, Igo, and ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago. SCROGGAM. There was a wife wonned in Cockpen, Scroggam ; She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, RuflFum. The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam ; The priest o' the parish fell in another : Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffuni. They laid the twa in the bed thegither, Scroggam, That the heat o' the tane might cool the tother Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; Scroggam, my dearie, RuflFum. SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. Tune—" She's fair and fause." She's fair and fause that causes my smart. I loo'd her mickle and lang ; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart. And I may e'en gae h.mg. A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear. And I hae tint ray dearest dear ; But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bounie lass gang. Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; A woman has't by kind : O woman, lovely woman fair ! An angel's foim's faun to thy share, 'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee mur I mean an angtl mind. SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A*. Tune — " Onagh's Water-fall." Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a daiker hue, 224 BURNS' WORKS. Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laugiiing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sue wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto those>rosy lips to grow ; Such was my Chlori.?' bonnie face, MHien first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Lilce harmony her motion ; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forge^ the sky. Sae warming, sae charming. Her faultless form and graceful air ; Ilk feature — auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair ; Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. She says she lo'es me best of a*. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon ; Gie nie the lonely valley. The dewy eve, and rising moon. Fair beaming and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sana There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpliug burn and leafy shaw, And hear mv vows o' truth and love, 4.nd say thou lo'es me best of a'. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Tune—" Tibby Fowler." Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddle. Willie was a wabster gude, Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. He had a wife was dour and din, O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother : Sic a wife as Willie had, I vvadna gie a button for her ! She has an ee, she has but ane, The cat has twa the veiy colour ; • Twa rustle teeth, forbye a sjump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; A whiskin' beard about her mou' ; Her nose and chin they threaten ither : Sic a wife as Wdlie had, I wadna gie a button for her ! She's Ijow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Ae limpin' leg a hand-bread shorter ; She's twisted richt, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast. The twin o' that upon her shouther ; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her ! Auld baudrons* by the ingle sits, And wi' her loof.her face a-washin' ; But Willie's wife is nje sae trig, She dichts her grunyief wi' a hushion.J Her walie neeves.|| like midden creels; Her face wad fjle the Logan Water : Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her ! STEER HER UP AND HAtJD HER GAUN. run SONGS. S25 When yon greeu leaves fade fiae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.* TAM GLEN. My heart is a-breaking, dear tittle, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what wif.' I do wi' Tam Glen ? I'm thinking, wi* sic a braw fellow, In pooitith I might mak a fen ; What caie I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen. There's Lowrie the laird o' Dunieller, " Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when w^ll he dance like Tam Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave rae, And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me. But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordained I maun tak him, O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing. My heart to my mou gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written Tam Glen. The last Hallowe'en I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His hkeness cam up the house staukin. And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; I'll gie you my bonuie black hen, Gin ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam. Glen. THE AULD MAN. But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoiced the day, Thro' ge'title showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array. Again shall bring them a'. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain I Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why comest thou not again ! • Cragie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the river Moltat, and about three miles jiistant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- ters. The woods of Cragie-burn, and of Dumerief, were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint.white locks," and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird. That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed never to return. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause lover stole my rose. But ah! he left the tliorn wi' me. THE BANKS BY CASTLE-GORDON Tune—" Morag." Streams that glide in orient plains Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands. There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands : These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle- Gordon. Spicy forests ever gay, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil. Or the ruthless native's way. Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave. Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms, by Castle-Gurdon. Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole j In that sober pensive mood. Dearest to the feeling soul. She plants the forest, pours the floodp Life's poor day I'll musing rave^ Q.-2 226 BURNS' WORKS. A.nd find at nijijht a slieltering c;ive, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonme Castle-Gordon. And art thou come, and art thou true ! O welcome dear to love and me ! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree. THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. Tune—" Rhannerach dhon na chri." These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss Chailotte Hamilton, who is now marritfd to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- vin Hamilton, of Mauchline ; and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair ! But the bonniest fiow'r on the banks of the De- von, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr : Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; And gentle the fail of the soft vernal show'r, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! O spaie the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill, hoary-wing as ye usher the dawn ! And f.ir be thuu distant, thou reptile that seizest. The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! Let Boui 1)011 exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. THE BARD'S SONG. THE bard's song IN "THE JOLLY BEGOAXS, Tune—" Jolly hiortals, fill your glawe*. See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing — A Jiff for those by law protected, Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. What is title what is treasure, What is reputation's care i If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where. A Jiy for those, SfC. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes , Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose. A Jig J'or those, 8^c. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! Here's to all our wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and callets ! Oiie and all cry out, Amen ! A Jig for those, Sfc. THE BANKS OF CREE. Tune—" The banks of Cree." Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the hlrchfu shade; The village bell has toU'd the lumi-, O, what can stay my lovely m lid ? Tis not ]\Iaria's whispering call, Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maiia's voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark to the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer, At once 'tis music — aud 'tis love. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, between the nuKE OF argyle and thb EARL OF MAR. " O CAM ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, Aud did the battle see, man ?" I saw the battle sair and teugh, And reekin-red lan monie a sheugh, My heart for fear gae sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The red- coat lads wi' black cockades. To meet them were na slaw, man ; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man • The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles J SONGS. 827 Thev hacUM ana hash'd, while broadswords clash'd, And thro' tlit'y dash'd, and liew'd and smasli'd, Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, Wlifn in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large. When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hastened to the charge, Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man, " O how deil Tarn can that be true ? The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man ; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. They took the biig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; Ikit, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; And mony a hunted poor red-coat Fur fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate catne up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man : She swoor she saw some rebels run, Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill. The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebot's blood to spill ; For fear by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes. And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Ainang the Highland clans, man; I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. Now wad ve sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; But mony bade the world gude-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, Bv red claymores, and muskets, knell, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man.* THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. I coMTOSED these stanzas standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. Tune — " The Birks of Abergeldy." Bonnie lassie, icill ye go, u-ill ye yo, will ye go, Bonnie' lassie, will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- feldy 9 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; Come, let us sjtend the lichtsome days In the Bilks of Abeifeldy. Bonnie lassie, S^c. Mliile o'er their head the hazels king, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lichtly flit on wanton wing. In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &fc. The braes ascend like lofty wa's. The foarnin' stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shawS} The Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie las.sie, 8fC. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow're, White ower the lin the burnie pours. And, risin', weets wi' misty show'rs The Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, Sfc. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae nae, Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee. In the Birks of Aberfeldy.* Bonnie lassie, Sfc. THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. TuTie — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern , let's fly." No churchman am I, for to rail and to write ; No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ; No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ; 1 scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here. And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; There centum -per-centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you ' the Cror/n,' how it waves in the air ! I There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. • This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787> * The chorus is 'oorrowed from an old simple bal- lad, called " The Birks of Abergeldy ;" of which the following is a fragment. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks o' Abergeldie? Ye shall get a gown o' silk, A gowii o' silk, a gown o' silk, ■\'e shall get a gown o' silk. And coat of callimankie 228 BURNS' WORKS. The wife ot my bosom, alas ! she did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs. With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares. " Life's cares they are comforts," • a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that woie the black gown ; And faith I agree with th* old prig to a hair, For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care. STANIA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 'Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white — It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd. She charni'd my soul I wist na how ; And aye the stound, the deadly wound. Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; She'll aiblins listen to my vow : Shfpuld she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue.f THE BONNIE WEE THING. Composed on my little idol, " The charm- ing, lovely Davies." Bonnie me thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; I wad wear thee in my bosom , Lest my jewel L should tine. Wishfully I look and languish, In that bonnie face of thine ; And my heart 'it stounds wi' anguish. Lest my wee thing be na mine. Soniiie wee thing, i^c. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee thing, Sfc, THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, • Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the ee. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bovvers. Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas ! for me nae mair. Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! • Young's Night Thoughts. + T\\c heroine of this song was M'ss J. of Lochma- ben. Tliis ladv, now Mrs. R. after refilling some time in Liverpool, is settled with her huiband in New York, North America. THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. These words are mine ; I composed them from the old traditionary verses. There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; And the thyme it is withei'd and the rue is in prime. Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He met wi* the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. *' I've got a bad wife, Sir ; that's a' my com- plaint ; ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) • Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy m the University of EdiMburgh. Balloclimvie, fonnerly the scat of Sir Jolui Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. (IbOO. SONGS. 229 For, saving your presence, to her ye' re a saint ; And the tliyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." " It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonaie wi' thyme) But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have. And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." " O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But if ye can match her, ye're war nor ye're ca'd. And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime." The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. He's carried her harae to his ain hallan-door ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore, Ajid the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is prime. The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Whae'er she gat Lands on came near her nae mair ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. •• A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a'. And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime." The devil he swoie by the edge' o' his knife, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then Satan has travelled again wi* his pack ; (Hey, and the rue grows botmie wi* thyme) And to her auld husband he's carried her back ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. " I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. THE CHEVALIER'S LAAffiNT. 2Vn<— " Captain O" Kaine." The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- turning ; The murmuring streamlet runs clear through the vale ; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning ; And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem * fair. When the lingerin* moments are numbered by care ? No flowers gaily springing. Or birds sweetly singing. Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- lice — A king and a father to place on his throne ! His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for- lorn ; My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mour-a. Your deeds proved so loyal In hot bloody trial ; Alas ! can I make it no better .erurn ' THE DAY RETURiN^. BURNS. MY BOSOM Tunt — " Seventh of Novemder." The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. Ne'er summer sun was half sac sweet ; Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sbltry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight, Or nature ought of pleasure give .' 230 BURNS' WORKS. WhUe joys above, my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live ! When that grim foe of life below, Comes in between to make us part ; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. But the ae best dance e £r cam to tne heels, Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsieman. The deil's awa, §"c. THE DEATH SONG. Scene— A Field of Battle.— Time of the Day— Evening.— The Wounded and Dying of the Victo. nous Army are supposed to joui iji the followuig Song : Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties. Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe. Go, frighten the coward and slave ; Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know. No terrors hast thou to the brave. rhou strikest the *^11 peasant ; he sinks in the dark. Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; Thou strikest the young hero— a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of bis fame ! In the proud field of honour — our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save — While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O ! who would not die with the brave ! THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISE- MAN. The deil cam fiddling thiough the toun. And danced awa wi" the exciseman ; And ilka auld wife cried, Auld Mahoun, I wish you lu^K o* the prize, man. The deil's awa, the deil's awa. The deil's awa wi' the exciseman ; He's danced awa, he's danced awa. He's danced awa wi' the exciseman ! We'll :nak our maut, we'll brew our drink, Wf 11 laugh, sing, and rejoice, man ; And mony braw thanks to the nielkle black deil, 'i'hat danced awa, wi' the exciseman I Tlie deil's awa, 8fc. There's threesome reels, there's foursome re •!?, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; THE ELECTION. Tune — " Fy, let us a' to the bndaL" Fi/, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickering there, For Murray's light horse are to muster'i And oh, how the heroes will swear ! And there will be IMuiray commander, And Gordon the batttle to win : Like brithers they'll stand by each othei, Sae knit in alliance and sin. Fy, let us a', §'c. And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie^ The tongue of the trump to them a' ; If he get na hell fur his haddin'. The deil gets nae justice ava ! Fy, let us a', Sfc. And there will be Templeton's birkie, A boy no sae black at the bane ; But, as to his fine Nabob fortune. We'll e'en let the subject alane. Fy, let us. a', ^c. And there will be Wigton's new sheriff: Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped ; She's gotten the heart of a B by. But what has become of the head ? Fy, let us a', Sfc. And there will be Cardoness' squire. So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; A wight that will weather damnation. For the devil the prey will despise. Fy, let us a', §x. And there will be Douglasses doughty, New christening towns far and near; Abjuring their demociat doings, By kissing the doup of a [leer Fy, let us a', 8fc. And there will be Kenniure sae generous, Whose honour is proof 'gainst the storm j To save them frae stark reprobation. He lent them his name to the firm. Fy, let us a', Sj'c, But we winna mention Redcastle ; The body, e'en let him escape : He'd venture the gallows for siller. An 'twerena the cost o' the rape. Fy, let us a', Sfc. And ti.ere is our King's Lord Lieutenant, Sae famed for his grateful return i SONGS. 831 The billie is getting his questions, To say in St. Stephen's the morn. Fy, let us a', S^c. And there will be lads of the gospel, Muiihead, wha's as gude as he's true ; And thei-e will be Buittle's apostle, Wha's mair o' the black than the blue. jPy, let us a, Sfc, And there will be folk frae St. JNIary's,* A house o' great merit and note : The deil ane but honours them highly— The deil ane will gie them his vote. Fi/, let us a\ ^e. And there will be wealthy young Richard : Dame Fortune should hing by the neck : But for prodigal thriftless bestowing, His merit had won him respect. Fy, let us a\ §'c. And there will be rich brither Nabobs ; Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first : And there will be Collision's whiskers, And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. Fy, let us a', ^c. And there will be Stamp-office Johnnie — Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; And there will be gay Cassencarry ; And there will be gleg Colonel Tam. Fy, let us a', Sfc, And there will be trusty Kirrochtrie, Whase honour is ever his sa* If the virtues were packed in a parcel, His worth might be sample for a'. Fy, let us a', §"c. And can we forget the auld JIajor, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys ? Our flattery we'll keep for some other; Him only it's justice to praise. Fy, let us a', ^c. And there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimming's gude wight ; And there wHl be roaring Birtwhistle, Wha luckiJy roars in the right. Fy, let us a', Sfc. And there, trae toe Niddisdale border, We'll mingle the Maxwells in droves, Teuch Juckie, stanch Geordie, and Willie, That granes for tne fishes and loves. F?/, let us a', §-c. And there will be Logan M'D 1 ; Sculduddery and he will be there ; And also the Scott o' Galloway, Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. Fy, let us a', §•£. Then hey ! the chaste interest o' BroughtoO) And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! It may send Balmaghie to the Commons ; In Sodom 'twould make him a king. Fy, let us a', Sfc. And hey ! for the sanctified I\I — r — y, Our hmd wha wi' chapels has stored ; He foundered his horse among harlots, But gied the auld marc to the Lord. Fy, let us a', S^c. THE GALLANT WEAVER. Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine. They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; And I was fear'd my heart would tine. And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher-band To gie the lad that has the land, But to my heart I'll add my hand, And give it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in opening flowers ; While corn grows green in simmer showers^ I'll love my gallant weaver.* » Meaning the family of the Earl of Selkirk, resi- dent at St. Mary's Isle, near Kirkcudbright. THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE. This air is the Gardeners' March. The title of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. When rosy May comes in wi' flowers. To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours, The gard'ner wi' his paidle. The crystal waters gently fa' ; The merry birds are lovers a' ; The scented breezes round him hlaw, The gard'ner wi' his paidle. When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare ; Then thro' the dews he maun repair, The gard'ner wi* his paidle. • In some editions auilor is substituted for weaver. 2S2 BURNS' WORKS. When (lay expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest ; He flies to her arms he lo'es best, The gard'ner wi' his paidle. THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHER- ING FAST. 7V*n«-" Banks of Ayr," The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain. The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care. Along the lonely- banks of Ayr. The autumn mourns her ripening com. By early winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid azure sky She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie batiks of Ayr. *Tis not the surfing billows' roar, *Tis not that, fatal, deadly shore ; Though death in every shape appear. The wretched have no more to fear : Kut round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierced with many a wound ; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Htr heathy moors and winding vales ; The scene where wretched fancy roves. Pursuing past, unhiippy loves ! Farewell my friends, farewell my foes, My peace with these, my love with those ; The bursting tears my heart declare ; Fa^ewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.* THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. Tune — " 1 red you beware at the hunting." The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn. Our lads gaed a hunting, ae d ly at the dawn. O'er moors atul o'er mosses and mony a glen. At length they discovered a bo:inle moor-hen. I red you heware at the hunting, young men ; I red you heware at the hunting, ynuiig men ; Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, Sut canitily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the dew firom the brown heather bells. Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring. And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. / red, 8)'c. Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill ; In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae — His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. I red, §-c. They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight.— I red, 8fe. • Udrns wrote this song, wliile convoyiiij^ liis chest so far on llif road from Ayrshire to (Jri emx;k, where he intfiulett to cnibrirli in a lew days for Jamaica He desifniL'd it, he says, as his farewell dirge to his native coiuitry. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. This was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all in the worli. Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, Sail ever be my Muse's care ; Their titles a' aie emjity shew ; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Withiyi the glen sae bushy, O, Ahoon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down ivi^ right good will. To sing my Highland lassie, O. were yon hills and vallies mine. Yon palace and yiui gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my Highland lasNie, O. Within the glen, ^c. But fickle fortune frowns on me. And I maun cross the raging sea ; But while my crimson currents flow, I'll lo'e m" " ^ " land lassie, O. Within Che glen, Sfc. Altho' thro' foicigu climes I range, 1 know her heart will never change. For her bosom burns with honour's glow My faithful Highland lassie, O. Within the gleri, S^c. For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; For her I'll trace a distant shore ; SONGS. 2S3 That Indiaji wealth may Uistre throw Around my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, Ifc, She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret truth and honour's band ! 'Till the mortid stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen, sae bushy, O, Farewell the plain, sae rashy, O, To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O, THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. Tune—" O'er the hills and far awa." O, HOW can I be blithe and glad. Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa ? It's no the frosty winter wind. It's no the driving drift and snaw ; But aye the tear comes in my ee To think on him that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown'd me a' ; But I hae ane will take my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gae to me. And silken snoods he gae me twa ; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. The weary winter soon will pass, And spring will deed the birkea shaw ; And my sweet babie will be born. And he'll come hame that's far awa. THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. Tune — " The Lass of Ballochmyle." TwAs even, the dewy fields were green, On ilka blade the pearls hang ; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bure its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; All nature li^t'uing seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy ; Wlien, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanced to spy : Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like Nature's vernal smile ; The lily's hue, and rose's dye, Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night i-n Autumn mild. When roving through the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; But woman, Nature's darling child ! Theie all her charms she does compile ; Even there her other works are foil'd, By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Oh, had she been a country maid. And I the happy country swain. Though shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! Through weary winter's wind and rain. With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the siipp'ry steep:, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. Or downward dig the Indian mine. Give me the cot below the pine. To tend the flocks, or till the soil. And ev'ry day have joys divine, JNi the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME.t When Januar winds were blawin' cauld, Unto the north I bent my way. The mirksome nicht did me enfauld, I kend na where to lodge till day ; But by good luck a lass I met, Just in the middle of ray care, And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair. I bow'd fu' low unto this mala. And thank'd her for her courttsie j I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And bade her make the bed to me. • This song was written in praise of Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle. Bums happened one fine evening to meet this young laily, when walking thrciugh the beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, wliii^h lie at the dis- tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgicl. Struck with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble lyric; which he soon after sent to her, enclosed in a letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and as poetical as itself. He was somewh.it mortified to find, that either maidenly modest, or pride of supe- rior station, prevented her fromacknowk-dging the re. ceipt of his compliment : Indeed it is no where record- ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest sense of it ; as to lu-r the pearls seem to ha\ e been li- terally thrown away. t There is an older and coarser son;;, cont;iining tne same incidents, and said to have i)een occasioned by an adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the Presbyterian >irmv, IB5I1-51. The affair happened at the hoiise of Port-I.ethem, in Aber- deenshire, and it was a daughter of the lairU that made the bed to the kinir. 234 BURNS' WORKS. SVie made the bed baith wide and braid, W\' twa white hands she spread it doun ; She put the cup to her rosy lips, And drank. Young man, now sleep ye soun. She snatch'd the candle in her hand, And from the chamber went wi' speed : But I ca'd her quickly back again, To lay i^onie mair beneath my heid. A cod she laid beneath my heid, ^ And served me with a due respect ; And, to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. Hand aff your hands, young man, she says, And diuna sae uncivil be ; It will be time to speak the morn, It' ve hae ony love for me. Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie, Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me. Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa driftit heaps sae fair to see ; Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss'd her ower and ower again, And aye she wistna what to say ; I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; The lassie tr.ocni na .ang till day. Upon the morrow, when we rase, 1 thauk'd her for her courtesie ; And aye she blush'd, anJ aye she sigh'd. And said, Alas ! ye've vuin'd me. I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; I said, I\Iy lassie, dinna cry. For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. She took her mother's Holland sheets. And made them a in sarks to me ; Blytl.e and merry may she be. The lass that made the bed to me. The bonnie lass that made the bed to rae, The braw lass that made the bed to me ; I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee, The lass that made the bed to me. How long I have liv'd — ^but how much liv'd in 1 vain ! How little of life's scanty span may remain : What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ; What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd ! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! This life's not worth having with all it can give. For something beyond it poor man sure must live. THE LEA-RIG. Tune—" The Lea-Rig." When o'er the hills the eastern star Tells buchtin-time is near, my jo ; And owsen frae the furrowed field Return sae douff and weary, O ; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. My am Kmd dearie, O. In mirkest glen, at midnicht hour, I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, If through that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie, O. Although the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. THE LAZY MIST. » The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hiii, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- pear. As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- sues ; THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The first half stanza of this ballad is old. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! And aye the saut tear blins her ee. Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me ; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear and brethren three ; Their ivinding sheet the bluidy clay. Their graves are growing green to see • And by them lies the dearest ad That ever blest a woman s ee •. Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou oe. For mony a heart thou hast made si\r. That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee '. SONGS. 235 THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISPRESS. Tune—" Deil tak the wars." Sleep* ST thou, or wak'stthou, fairest creature ? Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods ; Wild Nature's tepants, freely, gladly stray ; The liatwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower : The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.* Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning Banishes ilka darksome shade. Nature gladdening and adorning ; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair. The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast ray sullen sky ; But when in beauty's light, She meets my ravish'd sight, When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart ; Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. f THE RIGS O' BARLEY. Tune — " Corn-Rigs are bonnie. ' It was upon a Lammas night, When corn-rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie. The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 'Till, 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion shee agreed To see me through the barley. The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly ; I set her down, wi' right good-will, Amang the rigs o' barley. 1 ken't her heart was a' mv ain ; I loved he]' most sincere.y ; I kiss'd her ower and ower again, Amang the rigs o' barley. ♦ farfation. Now tn the streaming foun ain. Or up the heathy mountain The hart, hind, ami roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers His lay the linnet pours: The lav'rock, &c. f Varintion. When frae my Chloris parted. Sad, cheerless, broken hearted, 'ihen nighfs gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast iny sky ; But when she charms my sight, ]n pride of beauty's licht. When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart ; TBi then, 'tis then 1 wake to life and joy. I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarely — My blessings on that ha^py p lace, Amang the rigs o' barley ! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour sae clearly ! She aye shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear j I hae been merry drinking ; I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; I hae been happy thinking : But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Though they were doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a* Amang the rigs o' barley. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. Tune—" The MUl, Mill, O." When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. And gentle peace returning. And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd, That had been blear'd wi' mourning J I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger ; My humble knapsack a' my wealth ; A poor but honest sodger. A leal light heart beat in my breast. My hands unstain'd wi' plunder ; And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought ujjon my Nancy ; I thought upon the witching smile. That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reacli'i] the bonnie glen. Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy oft I courted. Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling ? And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my ec was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O ! happy, happy may he be, That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang. And fain wad be thy lodger ; I've serv'd my king aad country lang Tak pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully she gazed on me. And lovelier grew than ever ; Quoth she, A sodger ance I lovedj Forget him will I never. BURNS' WORKS. Our huniUle cot and hainely fare, Ye fieely i-hall partake o't ; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye'ie welcome for the sake o't. She gazed — she redden'd like a rose — Syne pale as ony lily ; She sank within my arms, and cried, Art thou my ain dear Willie ? By Him, who made yon sun and sky. By whom true love's regarded ; I am the man ! and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted ; Though i)oor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd, A mailin plenish'd fairly ; Then come, ray faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. For gold the merchant ploughs the main. The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodger's wealth is honour. The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger ; Remember he's his country's stay. In day and hour o' danger.* THE BANKS OF NITH. Tu7ie — " Robie Donna Gorach." The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stand ; But sweeter flows the Nith to me, Where Cummins ance had high command : When shall I ^ee that honoured land. That winding stream I love so dear ! Must wavward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here. How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful'valea, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. Far from thv bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Ainang the friends of early days ! THE TOAST. At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire VolunteerSi held to commemorate the anniversary of RonsEv's victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines :— Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — • That we lost, did 1 say, nay,* by heav'n ! that we found. For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing ; And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. May his son be a hangman, and he his first triaL • •• Burns, I have been informed," says a clergyman of Dumfriesshire, in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, editor of .Select Melodies of Scotland, " was one sum- mer evening in the inn at Brewnhill, with a couple of friends, wlien a poor wav-worn soldier passed tl\e win- dow. Of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in. and Ret the recital of his adventures; after hearing which, he all at o ce fell into one of those fits of ab- straction, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the region where he had his garland and his singing-robes about him, and tho result was this admirable song he sent vou for • The Mill, Mill, O.' " THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME. This tune is sometimes called, TTiere s few gude Ftllow.i when Willie's awa. — But I never have been able to meet with any thing else of the song than the title. Tune — " There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." Bv yon castle-wa', at the close o' the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; And, as he was singing, the tears down came— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame, — There'll never be peice till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yird : It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Since I tiut my bairns, and he tint his crown ; But till my last moments my words are the same,^ There'll never be peaoe till Jamie comes nama SONGS. 237 THE STOWN GLANCE O' KINDNESS. Tune — " Laddie, lie near me." 'TwAs na her bonnie blue ee wa-s my ruin ; Fair though she be, that, was ne'er my undoin' : 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, swe|t, stown glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I'm thine wi* a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter ; Sooner the sun in his motion shall falter. THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. There's news, lasses, news, Gude newg hae I to tell ; There's a boat fu' o' lads Come to our toun to sell. The wean wants a cradle, And the cradle wants a cod ; And ril no gang to my bed. Until I get a nod. Father, quo' she, Mother, quo' she, Do ye what ye can, I'll no gang to my bed Till I get a mau. The wean, Sfc, I hae as gude a craft-rig As made o' yird and stane ; And waly fo' the ley crap. For I maun till't again. The wean, 8^c. THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Tun*—" Morag." Loud blaw the frosty breezes. The snaws the mountains cover ; Like winter on me seizes. Since my young highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray. May heaven be his warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle- Gordon! The trees now naked groaning, Shall soon wi' leaves be k-nglng. The birdies dowic moaning. Shall a' be blythely singing, And every flower be springing. Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. When by his mighty warden My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon.* THE WOODLARK. . Tune—" Where'U bonnie Annie lie.* Or, " Loch-Erroch Side." O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay. Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A helpless lover courts thy lay. Thy soothing fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I nsay catch thy melting art t For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate uakind, And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Thou tells o' never-ending care ; O speechless grief, and dark despair ' For pitv's sake, sweet bird, nae mair? Or m/ poor heart is broken ! THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CIT"i. There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity • That he from our lasses should wander awa ; For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a*, And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; His fecket f is white as the new-driven snaw ; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae. And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a.* His coat is the hue, Sfc, For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted and braw ; But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her. The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen him, And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha ; • The young Highland rover is supposed to be th young Chevalier, Prince t'harles Edward. t All under-waistcoat with sleeves. 238 BURNS' WORKS. There's lang-toclier'd Nancy maist fettei's his fancy, — But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a*. His coat is the hue, 8fc. THE TOCHER FOR IVIE. Tune — " Balinamona Ora.* AwA wi*'your witchcraft o' l)eauty's alai'ms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arras; O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. Then hey for a lass loV a tocher, then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. Then hey for a lass ivi* a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. * Then hey, |fc. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest. The brightest o' beauty niay cloy, when possest ; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- prest. The langer ye hae them — the mair they're ca- rest. Then hey, §-c. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. I SEE a form, I see a face. Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no my ain lassie. Fair though the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kijid love is in her ee. She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And iiye it ohaiiiis my very saul. The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no my ain lassie, §"C. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a l)liid<, by a' unseen ; But sjiog :is light are lover's een. When kind love is in the ee. O this is no my ain lassie, SfC. It may escape the courtly sparks. It may escaje the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her ee. O this is no my ain lassie, 8jc. THERE WAS ONCE A DAY. rurw— " Caledonian Hunt's Delight" There was once a day, but old Time then was young. That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- vine .') From T\wed to the Orcades was her domain. To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— " Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue !" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. To feed her fair flocks by hen green rustling coi'n ; Etit chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort. Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :* Repeated, successive, for many long yeans, They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land : Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry. They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : She took to her hills and her arrows let fly. The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;f The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : ^ . O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- vail'd, No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.§ The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; • The Romans, t The Saxons. % The Danes. \ Two famous battles, in which the Danes or N-ot wegians were defeated. SONGS. 239 Provoked beyond bearing, at .ast she arose. And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : • The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- ver flood ; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For l)rave Caledonia immortal must be ; rii prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; Then ergo she'll match them, ^nd match them ahvays.t THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. T^ne—" Fee him. Father." Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Only should us sever ; Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie, ril see thee never. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken ; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love another jo. While my heart is breaking : Soon my weary een I'll close. Never more to waken, Jamie, Never more to waken. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. THIS SONO 1 COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF SEVKNTEEN. Tune—" Invercald's reeL O Tibbie, I hat seen the day Ye wadna been sae shi/ ; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But trowth, 1 care na by. • The Highlanders of the Isles. t This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled tri- angle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides. Yestreen I met you on the moor. Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor. But feint a hair care I. Tibbie, I hae, §'c. T doubt na, lass, but ye may think. Because ye hae the naine o' clink. That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try. Tibbie, I hae, 8fc. But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high. Tibbie, I hae, Sfc, Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt. An' answer him fu' dry. Tibbie, I hae, 8fc. But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he for sense or lear Be better than the kye. Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice, The deil a ane wad speir your price, Were ye as poor as I. Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. There lives a lass in yonder park, I wouldna gie her in her sark For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; Ye need na look sae high. Tibbie, I hae, ifc. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn ! Again thou usher'st in the day, My Mary from my soul was torn. Oh, Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f That sacred hour can I forget? — Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love .' Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace; — Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ? 240 BURNS' WORKS. Ayr, gurgling, kissVI his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods thickening green ; The fragrant birch, the hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, The birds sung love on every spray ; Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?* TRUE HEARTED WAS HE, Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." True hearted was be, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. O fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. And sweet is the lily at evening clo«e ; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : And still to her charms she alone is a stranger. Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. WANDERING WILLIE. Tune — " Here awa, there awa." Here awa, there awa, wanderinp WiUh ! Here awa, there awn, haticl aiva home ! Come to mt) baiom, my ain only dearie ; TM me thou briny st me my Willie again. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part- ing ; Feart for my Willie brought tears in my ee : Welcome now, summer, and welcome, my Willie ; The summer to nature, and Willie to me. Here, awa, §-c. Rest, ye wild storms, in the caves of your slum* bers ! How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms Here awa, S^c. But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou dark h-eaving main ! May I never see it, may I never trow it. But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! Here aiva, §'c. • To Marv Campbell, one of Burns's earliest and most beloved mistresses, a dairy-maid in the neigh- bourhood of Mossgiel.— See farther particulars in the Life WAE IS MY HEART. Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : Forsaken and fiiendless my burden I bear, And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. Love thou hast pleasuies ; and deep hae I loved ; Love thou hdst sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. O if I were, where happy I hae been ; Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green : For there he is wand'ring and nmsing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's ee WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO Wr AN AULD MAN. What can a young lassie, what shall a yor.iig lassie. What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my niinnie To sell her poor Jenny tor siller an' Ian' ! Had luck on the pennie, §t. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! Had luck on the pennie, S^c. He hums and he hankers, he fiets and he cankers ; I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! Bad luck on the pennie, ^c. My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- break him. And then his auld bras« will buy me a new paib Bad luck on the pennie, ^e. SONGS. 241 WHA IS THAT AT MY ROWER DOO*. This tune is also known by the name of Lass *n I come near thee. The words are mine. Wha is that at my bower door ? O wha is it but Findlay ; — Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay ; — Before the morn ye'll work mischief ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Gif I rise and let you in ? Let me in, quo' Findlay ; — Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ) Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if ye should stay ? Let me stay, quo' Findlay ;^ I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Heie this night if ye remain ? I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; — I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; What may pass within this bower ; Let it pass, quo' Findlay ;— Ye maun conceal 'till your last hour ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD i A FRAGMENT. Tune—" Killicrankie. When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our helm thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less, in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. Then thro* the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man ; Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man : But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man ; Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his enemies a', man. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. Was kept at Boston ha', man ; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man : Wi* sword an' gun he thought a 8in Guid Christian blood to draw, man { But at Ner York, wi' knife and fork Sir-loin he hacked snu', man. Iiuru<>ijne gaed jp, like s\>\\r an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa' man ; Then lost his way, ae misty day. In Saratoffd shaw, man. C'THwallis fought as land's be dought. An' did the buckskins claw, man ; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. He hung it to the wa', man. Then Montague, an' Guildford too. Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure» The German chief to thraw, man ; For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. Then Rockingham took up tlie game ; Till death did on him ca', man ; When Shtlburne meek held up his cheek. Conform to gospel law, man. Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. They did his measures thraw, man. For North and Fux united stocks, And boti iiim to the wa', man. Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes^ He swept the stakes awa', man. Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, Led him a sair/aMX pas, man ; The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, " Up, Willie, waur them a', man !'* Behind the throne then Grenville'a gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class Be-north the Roman _wa', man ; An' Chatham's wiaith, in heavenly graitb, (Inspired bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, •' Willie, rise ! Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. GowT'd Willie hke a ba', man, Till Suthrons raise, and coost their cLiiM Behind him in a raw, man ; An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man ; An* swoor fu* rude, thro' dirt and blood To make it guid in law, man. 242 BURNS' WORKS. WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET IN THE MORNING. Tune—" Shw ye my father." Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, That danced to the lark's early song ? Where is the peace that awaited my wandering. At evening the wild woods among ? No more a-winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. But sorrow and sad-sighing care. Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And glim surly winter is near? No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses. Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain wOTild I hide what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too wel! have I known : All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : Come then, eoamoury and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. O u-histle and I'll come to you, my lad* , O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad. But warily tent when ye come to court me. And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, And come as ye were nae coniin' to me. And come as ye were uae coniin' to me. O whistle, Sj'c. \ At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gmg by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; But stfal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'ee. Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. O whistle, Sfc. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. O whistle, Sfc, • In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, O whistle ami I'll come to thee, my jo; Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— The occasion of it was this : — Mr. Wm. Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the au- tumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I went to pay Nicol a visit We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business. O Willie brew'd peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam to see ; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are na fou, ive're na that fou. But just a drappie in our ee ; The cock may craw, the day may daw. And ay we'll taste the barley bree. Here are we met, t'liree merry boys. Three merry boys I trou are we ; And mony a night we've merry been. And mony raae we hope to be ! We are na fou, §-c. It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie. She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! We are na fou, i^c. Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loun is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. He is the king amang us three ! We are na fou, !fc. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. Tune — " The Sutor's Doehter." Wilt thou be my dearie : When sorrow wrings thy gentle hearti Wilt thou let me cheer thee : By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; Or if thou wilt na be my ain. Say na thou'lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me. Let me, lassie, quickly die,. Trusting that thou lo'es me ; Lassie let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. SONGS. 243 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? Tune—" The Yowe-buchts." Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore ? Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic's roar ? Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine ; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the heavens, my Mary, I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; And sae may the heavens forget me, When I forget my vow ! O, pH^^t me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand ; 0, plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join ; And curst be the cause that shall part us ! The hour and the moment o' time ! • YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his fluck as he pipes on his leed : Where the grouse, Sfc. Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, Sfc. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath ; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded. Hie the swift hours o' love. For there, Sec. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; O' nice education but sma' is her share ; Her parentage humble as humble can be ; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma. Ser parentage, §*c. To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; And when wit and refinement hae polished her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. And when wit, S^c. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- ling e*e. Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-couquering charms And the heart-beating, ^c. • When Bums was designing his voyajje to the West Indies, he wrote this song as a farewell to a girl whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con- siilerable admiration. He afterwards sent it to Mr. Thomson for pubhcation in his splendid collection of the national music and musical poetry of Scotland. YOUNG JOCKEY. Tune — " Jockie was the blythest lad." Young Jockey was the blithest lad In a' our tnwft or here awa ; Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, ■ He roos'd my waist sae genty sma ; An' ay my heart came to my mou, When ne'er a body heard or saw. My Jockey toils upon the plain. Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain When Jockey's owsen bameward ca*. An' ay the night comes round again. When in his arms he taks me a' ; Ajj' ay he vows he'll be my ain As lang's he has a breath to draw. ' YOUNG PEGGY Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass. Her blush is like the morning. The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With eaily gems adorning : Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams. And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips more than the cherries bright, A richer die has grac'd them. They charm th' admiring gazer's sight And sweetly tempt to taste them : ■Z-A BUiiiNfc;' WORKS. Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, WTien feutlier'd pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bauds disporting. Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage \rintc'r. Detraction's eye no lim can gain Her wiiming pnw'rs to lessen : Jiad fretful envy grins in vain, The poison'd too' ii to fasten. Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Tratlt, From ev'ry ill defend her ; Inspire the highly favour'd yout\l The destinies intend her ; Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom ; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.* • This wai one of the poef s earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before bil fint puDlicalioa. THE CORRESPONDENCE. NOTICE. Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- erable number were transmitted for publication, by the individuals to whom they were addressed ; but very few have been printed entire. It will easily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- ten without the least view to publication, va- rious passages were found unfit for the press, from different considerations. It will also be readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly at the same time, and under the same feeHngs to different individuals, would sometimes fall into the same train of sentiment and forms of expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- ters, and sometimes tj exscind parts of great delicacy — the uubridled eflfusiona of panegyric and regard. But though many of the letters are printed from originals furnished by the per- sons to whom they were addressed, others are printed from first draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- neral no man committed his thoughts to his correspondents with less consideration or effort than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- racter, or perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the original sketches were found ; and as these sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be considered as the offspring of his mind, where they have seemed in themselves worthy of a place in this volume, and they have been in- serted, though they may not always correspond exactly with the letters transmitted, which have been lost or withheld. Our author appears at one time to have form- ed an intention of making a collection of his letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of them into a book, which he presented to Ro- bert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. Moore, and printed in the Life. In copying from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- respondents before him) he seems to have occa-j sionally enlarged his observations, and altered his expressions. In such instances his emenda- tions have been adopted ; but in truth there are but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, the rest be- ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the public eye. In printing this volume, the Editor has found some corrections of grammar necessary ; but these have been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even of literary characters, who have not been in the habit of carrying their ^'ompositions to the press. These corrections have never been extended to any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, even where his phraseology may seem to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- guage, which he wrote in general with great accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found in this respect in his earlier and in his later compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the history of his mind. In this Edition, several new letters were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, and which have been taken from the works of Cromek and the more recent publishers. The series commences with the Bard's Love Letters — the first four being of that description. They were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : why, has not been explained. They have been held to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. He states the i>sue of the courtship in these terms : — " To crown my distresses, a belle fiUe whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- liar circumstances of mortification." ]Mr. Lock- hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely as well worth preserving, as many in the Col- lection ; particularly when their early date is considered." — He then quotes from them large- ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his 20th year." But we suspect the fault of the English was, that it was too good. It was too coldly correct to suit the taste of the fair maiden : had the wooer used a sprinkling of his native tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitution- al enthusiasm, he might have had more success. LETTERS, &c. LOVE LETTERS. No. 1. (written about the tear 1780.) 1 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, 1 hope, will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean, their being written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minis- ter. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth that gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought, that if a well-grounded af- fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- thing extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the thought of my Eliza warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of genero- sity, 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 equal- ly participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- titude for the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on me, in bestowing you. I sincere- ly wish that he may bless my endeavours to make your life as comfortable and "happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the un- kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in rriy view, worthy of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- fection is centered in her pocket ; and the sla- vish 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, pc?.y ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if I thoug* I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't envy them- their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasure! with my dear partner No. II. TO THE SAME. MT DEAR. ELIZA, I DO not remember in the course of your ac- quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of life : I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really pla«- ced 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 othera 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 manage- ment, that there are not more unhappy mar- riages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of 4he females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves ; some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greatest part of us, and I must own, my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one a» 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, per- haps in a few months, or at farthest 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 peihaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may hid 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 248 BURNS' WORKS. iu'in i!i"icrihinn^ ; Imt I liope, my dKiir Eliza, yiiii will (III ii\e the jii'«tice to believe tne, when I assure you, that the love I have for you is founded on the saered principles of virtue and honour, and by coiisequence, so long as you con- tinue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe rae, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the mar- ried state hap, y. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please ; and a warm fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what '''"v describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has 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 providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see, that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be inditferent to me, I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af- fection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- proved to a mnch higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. " O ; ">»,"'"v statD, when souls each other draw, " When love is liberty, and nature law." 1 know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridi- culous — but the language of the heart is, my dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use to you. When I look over what I have written, 1 am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary 8tyle of courtship — but I shall make rlo apolo- gy — I know your good nature will excuse what ^uur good sense may see amiss. No. III. TO THE SAME. MY HEAR EI.IZA, I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly un- lucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easi- est way of proceeding, a lovter is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is very difficult for a person of or- dinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt, and to make vows of con- itancy and fidelity, which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough to prac- tise such detestable conduct : but to a ma., whose heart glows with the principles of in- tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, aiM 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 distrust- ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, 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 prac- tised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth.* There is something so mean and un- manly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be used by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea- vour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so gener- ous as to admit me for your partner, your com- panion, your bosom friend through life ; there is' nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this ; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a perem])tory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness ; and if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- band ; 1 hope you shall ever find them in youi real friend and sincere lover. No. IV. TO THE SAME. I OUCHT in good manners to have acknow- ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write to you on the subject. 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 re- fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me" what, without you, I never can obtain, " you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and unmanly to say, that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, that shar CORRESPONDENCE. 249 mg life with you, would have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I never can taste. Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, do not so much strike me; these, ])ossibly in a few instances, may lie met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming oflspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, heigh- tened by an education much beyond any thing I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- ed to appRiach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- face. My imagination has fondly flattered itself with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my fimcy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove iu a few days a little farther off, and you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather toopy of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G. Ha.niiton, and by him communicated to Burns, among whose papers it was found. S56 BURNS' WORKS. No. XV. FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. SIR, Edinhuryh, ith December, 1786. I RECEIVED your letter a few days ago. I do not pretend to much interest, but what I have I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attain- ment of any object you have in view. Your character as a man (forgive my reversing your order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. I have been told you wished to be made a gan- ger ; 1 submit it to your consideration, whether it would not be more desirable, if a sum could be raised by subscription, for a second edition of your poems, to lay it out in the stocking of a small farm. 1 am persuaded it would be a line of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and in the end more satisfactory. When you have considered this, let me know, and whatever you determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as far as my abilities will permit. ' With compli tnents to my friend the doctor, I am, Your friend and well-wisher, JOHN WHITEFORD. P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you hi any time send me a new production. No. XVI. FROIVI THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE. DEAR SIR, 22d December, 1786. i LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black- lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing you. I write this to you, that you may lose no time in waiting upon him, should you not yet Lave seen him. • I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower still higher by the new publication But, as a friend, 1 warn you to prepare to meet with your share of detraction and envy — a train that al- ways acconi])any great men. For your comfort, I am in great hopes that the number of your friends and admirers will increase, and that you have same chance of ministerial, or even • • * • patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success is very uncommon : and do you think yourself in no danger of suffering by applause and a full purse ? Reuicmher Solomon's advice, which he spoke from experience, " stronger is he that con- quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- plicity and purity, like Telemachus, by Mentors aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. T hope yoH have ''"'> Minerva with you. I need not tell you how much a modest diff.dence and invincible temperance adorn the most shin- ing talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the ini.igination even of a poet. I hope you will not imagine I speak from suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak from love and good report, and good opinion, and a strong desire to see you shine as much in the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. This is my prayer, in return for your elegant composition in verse. All here join in compli- ments, and good wishes for your further pro»- perity. No. XVII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. MAUCHLINE. Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. - HONOURED SIR, I HAVE paid every attention to your com- mands, but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this rea-^h you, that Mui'- kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S. but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Haujj'i Miln, &c. by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- posed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam- hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's fjlks. — This is so imperfect an account, ^nd 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 1 couH make it no sooner nor better. For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day inserted among the wonderful events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al- manacks, along with tlie Black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell Bridge My lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. Through my lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition. — My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post. — I have met in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls, " A friend that stickcth closer than a brother." — The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. .■Mken, and the few patrons that took notice of my ear Her poetic days, shewed for the poor unimky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both m prose and verse. CORRESPONDENCE. 257 May cauld ne'er citch you but • a Lap, Nor hunger but in pleoty'a lap ! Amec ' No. XVIII. TO DR. M'KENZIE, Mauchline. (enclosing him the extempore verses on dining with lord daer.) DEAR SIR, Wednesday Morninq. I NEVER spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in roni- pany with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the professor.-(- 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 Nathaniel — and two parts Shakespeare's Brutus. The foregoing verses were really extempore, but a little corrected since. They may enter- tain you a little with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as favour the per- formances of Dear Sir, Your very humble Servant. No. XIX. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Banker, Ayr. Edinhnrgh, \Sth Dec. I78G. MY HONOURED FRIEND, I WOULD not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of my- self and my matters, which by the bye is often no easy task 1 arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, and have suffered evjjr since I came to town with a miserable head-ache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better. — I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangelield. who introduced me to Lord Giencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember when time shall be no more. — By his interest it is passed in the Calfedotlian hunt, and entered in their books, that they are to take each 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 • " But" is frequently used for without clothing. t Professor Dugald Stewart. ' without ;" t e. Gordon — The Coimtcss of Giencairn, with ray Lord, and Lady Betty* — The Dean of Faculty — Sir John Whitefoord. — I have likewise warm friends among the literati ; Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. AI'Kenzie — the Man of Feeling. — An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. — I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq. brother to the Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on iMonday. 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,f a copy of which I here enclose you — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my every step ; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid mat- ter of fact epistle. I have the honour to be. Good Sir, Your ever grateful humble Servant If any of my friends write me, mv directioa is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseitcr. No. X.Vt TO MR. WILLIAIM CHALMERS, Writer, Atr. £Jinbvri/h, Dec. 27, 17bb. Mr dear friend, I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of all men living, I had intended to send you an entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — A heavily-solemn oath tiiis ! — I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- vine, who was b.inished to the Isle of Pafmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to \'es- pasian anil brother to Titu-;, both emiierors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and • Lady Betty (.'unningliam. t ITie paper liere alhidcd to, w.is written by Mr. M'Keiizie, llie celebrated auilior of the Man of FeeU inR. ) This letter i^ now presented entiie. 258 BURNS' WORKS. raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throw- ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the less, after throwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- raculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee, to a desert island in the Archipe- lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Eiiinburgh ; which, a circum- stance not very uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. • To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- ed ; I enclose you two poems 1 have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank in the address to Ediaburgh — " Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been any thing nearly like her, in all the 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, mer- chant, Bridge- Street. LETTERS, 1787. No. XXI. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Edinhurgh, Jan. 14, 1787. M'i 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 mei I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous frien(^ Mr. Patrick Mil- ler, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called D.ilswin- ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented enibitteiing recollections whis- per nie that 1 will be happier any where than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of lar;^ ; and though I dare say he mearis to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- nion, an advantageous bargain, that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I re- turn, and have promised to meet Mf. Miller on his lands some time in May. • This is one of a great number of old saws that Burns, wlien a lad, had picked up from his mother, of which the good old v/oman had a vast collection. I went to a Mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful-Grand Master Charters, and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotland visited.^ The meeting was numerous and elejiaiit ; all the different Lodges about town were present, in all their piim]). The Grand Master, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and Mason, among other general toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother B ," which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours anent 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, what- ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- ever, that I took twelve copies for those subscri- bers for whose money you were so accurate as to seiitf me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green griiw the Rashes, and the two songs immediate- ly following ; the latter of which was exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- lent for such compositions, which you ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired on account of his Odes than all his other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and Cotter^s Sutiirdiiy Niijht. In these are united line imagery, na- tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of latiguage 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 under- stand the English language? In my opinion, you should plan some larger work than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper subject, and arrange the plan in your mind, without beginning to execute any part of it till you have studied most of the best English poets, and read a little more of history. The Greek and Roman stories you can read in soMic abridgment, and soon become master of the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- light a poetical mind. You should also, and very soon may, become master of the heathen mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- sions in all the poets, and which in itself is ch.iriningly fmciful. 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 knowledge by a shorter process than IS commonly used, and I am certain you are ca- pable of making a better use of it, when attain ed, than is generally done. I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing to me when it is inconvemtnt, and make no apology, when you do write, for ha- ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however, that I shall always be happy to hear from you I think my friend Mr. told me that you had some poems in manuscript by you of a sati- rical and humorous nature (in which, by the way, I think you very strong), which your pru- dent friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- larly one called Somebodi/'s Confession ; if you will entrust me with a sight of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no 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 resjwctable business of hus- bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will not prevent your making occasional addresses to the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- vour, one of whom visited you in the auld clay higgirt. Virgil, before you, proved to the world th.it thei e is nothing in the business of husband- ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that you may afford an example of a good poet being a succes>fiil fanner. I fear it will not l»e in my power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may depend on a very cordial welcome from this fa- mily. I am, dear Sir, Your friend and obedient servant, J. MOORE. • His subsequent compositions will bear testimony lO the aui'uraey of Dr. Moore's judgment No. XLIV. TO MR. W. NICOLL, Master of the High-School, Edinburgh. Carlisle, June I, 1787. KIND, HONFST-HEARTED WILLIF.. I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin, e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my land lowper-likc stravaguin sin the sorrowfu* hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' avid Reekie. My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchy- all'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' me.* It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker » This mare was the Poet's favourite Jenny Gei>- DES, ofwhom honourable and most humorous men- tion is made in a letter, inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, vol. i. p. 165. This old and faithful servant of the Poet's was named by him, after the old woman, who in her zeal against religious innovation, threw a stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, when he attempted in I'ST, to m troduce the Scottish Liturgy. " On Sunday, the l'5d 268 BURNS' WORKS. and as hanrs a kiik, and tippet-taipers when she tdks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman j in a ininuwae, or a hen on a het girdle, but she's a yauld, pnutherie Girran for a' that, and has a stcmack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad hae disseested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip iiie aff her five stlmparts o' the best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile a daj , the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' raony a euid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a snnsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite on a fluwerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's X new blawn plunirose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as niuckle smeddum and .rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my hari- gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae notouriously 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, especiall Mv. and Mrs Cruik- shank and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. I'll be in Dumfries the morn glf the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale. Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen !— No. XLV. FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. Jamaica, St. Anns, Hth June, 1787. SIR, I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Ja- nnai-y, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for of July, the De?n of Edinburgh prepared to officiate in St. Giles's. The congregation continued quiet till the service began, when an old womaij, impelled by sudden indiijnation, started up, and exclaiming aloud, * Villain! ilos, but nothing else re- markable in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; but as we grew bette' acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot speak in common terms of admiration: she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- gant ; her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness and the settled compla- cency of good nature in the highest degree ; and her complexion, now that she has hajipily re- covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress : " Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. That one would almost say her body thought." Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm might own with pride ; then why do you not keep up Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have more correspondence with these so amiable rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk young folks ? 1 had a thpusand questions to 27G BURNS' WORKS. answer about you a'l ; I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They were hi;^hlv delisihted when I told them that Juhn* was sd sjo^id a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that \Villief' was going on still very pretty ; but I hive it in commission to tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she l)e good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting \vith JMfS. Chalmers, only Lady M'Ker.zie being rather a little alarmingly ill of a Bore-thioat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ha- milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I shall probably write him from some stage or other. I am ever, Sir, Yours most gratefully. No. XLVIII. TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOI F Inver'ness, bth Sept. 1787. MT DEAR SIR, I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, | and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at Eruar. 1 do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Jlr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I «hall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need, 1 shall never forget. The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely " olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs. G , the lovely, sweet Miss C &c. I wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! My Lord Duke's kinii(/s ; and, if he can humour it in words, I do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the original style, round a napkin. I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, some time or other, to have the pleasure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog and Mylne. If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the frown of his diocesan. I am. Dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. LIV. FROM MR. RAMSAY, TO DR. BLACKLOCK. DEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 2'7 th Oct. 1787. I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed be- tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other day to your care. You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, having written the words of 7/ie Hush alioon Traquair, and Twecdside. That the ]\]ary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and had lived long in France. Lady Ankerville isjiis niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. An epitaph- CORRESPONDENCE. 275 •nonger like me misfht moralize upon tlie vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. — But I have hardly loom to offer my tiest com- pliments to ]Mrs. Blacklock ; and I am, Dear Doctor, Your most ohedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. LV. FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. «r DEAR SIR,' London, 2Sth Oct. 1787. As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the op- portunity of telling you that I am yet alive, t»- erably 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 you this in- telligence 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 anyperson, creature, place, or thing, that is all- sent. But this is not altogether the case with me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and JRusiel, and an unfatliomed depth, and lowan brunstane, all In the same minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleas- ing thought, that you and I shall meet some time or other either in Scotland or England. If ever you come hither, you will have the satis- faction of seeing your poems relished by the Ca- ledonians in London, full as much as they can be by those of Edinbui-gh. We frequently re- peat some of your verses in our Caledonian so- ciety ; a-nd you may believe, that I am not a little vain that I have had some share in culti- vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- tain that you were the author, till a few days a- go, when I m.ide a visit to Mis. Hill, Dr. M'Comb's eldest daughfcr, 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 vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a great- er 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. took such ■iinconinion pains to instil into your minds from your earliest infancy ' May voft live as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. I feci myself grown serious all at once, aiul af- fected in a manner 1 cannot describe. I shall only add, that it is one of the gieatest plea-iures I promise myself before I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose memory I revere more than that of any person that ever I was ac- quainted with. I am, my dear Friend, Yours sincerely, JOHN MURDOCH. No. LVL FROM MR. - SIR, Gordon Castle, 3\st Octnher, 1787. If you were not sensible of your fault as well as of your loss in leaving this plaice so suddenly, I should condemn you to starve upon cnuld kail for ae towmont at least ; and as for Dick La- tine,* your travelling companion, without ban- ning him wi' a' the curses contained in your let- ter, (which he'll no value a bawbee), I should give him nought but Stra^bogie castocks to chew for sax oiiks, or aye until he was as sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Bvirns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the universe bles> you all with those princi- ples and dispositions that the best of parents Your song I showed without producing the author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson in Badenoch, who sings Merag and all other Gaelic sorigs in great perfection. 1 have re- corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is in company with a great many other poems and verses, some of the writers of which are no less eminent for their political than for their poetical abilities. When t!ie Duchess was informed that you were the author she wished you had written the versus 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. No. LVIL FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. SIR, Linshart, Mth Nov. 1787. Your kind return without date, but of post- mark October 25th, came to my hand only this day ; and, to testify my punctuality to my po- • Mr, Nicou. 276 BURNS' WORKS. etir engagement, I sit down ininie No. LVIII. FROM MRS. ROSS. SIR. Kilravock Castle, 30th Nov. 17S7. I HOPE you will do me the justice to believe, that it was no defect in gratitude for your jiunctual performance of your parting promise, that has made me so long in acknowledging it, l)iit merely the difficulty I had in getting the Highland songs you wisher! to have, accurately noted ; they are at last enclosed : but how shal. I convey along with them those graces they ac- quired from the melodious voice of one of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! These I must leave to your imagination to supply. It has powers sufficient to transport you to hei CORRESPOMDFNCE. 277 side, to recall her accents, and to make them still viDrate m the ears of memory. To her I am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, and words thr.t burn." These, however, being in an unknnmn tongue to vou, you must again have recouise to that, same fertile imagination of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties of an adored mistress — why did I say unknown ? The language of love is an universal one, that seems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- derstood by all nations. I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many things, persons, and places iu your northern tour, because it leads me to hope vou may be induced to revisit them again. That the old castle of K k, and its inhabitants, I tiiends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word. I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness and resumed its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might por- tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. The downfal of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G and th« pvot^estant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . . were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction am even vain enough to admit your very flat- tering application of the line of Addison's ; at any rate, allow me to believe that " friendship will maintain the ground she has occupied" iu both our hearts, in spite of absence, and that, when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of (stronger pioof of the immortality of the soul, a score of years standing ; and on this footing, | than any that philosophy ever produced. A consider me as interested in the future course of mind like his can never die. Let the worship- You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, " in auld use and wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being, whose image he so richly bears. He is a your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any communications of the progress of your muse will be received with great gratitude, and the fire of your genius will have power to warm, even us, frozen sisters of the north. The friends of K k and K e unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- cline to figure either in your idea, suppose some of us reading your poems, and some of us singing your songs, and my little Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re- member Mr. N. with as much good will as we do any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us. Faiewell, Sir, I can only contribute the widow's mite to the esteem and admiration ex- cited by your merits and genius, but this I give as she did, with all my heart— being sincerely vours, E. R. No. LIX. TO - DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF ORANGEFIELD. ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At best they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one 'of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and suli^hureous effluvia. But my noble pa- tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi- ty, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at " the war of ele- ments, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds." The following fragments are all that now ex- ist of twelve ot fourteen of the finest letters that Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the originals were thrown into the fire by the late Mrs. Adair of Scarborough ; the Char- lotte so often mentioned in this correspon- dence, and the lady to whom " The Jiankt of the Devon" is addressed. E. No. LX. TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, (now MRS. HAV, OF EDINBURGH). Sept. 26, J 787. I SEND Charlotte the first number of the aEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. 1 SUPPOSE tne devil is so elated with his suc- cess with you, that he is determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at gongs ; I would not wait for the second nun once, in making you a poet. I broke open the j j,^,. . j i^^te delays in little marks of friend- letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; ■ j,i-,ip^ ,jg j jj^j^ dlssinmlation in the language of and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- ^\^^ heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte self they were very well : but when I saw at a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some the bottom a name that I shall ever value with giurious olil Scotch air, in number second.* grat-jful respect, " I gapit wide liut naething : Bpak." I was nearly as nmch struck as the , • of the Scots Musical Museum. 278 BURNS' WORKS. You will see a small attempt on a shred of pa- per in the book ; but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satis- fied with it myself. I intend to make it de- scription of some kind : the whining cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly .aand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching aant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at Kilmau-.s. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline . — a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- rum, John of Badeuyon, &c. I suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever got. 1 will send you a copy of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to wait on Mr. IMiller about his farms. — Do tell that to Lady M'Kenzie, that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell with prudence." Whait a blessed fire-side ! How happy should I be to pass a winter even- ing under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- bered in the old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to Herveiston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on the lovely half of man- kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale of other years." — In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so olt on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the admiration with which I re- gard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- ship ; I am charmed with the wild but grace- ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion dont j' at eu Vhonneur d'etre un miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- nent pleasure, " which the world cannot give, nor take away," I hope ; and which will out- last the heavens and the earth. 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, in- comprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compliment, now com- pleted. The air is admirable : true old High- land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song which an Inverness lady sung me when I was there ; and I was so charmed with it that I begged het 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 Char- lotte and you need not spend your precious timt in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well : and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but just. {Here follows the simg of " The £anks of the Devon.'") Without date. I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- ti-y. 1 am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man, ((jualities which are only a younger brother's fortune in 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 too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- possible that even you two, whom I declare to my God, I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall after a few letters hear no more of you. 1 in- sist that you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bag- atelles, nonsense ; or to till up a coi ner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any : though thank heaven 1 have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in tlieir own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, A LOVER. Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- ing places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wildeines-s of this world- God knows 1 am ill-fitted fur the struggle : 1 glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought a wise man — I would fondly be generous, unfl I wish to be rich. Alter all, I am afiaid I am a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle ti fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Afternoon. — To close the melaiicholy reflec- tions at the end oF last sheet, I shall just add a ])iece of devotion commonly known in Caj'rick. by the title of the •' Wabster's grace." CORRESPONDENCE. 279 ' Some say we're fhieves, and e'en sae are we, Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! Guide forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! Up and to your looms, lads." Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 1 AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drun- ken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed a " Quadruple Alliance" to guarantee the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- ly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent 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 ene- my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic crea'- tures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of the Devon," which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills," you shall probably have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches ! Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the I7th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good too see my hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best leg with an air ! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a l\Iay frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed eai'th after the long-expected shower ! I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any where in my path, that meagre, squa- lid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; attended as he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- ing contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, and still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy is Moimeine. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, jght-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 that I would envy, a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has nut a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. 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. Yester- night I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, for the farm of Elllslaud, 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 efibrt to bring my mind int(f the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my former pur- suits, fancies and pleasures ; a motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observa- tion, " Where much is attempted, something is done." Firmness both in sufferance and exer- tion, is a character I would wish to be thought to possess ; and have always despised the whin- ing yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this win- ter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain I Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the diit of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure : formed indeed for and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rap- ture ; but that eriji)) nieiit, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupi- dity, or wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. Mauchline, 1th April, 1788. I AM indebted to ynu and Mi>s Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kenedy. Strange ! how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- ments of one another ! Even 1, who pique my- self on my skill in marking characters ; because I am too pioud of my character as a man, to be dazzled in my judgment _/br glaring wealth ; and too proud of my situation as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty ; I was unac- quainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. BURNS' WORKS. I am going on a good deal progressive in mon grand but, the sober science of life. I have lately maile some sacrifices for which, were I viva voce with you to paint the situation and recount the circumstances, you would applaud me. get any thing to do. I wanted vn hut, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on, or mortifying so- licitation ; it is immediate bread, and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of ail my preceding life : besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. No date. Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke measures with . . . and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He replied in t-erms of chastisement, and pro- mised 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 d-mned, in- cautious, duped, unfortunate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; hypo- chondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions ! " / wish that I were dead, but Fni no like to die !" I h.ul lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in th' imminent deadly breachV of love too. Thank my stars I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd than hurt." — Interruption. I have this moment got a hint .... I fear I am something like — undone — but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac- company me through this, to me, miserable world ! You must not desert me ! Your friend- ship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters f(om a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously thoush, life at present presents me with but a melancholy j)ath : but — my limb will soou be sound, and I shall struggle on. NO. LXI. TO MISS CHALMERS. MT DEAR MADAM, Edinburgh, Dec. 17S7. I JUST now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as tc point you out to the world at large ; and the circle of your acquaintances will aHow all 1 have said. Besides I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Personal attractions. Madam, you have much above par ; wit, 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 an ill-judged compliment. I wish to show to tlie world, the odds between a poet's friends and those of sim- ple prosemen. More for your information both the pieces go in. One of them, " Where brav- ing all the winter's harms," is already set — the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aher- carney ; the other is to be set to an old High- land air in Daniel Dow's " collection of ancient Scots music ; the name is Ha a Chaillich air mi> Dlieidh. I\Iy treacherous memory has for- !^ot every circumstimce about Les Incas, only I think you mentioned them as being in C 's possession, I shall ask him about it. 1 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. 1 leave my direction :n town, so any thing, wherever I am, will reach me. I saw your's to ■■ it is not too severe, nor did lie take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Jlr. ha< given him the invitation, and he is deterniiiu'd to ac- cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so- ber moments, that from his own volatility of The question is not at what door of ! inclination, the circumstances in which he is si- palace shall we enter in; but what tuated and his knowledge of his father's di>pi>- doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to jsition, — the wliole affair is chimerical — yet h« To-MORROW, Edinburgh. £dinlmri/n, Sunday mv dear Madam, I leave I have altered all my plans of future life. A farm that 1 could live in, I could not find ; an indeed, after the necessary support my brother ajd the rest of the family required, I could not venture on fanning in that style suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me for the next step 1 have taken. I have entered into the ex- cise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instruc- tions ; afterwards, for I gtt employ instantly, I go uii il plait a Dien, — ct tiion Jioi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deli- beraticm. fortune's CORRESPONDENCE. 281 will gratify an idle penchant at the enoimou cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the ge- nerous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners, tant pis ! — He is a volatile school-boy : the heir of a man's for- tune who well knows the value of two times two ! Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- fore they should make the amiable, the lovely the derided object of their purse-proud contempt. I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. recovery, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet a- waiting her. " As I cam in by Glenap I met with an aged woman ; She bade me chear up my heart, For the best o' my days was coniiug." No. LXII. TO MISS M -N. Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Sqr. New- Town, Editihurgh. Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony attitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- atious miimtes, my head a>kew, bending over the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured around ; my pen- dulous goose- feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter ; all for the important purpose of writing a complimentary card to ac- company your trinket. Compliments is such a miserable Greenland expression ; lies at such a chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem, every one must have for you who knows you. As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of calling for you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, sometime about seven, or after, I shall wait on you, for your farewell commands. The hinge of your box, I put into the hands of the proper Connoisseur. The broken glass, likewise, went under review ; but deliberative wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. I am, dear Madam, With all sincerity of enthusiasm. Your very bumble Servant. No. LXIII. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, Euinburgh. Edinhvrrjh, Sunday Morninq, Nov. 23, 1787. I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make anv appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's to- night. On looking over my engagements, con- stitution, present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day til! 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 pro- per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good tilings. — I don't know, ujjon the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in God's world, but you are so to nie. I tell you this just now in the conviction that some in- equalities in my temper and manner may per- haps sometimes make you suspect that 1 am no* so warmly as I ought to be Your iiicuB. No. LXIV. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a file in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens I say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon i' Ayr, conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Ballantine Here it is — ( The first sketch of " Ye Banks and Braei o' Bonnie Doiin.") BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. No. LXV. FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE, GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. SIR, Mauchline, 2d Avp. 1787. For some months past I have been ramb- ling over the country ; but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, ag I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have ta- ken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this cuun- 282 BURNS' WORKS. try ; you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may per and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection iti the haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give 'country of tales and songs concerning devils, 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, ex- cept in the trifling affair of luisdom, I some- times think I resemble, — I have, 1 say, like him, turned viy ei/i« to behold madness and folly, and, like him too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. . . . 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 do ; a predicament he has more than once been in befoie. I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's Office ; and, looking through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom ; but for me, " My ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood." Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- fortunes on the world at large ; whei'e, after many years wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and expe- rience, to which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. — 1 have met with few who uniieistooti nien, their manner.i, and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungain- ly integrity, and lieadoiig, uugoveiiiable irasci- bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; coiise- quently I was boru a very poor man's Son. Fur the first six or seven years of my lite, niy fa- ther was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neiglibuurhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marth- ed off to be one of the little uuderiings about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his chil- dren under his own eye till they could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition. ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead -lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though no- body can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake of these idle terrors. The earliest com- position that I recollect taking pleasure in, was Tlie Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, How are thy Servants blest, O Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish ears — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave — " I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my 'school-books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever i-ead since, were. The Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood- gates of life shut in eternal rest. Polemical divinity about this time was put- ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- tween sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour. My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My secial disposition, when not check- ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, like our chatechism-defiuition of infinitude, without hounds or limits. I formed several con- nections with other younkers who possessed su- perior advantages, the youngling aotors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which tliey were shortly to appear on the stage of Hie, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense distance between them and their and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into because I was then but a child. Though it co^t the schoolmaster some thrashings, 1 made an ex- cellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in sub- the world, to give the young great man that pro- per, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps bora Rtautives, verbs, and participles. In my infant] in the same village. My young superiors nev&i CORRESPONDENCE. 283 insulted the chmterly appearance of my plough- boy carcass, the two extremes of which were of- ten exposed to all the incleraeocies of all the sea- sons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observations ; .fnd one, whose heart I am sure not even the Manny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactofs, as they oircasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My fa- ther's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale nf Twa Dugs. My father was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour. JMy father's spirit was soon irritated, but uot easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter-' ous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recol- lection of the s ' 1 factor's insolent threa- tenitig letters, which used to set us all in tears. This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- slave, brought me tu my sixteenth year ; a lit- tle before which period I first committed the sin of Rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- tumn my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her jus- tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- tish idiom — she was a bonnic, sweet, sonsie las^. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me. in that delicious pission, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she iiaught the contagion, I can- not tell : you medical pe()|)le talk much of in- fection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I lovid he]'. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, wht-n return- ing in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an iEoIian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when 1 looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among lier other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I at- tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and L itin ; but mv girl sung a song, which was said to be com- posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and til! within the last twelve monthg, have been my highest enjoyment. My fatfier struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the" bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commence- ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- mencing between him and. his landlord, as to terms, after three years losing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my f ither was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and w/iere the weary we at rest. It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this peridd, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and Guth- rie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, tlie Pan- theon, Locke's £ssay on the Human Un- derstanding, Stachhonse's History of the Bible, Justices British Gardener's Liirectoy, Bayle's Lectures, Allan Rauisays Wurks, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine ifartune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The tinisliing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed ! From this adventure, I learned something of a town life ; but the principal thing which gave my mind a turn, Was a friendship I form- ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a ha[dess son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his pa- tronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this time master of a large West Indiamaa belonging to the Thames. His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool thau myself, where woman was the presid- ing star ; but he spoke ■ illicit love wi(h the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I h id regarded with horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- chief: and the consfquenie was, that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the fuel's Wil- come.' My reading only inireased, while in this town, by two stray vidumes oi Paineht, and one of Ferilinaiid Count Fntliom, which gave me some idea of novels. , Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but meeting with Ftr(/usson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shif* to collect a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but, in good sense, and every sober qualification, he was far my superior. I entered on this farm with a full resolution, Gmie, go to, I will be wise ! I read farming books ; I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from un- fortunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- set all my wisdom, and I returned, lihe the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire. I now began to be known in the neigh- bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per- sona in my Holy Fair. I had a notion my- self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre- vent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy Willie^ s Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it miijht be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament. This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and mis- taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and made what little * Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to' his Bastard Ckiiil. 286 BURNS' WORKS. preparation was ia my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, I re- solved to publish my poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : I thought they had merit ; aud it was a deli- cious idea that I should he called a clever fel- low, even though it should never reach my ■.ars — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a vic- ,im to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I cau truly say, that pauvre incnnnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I •have at this moment, when the public has de- cided in their favour. It ever was my opini- on, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rati(nial aud religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. — To know my- self, had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I watched every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied assiduously nature's design iu my formation — where the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confident mv poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. — My vanity was highly gra- tified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- denting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- posed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The Duct'or belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opi- nion that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me sc much, that away i posted fm- that city, with- out a single acquaintance, or a smgle letter of introduction. The baneful star, that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, fur once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed me under the patron- age of one of the noblest of mev, the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si ja- mais je Houhlie ! I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to catch the characters and the manners living as they rise. Whether 1 have profited, time will show. My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot an- swer at present, as my presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.* No. LXVI. FROM GILBERT BURNS. A RUNNING COMMENTARY ON THE FORE- GOING. The farm was upwards of seventy acres f (between eighty and ninety English statute measure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds annually for the first six years, and af- terwards forty-five pounds. I\Iy father endea- voured to sell his leasehiilil property, for the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time was unable, and Mv. Ferguson lent him s. hun- dred pounds for that purpose. He removed to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, I think, not above two years after this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of the country ; and there being no school near uSj and our little services being useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by candle-light; and in this way my two eldest sisters got all the education they received. I remember a circumstance that happened at this time, which, though trifling in itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve to illustrate the early character of my brother, Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to take his leave when he was about to go into Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me- morial of him, a small compendium of English Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Androni- cus; and by way of passing the evening, he be- gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten- tion for some time, till presently the whole pir- ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play (I have but a confused remembrance of it) had • There are various copies of this letter, in the au- thor's handwriting; and one of these, cv idem I y cor- rected, is in the book in which he had copied >evera! of tiis letters. This has been used for the press, with some omissions, and one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert Burns. t Letter of Gilbert Bums to Mrs. Dunlop. Th« name of this farm is Mount OUphant, in Ayr parisli. CORRESPONDENCE. 287 her hands chopt oflF, and her tongue cut out, and then was insultingly desired to call for wa- ter to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he would read no more. My father observed, that if^we would not hear it out, it would be needless to leave the play with us. Robert replied, that it it ^vas left he would burn it. My father v/as going to chide him for this ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, de- claring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; and he left The School for Love, a comedy (translated, I think, from the French), in its place. Nothing could be more retired than our ge- neral manner of living at Mount Oliphaht ; we rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Kdeed the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shop- keepers, and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that they fol- lowed business in towu. My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geographical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a book-society iu Ayr, he procured for us the reading of £>er- ham's Physico and Astro - Theolopy, and Ray's Wisdom of God in (he Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural his- tory. Robert read all these books with an avi- idity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's History of the Sible, then lately published by Jaraes Meuros in Kilmarnock ; from this Robert collected a competent knowledge of an- cient history ; for no book was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquitated as to damp his researches. A brother of my mo- ther, who had lived with us some time, and had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even- ing's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to purchase 27ie Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The Complete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake, a small collection of letters by the most emi- nent writers, with a few sensible directions for attaining an easy epistolary style. This book was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- dels by some of the first writers in our lan- guage. My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, regretting that we wrote so ill, sent us week about, during a summer quar- ter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, though between two and three miles distant, was the nearest to us, that we might have an opportunity of remedying this defect. About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- ardson's Pamela, which wa's the tirst novel we read, and the only part of Richardson's works my brother was acquainted with till towards the petiod of his commencing author. Till that time too he remained unacciuainted with Field- ing, with SmoUet, (two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the later times. I recollect indeed my father bor- rowed a volume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of Bou4'tree-hiirs gardener. It treat- ed of the reign of James the First, and his un- fortunate son Charles, but 1 do not know who wjis the author ; all that I remember of it is something of Charles's conversation with his children. About this time Murdoch, our for- mer teacher, after having been in different places in the countiy, and having taught a school some time in Dumfries, came to be the established teacher of the English language in Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's former frienilship, and his attachment to my brother, made him do every thing in his power for our improvement. He sent us Pope's works, and some other poetry, the first that wc had an op- portunity ol reading, excepting what is con- tained in The Enylislt Coll ection, and in the volume of The J^dinburgh Magazine tor 1772 ; excepting aUo tit -se excellent new f(mgs that are hawked about the country in baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets. Tlie.sumnur after we had been at Dalrym- ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, with his former teacher. He had been there only one week, when lie was (ibliged to return, to assist at the harvest. When the haivest was over, he went back to school, where he remained two weeks ; and this completes the account of his school education, excepting one summer quarter, some time afterwards, that he attended the parish school of Kirk-Oswald (where he lived with a brother of my mother's) to learn surveying. During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning French, and he communicated the instructions he received to my brother, who, when he return- ed, brought home with him a French dictionary and grammar, and the Adventures of Telema- chus in the original. In a little while, by the assistance of these books, he had acquired such a knowledge of the language, as to read and un- derstand any French author in prose. This was considered as a sort of prodigy, and, through the medium of Murdoch, procured him the aty 288 BURNS' WORKS. quuintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at tfiut tune gul»l»Iin<( French, and the notiee of some families partieul irly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a recommen- dation. Observing the facility with which he had acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- quired a con>lderable knowledge of the Latin language bv his own industry, without ever ha- ving learned it at school, advised Robert to make the same attempt, promising him every assist- ance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased Tlie Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, but findirtg this study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or dis- appointment, particularly in his love affairs ; but the Latin Rjidom predominated more than a day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob- serving himself the ridicule that would attach to this sort of conduct if it were known, he made two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, " So I'll to my Latin again.* Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal means of my brother's improvement. Worthy man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his future history. Hfe continued for some years a respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of Di-. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had not paid him that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give up his a])pointinent. He went to London, where he still lives, a private teacher of Freneh. He has been a considerable time married, and keeps a shop of stationery wares. The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the establi>lied teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood He early recognised my father as a fellow na tive of the noith of Scotland, and a certain de gree of intimacy subsi>ted between them during Jlr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in doing what she thought her husband would have wished to have done, and assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- quaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with our family, by frequently inviting my father and iijother to htr house on Sundays, when she met tJieni at churcn. When she came to know my brother's passion for books, she kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from her we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homir, and leveral other books that were of use to us. IMount Oliphant, the farm my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- siderable sum laid out in improving it by the propt ietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents and disease. — To the buffetings of misfortune we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very spa- ringly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the Ja- bours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or fe- male. The anguish of mind we felt at our ten- der years, under these straits and difficulties, was very great. To think of our father grow- ing old, (for he was now above fifty), broken down with the long continued fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these reflec- tions produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- riod of his life, was in a great m'easure the cause of that depression of spirits with wh>ch Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life af- terwards. At this time he was almost con- stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull headache, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in hii bed, in the night-time. By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at the end of every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first six years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was for six years more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- rish of Tarbolton, of l\Ir. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No writing had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- cision involved my father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, but not to see any execution in consequence of it. He died on the 13th of February, 1784, The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the seventeenth to the twenty- fourth of my brother's age), were not marked CORRESPONDENCE. 289 bv mucn nterary improvement ; but during tnis time the foundation was laid of certain ha- bits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awk- ward in his intercourse with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their society became very strong, and he was con- stantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion weie often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. 1 never indeed knew th.it \u: falnleil, sunk, and died awai/ ; but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular jealousy of people who were richer than him- self, or who had more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dis- similitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when in- vested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other at- tractions, which formed so many under plots in the drama of his love. As these connections were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which he never deviated till he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry. This was not likely to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm required a sum of i money he had no probability of being master of for a great while. He began, therefore, to think of trying some other line of life. He and I had for several years taken land of my father for the purpose of raising flax on bur own account. In the course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- servient to the flax raising. He accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that period, as neither agreeing with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him. To- wards the end of the period under review (in his 24th year j, and soon after his father's death, he was furnished with the subject of his epistle to John Rankin. During this period also he became a freemason, which was his first intro- duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, Botwithstanding these circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his historians), I do not recollect, during these seven years, nor till to- wards the end of his commencing author (whea his growing celebrity occasioned his being often in comjianv), to have ever seen him intoxicated, nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the general sobriety of his conduct need not be required than what I am about to give. During the whole of the time we lived in the farm of Lnchlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he gave to otiier labourers, as a part of which, every article of our clothing manufactured in the family was regularly accounted for. When my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 1 18 acres, at the rent of .£90 per annum (the farm on which I live at present) from \Ir. Ga- vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in case of the worst. It was stocked by the pro- perty and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- ber of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he perfoimed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each. And during the whole time this family concern la-ted, which was four years, as well as during the |)rece!iiiig period at Loch- lea, his expi-nses never in oric year exceeded his slender income. As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- ble that there can be any fallacy in this state- ment in my brother's favour. His temperance and frugality were every thing that could be wished. The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and nmstly on a cold wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in con-equcnce were very unprofitable ; and, not- withstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found oui selves obliged to give up our bar- gain, with the Joss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert formed his connection with Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connec- tion could no lonycr be concealed, about the time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage with a family in his poor unsettled state, but was an- xious to shield his partner by every means in his power from the consequences of their im- prudence. It was agreed therefore between them, that they should make a legal acknow- ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, to push his for- tune ; and that she should remain with her father till it might please Providence to put the means of supporting a family in his power. Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her fa- ther's. The intimation of a private marriage was the first suggestion he received of her roa situation. He was in the greatest distress, and fainted^ away. The marriage did nut aupear Ut 290 him to make the matter any better. A hus- band in Jamaica appeared to him and to his wife little better than none, and an effectual bar to anv other prospects of a settlement in life that their daughter might have. They therefore ex- pressed a wish to" her, that the written papers which respected the marriage should be cancel- led, and thus the marriage rendered void. In her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at having brought such heavy affliction on pa- rents that loved her so tenderly, and submitted to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home and provide for his wife and family in the best manner that his daily labours could provide for them ; that being the only means in his p^wer. Even this offer tliey did not approve of ; for, humble as Miss Armour's station was, and great though her imprudence had been, she still, in' the eyes of her partiil parents, might look to a better connexion than that with my friendless and un- bjippy brother, at that time without house or hiding-place. Robert at length consented to their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion were of the most distracting nature ; and the impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular marriage they were indissolubly united. In the state of mind which this separation pro duced, he wished to leave the country as soon as possible, and agreed with Dr, Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas- sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure a passage for him was not expected to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in the meantime l)y sub- scription, as a likely way of getting a little mo- ney to provide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, sub- scription bills were piinted immediately, and the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the same time for his voyage. The reception, however, which his poems met with in the world, and the friends they procured him, made him change his reso- lution of going to Jamaica, and he w:ls advised to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. On his return, in happier ciicumslances, he re- newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren- dered it permanent by a union for life. Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple narrative of the leading circum- stances in my brother's early life. The remain- ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries- shire, and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius having procured him your patronage and friend>hip, this gave rise to the correspondence between you, in which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last days of bis life. BURNS' WORKS. No. Lxvn. FROM MR. MURDOCH DR. MOORE, AS TO THE POET S EARLY TUITION. SIR, I WAS lately favoured with a letter from otir worthv friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which he requested me to communicate to you what ever particulars I could recoilect concerning Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business being at present multifarious and harassing, my attention is consequently so much divided, and I am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts on pajior, that at this distance of time I can give but a verv imperfect sketcli of the early part of the life of that extraordinary genius with which alone I am acquainted. William Burnes, the father of the poet, was born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and had been in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doon- side. He Was afterwards employed as a gar- dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, on the road sik me about the French, &c. ; and the father, who had al- ways rational information in view, had still some question to propose to my more learned ^ friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. Mrs. Buruea too «'as of the party as much as possible ; " But still the house affairs would draw her thence, -Which ever as she cotJd with haste dispatch, She'd come :igain, and, with a greedy ear Devour up theii- discourse." 293 BURNS' WORKS. and particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention than to any body else. When under the necessity of being absent while he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had missed what the good man had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem for her husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I mysi'lf have always considered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race that ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with — and many a worthy character I have known. 1 can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), ' And even his failings leau'd to virtue's side." He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from Vier affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. He was a tender and affectionate father ; he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta- tion, and brought forth a flood of tears. He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice . the one time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was de- sired ; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and double en- tendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive a seasonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the rising generation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep booing mid Loohiff in the presence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a be- coming respect ; but he nevjrgave the smallest encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But I musrnot pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. Time would fail me. I shall only atld, that he rarefully practised every known duty, and avoid- I'd every thing that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. Herein did lie exercise him- self, in liviiig a life void if ssion on his mind, so as to rouse it BURNS' WORKS. to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and concluding stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often fir^t iirnduced. It was, I think, in summer 17a4', when in the Interval of harder labour, he and I were weed- ing in the garden (k.iilyard) that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by jjeople of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allin Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- fected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the conso- lations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my criticism ; and we talked of sending it to some magazine, but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it woui. was made to Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remaiked to me, that he thought theie was av....;*hing peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a de- cent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author tlie world is indebti'd for the Cotter's Sotfrduif Night. Tlie hint of the plan, and the title of tile poem, were taken from Fergusson's Former's Iiuile. When Robert had not some |ileasure in view in which I was not thought fit to partici- pate, we used frequently to walk together when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday at- ternoons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the community), aiut enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one ot these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat the Cotter's Soturdag Night. 1 do not recollect to have rea(( or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth anil sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul. I mention this to you, that you uny see whit hit the taste of i^Mlettered criticism. I should CORRESPONDENCE. 297 be giad to know, if tlie enlightened mind and renneu taste of Mr. Roscoe, who has borne such honouranle testimony to this poem, agrees with me m the selection. Fergusson, in his HulUiw fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnish- ed a hint of the title and plan of the Hoh/ Fair. The farcical scene the poet there desciibes was often a favourit* tield of his observation, and the most of thy incidents he mentions had actually passed before his eyes. It is scarce- ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was composed on that unfortunate pissage in his ma- trimonial history, which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distrac- tion of his fielings had a little sul)sided. The Talc of Tica Do(js was composed after the re- solution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog, which he called Ltialh, that was a great favourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night be- fore my father's death, Robert said to me, that he should like to confer such immortality as he could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book under the title of Stanzas to the Mtmorij of a quadrvjied Friend ; but this plan was given up for the Tale as it now staiuls. Ccesar was merely the creature of the poet's imagination, created for the |)urpose of holding chat with his favourite Liiath. The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minisier of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up the parish in favour of his son. I)r-. Lawrie has sevVral daughters ; one of them pkijed ; the father and mother led down the dance ; the rt st of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guest, mixed in it. It was a deliglitful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 36, were left in the room wheie he slept. It was to Dr. Law- rie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, menticuis as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. When my i^xhiiv feiied his little property near Alloway Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- turing in it. My father, with two or three other neighbours, joined in an application to the town council of Ay r, who were superiors of the ad- joining land, for liberty to rebudd it, and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- siidered in any other point of view than as the nieatis of raising them from that station to which they were born, and (if making a fortune. I am ignorant of the mystei ies of the art of ac- quiring a fortune without any thing to begin with, and cannot calculate, with any degree of exact- ness, the difficulties to be surmounted, the mor- tilicatiims to be suffered, and the degradation of character to be submitted to, in lendmg one's self to be the minister of other people's vices, or in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, in the progress; but even when tlie wished for end is attained, it miy be ques- tioned whether happiness be much increased by the change When I have seen a fortunate ad- venturer of the lower ranks of life returned from the East or West Indies with all the hauteur of a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, assuming a character, which, from the early ha- bits (if Ijfe, he is ill fitted to support, displaying magnificence which raises the envy of some, and the contempt of others ; claiming an equality with the great, which they are unwilhng to al- low ; inly p'ning at the precedence of the here- ditary gentry ; maddened by the polished inso- lence of some of the unworthy part of them ; seeking pleasure in the society of men who can condescend to flatter hiip, and listen to his ab- surdity for the sake of a good dinner and good wine; 1 cannot avoid concluding, that his bro- ther, or companion, who, by a diligent applica- tion to the labours of agriculture, or some use- ful mechanic employment, and the careful hus- banding of his gains, has acquired a competence in his station, is a much happier, and, in the eye of a person who can take an enlarged view of mankind, a much more respectable man. But the votaries of wealth may be considered as a great number of candidates striving fur a few piizes, and whatever addition the successful may make to their pleasure or happiness, the disappointed will always have more to suffer, I am afraul, than those who abide contented in the station to which they weie born. I wish, therefore, the education of the lower classes to be promoted and directed to their improvement as men, as the means of increasing their virtue, and opening to them new and dignified sources of pleasure and happiness. I have heard some people object to the education of the lower clas- ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by abstracting them from their proj)er business ; others, as tending to make them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their condition, and tur- bident subjects; while you, with more huma- nity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of education and readini; I leionimend, should render the evils of their situation in-iippoitable to tliein. I wish to examine the validity of each of these ol sec- tions, beginning with the one you have men- tioned. I do not mean to controvert your criticism of my favour. te books, the Mirror and Lounger, although I understand there are people who think themselves judges, who do not agree with you. The acquisition of knowledge, except what is connected with human life and con- duct, or the particular business of his employ- ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a peasant. 1 would say with the poet, " How empty learning, and how vain is sjn, Save where it guides the life, or mends the heart !" There seems to be a considerable latitude in the use of the word taste. I understand it to be the perception and relish of beauty, order, or any other thing, the contemplation of which gives pleasure and delight to the mind. I sup- pose it is in this sense you wish it to be under- stood. If I am right, the taste which these books are calculated to cultivate, (beside the taste for fine writing, which many of the papers tend to improve and to gratify), is what is pro- per, consistent, and becoming in human cha- racter and conduct, as almost every paper relates to these subjects. I am sorry I have not these books by me, 300 BURNS' WORKS. that I mifjbt point out some instances. I re- member two ; one, the beautiful story of La Roche, where, beside the pleasure one derives from a beautiful simple story told in JI'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with heartfelt rajjlure, the consolation to be derived in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and trust iu Almighty God. The other, the story of General W , where the reader is led to nave a high relish for that firmness of mind which disregards ajipearances, the common forms and vanities of life, for the sake of doing justice in a case which was out of the reach of human laws. Allow me then to remarjc, that if the mora- lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva- tion of taste ; that taste, that refinement of mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are intended to give, are the strongest guard and surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other moralists guard, as it were, the overt act ; these papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, are cal- culated to make every deviation from rectitude and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, " Whose temper'd powers, Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, mihler, more attractive mien." I readily grant you that the refinement of mind which I contend for, increases our sensi- bility to the evils of life ; but what station of life is without its evils ! There seems to be no such thing as perfect happiness in this world, and we must balance the pleasure and the pain which we derive from taste, befoie we can pro- perly a])preciate it in the case before us. I ap- prehend that on a minute examination it will ap|}ear, that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of life, derive their power to wound us, more from the suggestions of false pride, and the " contagion of luxury weak and vile," than the refinement of our taste. It was a favourite re- mark of my brother's, that there was no part of the constitution of our nature, to which we were more indebted, than that by which " cns- tom makes thiiu/^faniillur and easi/," (a copy Mr. Murdoch used to set us to write), and there is little labour which custom will not make easy to a man in health, if he is not ashamed of 1 employment, or does not begin to compare his situation with those he may see going about at their ease. But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- spect due to him as a man ; he has learned that no employment is dishonourable in itself; that while he performs aright the duties of that sta- tion in which God has placed him, he is as great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is principally desirous to please ; for the man of taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must of necessity be religious. If you teach him only to reason, you may liiake him an atheist, a dema- gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him to feel, his feelings can only find their proper and natural relief in devotion &va religions re- signation. He knows that those people who are to appearance at ease, are not without theii share of evils, and that even toil itself is not destitute of advantages. He listens to the wordj of his favourite poet ; " O mortal man, that livest here by toil. Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; And, certes, there is for it reason great ; Although sometimes it makes thee weep and wail. And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late; Withouten that would come a heavier bale. Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale !" And, while he repeats the words, the grateful recollection comes across his mind, how often he has derived ineffable pleasure from the sweet song of " Nature's darling child." I can say, from my own experience, that there is no sort of farm labour inconsistent with the most re- fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. That, indeed, I have always considered as in- supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic who invented the thrashing machine, ought to have a statue among the benefactors of his country, and should be placed in the niche next to the person who introduced the culture of potatoes into this island. Perhaps the thing of most importance in the education of the common people is, to prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I bliss the memory of my worthy father for almost every thing in the dispositions of my mind, and my habits of life which I can approve of; and for none more thau the pains he took to impress my miiid with the sentiment, that nothiiig was mote unworthy the character of a man, than that his happiness should in the least de))end on what he should eat or drink. So early did he impress my mind with this, that although I was as fond of sweetmeats as children generally are, yet I sel- dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela- tions or neighbours gave me at fairs, in the pur- chase of them ; and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed was accompanied with shame and je- morse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the use of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable de- gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada- tion of the human character. .Such a habit of thinking I consider as of great conseijuince, both to the virtue and happiness of men in the lower ranks of life. And thus, Sir, I am of opinion, that if their minds are early and deeply i:npre>t with a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with the love of independence and of in- dustry, economy and temperance, as the most obvious means of making themselves indepen- dent, and the virtues most becoming their situ- ation, and necessary to their happ:ness ; men in the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea CORRESPONDENCE. 301 sures to be derived from the perusal of books salculated to improve the mind and refine the taste, without any danger of becoming more un- happy in their situation, or discontented with it. Nor do I tliiidv there is any danger of their be- (•(uiiiiig less useful. Tliere are some hours every day that the most constant labourer is neither at work nor asleep. These hours are either ap- propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste for employing these hours in rearling were cul- tivated, I do not suppose that the return to la- bour would be more difficult. Every one will allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to abstract men from their proper business, as the attachment to books ; while the one dissipates the minil, and the other tends to increase its powers of self-government. To those who are afraid that the improvement of the minds of the common people might be dangerous to the state, or the established order of society, I would re- mark, that turbulence and commotion are cer- tainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let the matter be brought to the test of e.\perience and observation. Of what de- scription of people are mobs and insurrections composed ? Are they not universally owing to the want of enlargement and improvement of mind among the common people ? Nay, let any one recollect the characters of those who formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the government of this country. I suppose few of the common people who were to he found in such societies, had the education and turn of mind I have been endeavouring to recommend Allow me to suggest one reason for endeavour- ing to enlighten the minds of the common peo- ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded by a sort of dim religious awe, which from a variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the alteration in this respect considerable, in the short period of my observation. I have already given my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the re ligiou in which they have been educated, the progress is quick and immediate to downright infidelity ; and nothing but refinement of mind can enal)le them to distinguish between the pure essence of religion, and the gross systems which men have been perpetually connecting it with. In addition to what has already been done for the education of the common people of this coun- try, in the establishment of parish schools, I wish to see the salaries augmented in some pro- portion to the present expense of living, and the earnings of people of similar rank, endowments and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the liberality of the present age will be no longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, such encouragement as may make parish schools worth the attention of men fitted for the impor- tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- cancies, I would have more attention paid to the candidate's capacity of reading the English lan- guage with grace and propriety; to his under- standing thoroughly, and having a high relish for the beauties of English authors, both in poetry and prose ; to that good sense and knowledge of human nature which would enable him to ac- quire some influence on the minds and aif;'ctions of his scholars ; to the general worth of his cha- racter, and the love of his king and his country, than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would then have a sort of high English class established, not only for the pur- pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- ful and agreeable manner that might make them fond of reading, but to make them understahd what they read, and discover the beauties of the author, in composition and sentiment. 1 would have established in every parish a small circu- lating library, consisting of the books which the young people had read extracts from in the col- lections they had read at school, and any other books well calculated to refine the mind, improve the moral feelings, i-ecommend the practice of virtue, and communicate such knowledge as might be useful and suitable to the labouring classes of men. I would have the schoolmaster act as librarian, and in recommending books to his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- ting in the light of them upon their young minds, he should have the assistance of the minister. If once such education were become general, the low delights of the public-house, and other scenes of riot and depiavity, would be contemn- ed and neglected, while industry, order, cleanli- ness, and every viitue which taste and indepen- dence of mind could recommend, would prevail and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened populace, with high delight I should consider my native country as at the head of all the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the fidlest extent, in regard to the length of my let- ter. If 1 had not presumed on doing it more to my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I should succeed any better. I have learned to have less confidence in my capacity of writing on such subjects. I am much obliged by your kind inquiries about my situation and prospects. I am much pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the terms on which I possess it. I receive great encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, and other conveniences, from my landlord Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general character aud conduct, as a landlord and country gentlema I am highly pleased with. But the land is in such a state as to require a considerable imme- diate outlay of money in the purchace of ma- nure, the grubbing of brush-wood, removin" of stones, &c. which twelve years' struggle with a farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill prepar- ed me for. If I can get these things done, however, to my mind, I think there is next to a certainty that in five or six years I shall be in 302 BURNS' WORKS. a hopeful way of attaining a situation which I think is elii;ible for happiness as any one I know ; for I have always l)een of opinion, that if a man, bred to the habits of a fdiminsr life, who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terms as enables him easily to pay all demands, is not hacpy, he ought to look somewhere else than to nis situation for the causes of his uneasiness. I beg you will present my most respectful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe jun. whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall never forget. — I am, rlear Sir, your most obedient, and much obliged humble servant, GILBERT BURNS. DEATH AND CHARACTER OF GILBERT BURNS. This most worthy and talented individual died at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of Haddington, and on the estate of Lady Blan- tyre, for whom he tvas long factor, on Suiii|,\y 8th April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of his age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint, but for several months preceding his dissolution, there was a gradual decay of the poweis of na- ture ; and the infirmities of age, combined with severe domestic affliction, hastened the release of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a liimian bosom. On the 4th of January he lost a daugh- ter who had long been the pride of the fanidy hearth ; and on the 26 th of Febjuary following, his youngest son, — a youth of great piomise, died in Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he was about being licensed for the ministry. These repeated trials were too much for the excellent old man ; the mind which, throughout a long and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold communion with things eaitlily, and on the re- currence of that hallowed morning, which, like his sire of old, he had been accustomed to sanc- tify, he expired without a groan or struggle, in peace, and even love with all mankind, and'in humble confidence of a blessed immortality. — The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti- mately blended with that of the pott. He was eighteen months younger than Robert — posses- sed the same penetrating judgment, and, accord- ing to Mr. Murdoch, their first instiuctor, sur- passed him in vivacity till pretty nearly the age of manhoiid. When the greatest of our bards was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, the subject of the present imperfect ftlemoir was struggling in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and j toiling late and early to keep a house over his aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these 1 circumstances, tlie poet's success was the first I thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of the for- tunes of his ianiily. In settling with Mr. Creech ' » This sketch is bv Mr. Macdiarmid, of the Dum- fries Courier, iii which Journal it first appeared. j in February 1788, hi received, as the profits dJ his second publication, about ;£600, and with that generosity, which formed a part of his na- ture, he immed ately presented Gilbert witn nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc- coured, the deceased married aMissBreckenridge, and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum- friesshire ), but still reserved a seat at the fami- ly board for his truly venerable mother, who died a few years ago. While in Dinning, he was re- commended t» Lady Blantyre ; and though our memory does not serve us precisely as to date, he must have been an inhabitant of East Lotliian, for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest fidelity and prudence ; the factor and his con- stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a district distinguished for the skill, talents, and opulence of its farmers, no man was more le- spected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife, who still survives, bore him a family of six sons and five daughters ; but of these, one son, and fuur daughters, predeceased their father. His means, though limited, were always managed with enviable frugality, as a proof of which we may state that every one of his boys received what is called a classical education. No. LXXL THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK. The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was what the title imports, really a thing of shreds and patches. In the following extracts, we have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie, whose extracts are above, nor so very profuse as Mr. Ciomek, who, in his Reliques, has turned the book inside out. The prose articles are chiefly in the way of maxims or observations they have less of woildly selfishness, and more of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfou- caud : The poetical scraps are numerous — such of them as are worth preserving, and have not already appeared amongst the poems, will be found below. MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. Tf.nf— " The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." Mv Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred ni-e in decency and order, O ; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest manly heart, ng man was worth regarding, O. Then out into tlie world my course I did determine, O, Tho" to be rich was not ray wish, yet to be great was charming, O. My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my edu. cat'on, O : Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa- vour, O : Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O ; Sometimes by foes I was o'eipow'rd ; sometimes by friends forsaken, O ; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, U. CORRESPONDENCE 303 Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion, O ; I dropt mv schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O ; The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill untryed, O ; But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- friend me, O; So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- tain me, O, To plough and sow, to reap and mow, iny father bred me early, O ; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- tune fairly, O. Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* life I'm doomed to wander, O, Till down mv weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum- ber, o': No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow O ; I live to dav, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor- row, 6. But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa- jace, (), Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O ; 1 make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O ; But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O. When sometimes by my lalrour I earn a little money,0, Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me, O; Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly, O; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O. All you who follow wealth and power with unremit- ting ardour, O, The more in this you Iiok for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O ; Had you i he wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest hearted clown I will prefer before you, O. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSKAUX.* Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing n.ie mair, Cauld poverty, wi' hungry siare, Nae mair shall fear him ; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care E'er mair come near hlrii. To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, Except the moment that they crush't him; For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, Tho' e'er sae short. Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em, And thought it sport. — Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. And counted was baith wight and stark. Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man ; But tell him, he was a learn'd dark. Ye roos'd him then, f Melancholy, — There was a certiin period of my life tliat my spirit was broke by rs^peuted lo^ses and disasters, which threatened, and iiuieed effect- ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My Ixjdy too was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or contirmed melancholy : In this wretched state, the recollection of which • Ruisseaux — streams — a play on his own name. t Yc roos'd-^ye prais'd. 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. ( Here follows the prayer in distress, p. 73. ) — March 1764. Religious Sentiment. — What a creature is man ! A little alarm last night, and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinity, that comes half so much home to the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves Heaven : 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. 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 hate the very idea of a controversial divini.. ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatici but I love the religion of a man. Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thought- less career we run in the hour of health. " None saith, where is God, my maktr, that giveth songs in the night : who teatheth U3 more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more understanding than the fowls of the air." 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 gude life ! for a gude life maks a gude end, at least it helps weel !" A decent means of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that has these, be said to be unhappy ? The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man, and the well grounded trust in iijipioving heaven, are two most substantial sources of happiness. Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! Give me to feel " another's woe ;" and con- tinue with me that dear-lov'd friend that feels with mine ! In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas- sionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. I have been, this morning, taking a peep througli, as Young finely says, " the dark post- ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful |)ros- pect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- ness, and fully ! My life reminded me of a ruin- ed temple. Wh;it strength, what proportion in some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what pros- trate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of INIercies, and said, " Father I have sinned ag.iinst Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more; worthy to be called thy soq.' I rose., eased, arid strengthened. 304 BURNS' WORKS. TTERS, 1788. No. LXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. E'rinbnrgh, 2\st Jan. 1788. After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- ning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made lue unfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer leslgns a commis- sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno- rant wretch, by sellinp out. Lately I was a iixpennv private ; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously (vretched. * I am ashamed of all this ; for though T 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 ray grateful duty at Dunlop-house. No. LXXIII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO THE SAME. ■Edinburgh, \2th Feb. 1788. Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : not that y(ju say them, but that ijou mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all mv life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have in, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and liymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air. Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my head, 1 tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that ever ))icked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am tairly got into the routine of busin-css, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the ■ in me. My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. No. LXXVL FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. Savghton Mills, 27th April, 1788. MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of * A lady was making a picture from the description of Coila in the yision. t Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Cheva net's Lament. CORRESPONDENCE. theSlst ult. and co.isider myself greatly obliged to }Oii, for your attention in sending me the song to my favourite air, Captain O' Kenn. The words delight ine much ; they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse or two more ; and if you have no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should bo sung after the fatal field of Cullo- den by the unfortunate Charles : Tcnducci per- sonates the lovely IMary Stuart in the song Queen Mi have not met, and often met, with the same bttle dis- ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin- cerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackney 'd victims of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of ])arsim(>ny. I have every possible reverence for the much-ta)ked-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 termi- nating in this present scene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with wel- come in the distinguished elevation of resfvct, or shrink from confempt in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the trojiic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- ing load of regret and remoi-se — these are alter- natives of the last moment. You see how I pieach. You used occasion- ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in charity, favour me with a sheet ftill in your owd way. I admire the close of a letter L:ird Bo- linghroke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy faults 1 love thee entirely : . make an effort to love me with all mine!* Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted business, that honest friend- ship, in her sincere way, nmst have recourse to her primitive, simple,. — farewell ! No. LXXXIX. TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, Merchant, Glasgow. MY DFAR SIR, MauchUne, July 18, 1768. I AM just going for Nithsdale, else I would certainly have transcribed some of my rhyminr things for you. The Miss Bailies 1 have seen in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works. Lord God Almighty ! Who would not piaise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the sons of men !" It needed not your fi:ie taste tD admire them. I declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almost CORRESPONDENCE. 311 in the predicament of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses's face for the glory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. I did once write a poetic address from the falls of Briiar 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 ray 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 sincerely. No. XC. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1788. HONOURED MADAM, You a kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenni/ ; hut vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. J would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am al- most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce " where to lay my head." There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes., " The heart know- eth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermed- dleth not therewith." The repository of these " sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them. t " Heaven oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung." You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdiile neighbourhood. They are al- most the only favours the muse has conferred on nie in that country. ( The lines on Friar Carse hermitage, be- ginging Thou whom chance may hither lead. ) Since I am in the way of transcribing, the , following were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intended inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry ; one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- men, not only of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unaa- ointed, unanell'd." Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; ^ Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : The world were blest, did bless on them de- pend ; Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend!" The little fate bestows they share as soon ; Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! Who make poor toill do wait upon I should ; We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social ey^; God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I But come ....... < Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell ! No. XCI. TO THE SAME. Mauchline, \Oth August, 1789 MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — n)T wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When 1 write you, Madam, 1 do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing- every s,.'ntiment, like the faithful commons ot Great Britain in parliament assembled, answer- ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per- haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. All your epistlea for several months have cost me nothing, ex- BURNS' WORKS. cept a «well!ng throb of gratitude, or a deep- felt sentiiiieDt of veneration. Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman "Wlien 5>ie first found herself " as women wish to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her company and their house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my ahout-to-be paternal rela- tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my eclatmt return to INIauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and as 1 was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally tur'ied out of dmus, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- nion fur my journey of life, but, u|)on my lio- nour, I have never seen the individual instance. 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 entail- ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish alTectation, with all the other hless'.^il boarding-school ac(|\iiie- ments, which (jtarilonnez inai, fllmluiiie) are sometimes to t>e found among females uf tlii' up- i)er ranks, but almost universally [lervade the misses of the would-be-gentry. I like your way in your chnrch-yani iticu- brations. Thoughts that are the s|)ontaiieous result of accidental situatious, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circiunstances and stu- died paiagrajdis. For me, 1 have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now 1 talk of slieets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pru- riency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that 1 cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a Dioustiuus tav in a clo»e currespoudeuce. No. XCII. TO THE SAME. EUisIand, \Gth August, 1788. I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, so send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian. " Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- lorn ? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?' My increasing carts in this, as yet, stiange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the s^juggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — I could indulge these reflections, till my humour should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 1 was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- ing. 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 agtiniziug over the belly of my conscience. Par- don me, ye, my adored household gods. Inde- pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In ^le cuuise of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the nnisic, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning. Rav winds around her blowing Tlie air was nnich admired : the lady of the hi>u-e aslseii me whose were the words — " Mine, Mad, 1111 — t'liev are indeed my very best verses ;" she took Milt the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish pioveibsays, well, "king's caff is better than itber folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about " cast- ing ])eails ;" but that would be too virulent, for thd iady 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 hapny. creature. I do not speak of the selected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- ed to gladness amid riches and honours, and pi u- dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose dayi are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I would CORRESPONDENCE. 813 transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, be- ginniag thus, " 'Twas in the sixteenth bunder year Of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie." 1 had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time, his highest en- joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- ther wourtf sing the simple old song of The life and Age of Man. It is this way of thinking — it is those melan- choly truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- gination of enthusiasm, " What truth on earth so precious as the He !" My idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit- tle sceptical, but the necessities of my heart al- ways give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the couit, the palace, in the glare o*' public life? No : to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and it quickens my pace to think that there. will bo a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest. No. XCIII. rO R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. When I had the honour of being introduced (o you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 'of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he answers, " Because you have t'liat in your face which I could like to call master-" F(jr some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a sujrervisoi-, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a recjuest for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fi best work, the human mind. Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. And all mechanics' many aproned kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net : The caput niortitum of gioss desires Makes a material, for mere knights and squires . Tlie martial phos])horus is taught to flow. She kneails the lumpish philosophic dough. Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- signs. Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of tlie poles. The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; Hut ere she gave creating labour o'er. Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuns matter; Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. Cieature, tho'' oft the prey of care and- sorrow. When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends. Admired and praised — and there the homage ends : v 314 BURNS' WORKS. A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live: Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the pi opless climber of mankind. She cast about a standard tree to find ; And to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great. A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help oa bounteous Gra- ham. Pity the tuneful muses* hapless train, Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- pend, Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) Who make poor will do wait upon / should — We own they're prudent, but who feels their good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know. Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! Whuse arms of love would grasp the human race : Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how iheir lofty independent spirit, Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit ! Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. They dun benevolence with shameless front j Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, ♦ They persecute you all your future days ! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain. My horny fist assume the plough again ; The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; On eighteen pence a-week I've lived before. Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that last shift, I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for height. Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flights* No. XCIV. TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh. MY DEAR SIR, Ellisland, Sept. 9, 1788. There is not in Edinburgh above the num- ber of the graces who've 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 har- vest ; 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 de- gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c. and the value of these they estimate as they do their ])laiding webs — by the ell ! As for the muses, they have as much an id»;a of a rhino- ceros as of a poet. For my old capricioi< good-natured hussy of a muse — By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Coila 1 thought on. In midst thereof I hung my harp The willow trees upon. I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning wheel. 1 well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd- ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for therp I keep it with other precious treasure. I snan send it by a careful hand, as I would not for any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- fish gratification of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your better functions would give you lei- sure to write me I should be e-xtremely happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a • This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin. try. It is not equal to the stcDnd, but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author m be suppressed. A little moce knowledge of natural histo- ry or of chemistry was wanted to enab'e him to p e. cute the original conception correctly. CORRESPONDENCE. 316 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 makinjf the author you mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 'Twas a glorious idea. Could yoii conveniently do me one thing — Whenever you finish any head I could like to have >a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long story about your fine genius ; but as what every body knows cannot have escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about it. No. XCV. TO MISS^CHALMERS, Edinburgh. Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. Where are you ? and how are you ? and is Lady M'Kenzie recovering 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 !" " My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea " I do not make my pro- gress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows — rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or impression, except whore they hit in hostile collision. I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather ; and as y(;u and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. — I can truly say that, all the exterior of lite apart, I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul — I will not say, more, but, so much as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you — hearts the best, minds the noblest, of human kind — imlortunate, 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 any body I meet with in eight years — when I think on the im- probability 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 estfem, I trust I can now plead more desert. — I am secure against that crushmg grip of iron poverty, whicli, 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 un- grateful iniquities, which, htjwever overlooked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashion- able phrase, arw indeed but lighter and deeper shades of villainy. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, 1 married " my Jean." This was not in conse- quence of the attachment of romance ])erhaps ; but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- ture's happiness or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a depo- sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, niodish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgust- ed with the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi- gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- tution, 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 honmte hommt in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testan)ent, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also from this last, a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly ; and ail the ballads in the country, as she has (O the partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood- note wild" I ever heard. — I am the more parti- cular in this lady's character, as J know she will henceforth have the honour of a share io your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for this hovel that 1 shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blist that blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am only preserved from being chill- ed to death, by being sufl'ocated with smoke. S do not find my farm that pennyworth 1 was taught to expect, hut I believe, in time, it may be a saving bargain. 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 instruc- tions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If 1 could set uli before your view, whatever disres|)ect you in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would approve of my iilea. I will make no a])ology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail : I know you and your sister will be interested in every circum-tunce of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fel- low partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same n(]bleness of soul, the same detestation at every thing dishonest, and the s-inie stoi-n "' every thing unworthy — if they ai-e not in the dependance of absolute beggary, in the n.ime of cununon sense are they not equals? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why iiiay they not lie friends ? When I may have an opportunity of sendiuo you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, " When one is confined idle within doors by bad 316 BURNS' WORKS. 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 yiiu half a quire. I very lately, to wit, since harvest began, wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- ner of Pope's IMoral Epistles. It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pi- nion in that way. • I will send you a copy of it, wnen once I have heard from you. I have like- wise 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 projects — 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 to- lerable things I have done in that way, is, two stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle man * of my acquaintance composed for the an- niversary of his wedding-day, which happens on the seventh of November. Take it as follows : The dav returns — my bosom burns, The blissful