\ ,/ ^ ii it ^ Ni' , I B ^ ^ ^' ' V cP'. -.\ %.A- .-is- .- .^' ^^%^ 1 , ' sA^ '/- '^ ' * \^ V o ■■• , •\ '•!• 2 o an'^ . ^^ ^ '• « ^0 ^^ -^^^ v^ - ^JL. ,./ S^O,, 'b^ ■%^^ CO' t I N ^ \ r "9^- ' / /,./ ^,.„ oUf//-, / U, //,// MCDBIEIST IBwmFfSo / V V JVav rork. Pub^ ^- fvr Pearson-. NK^i \ THE WORKS OP ROBERT BURNS: CONTAINING HIS LIFE; BY JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ. i THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, BY HIMSELF, GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR 8TEWART, 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. FORMING, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUEST EXHIBITION OF THE MAN AND THE POET, 4ND TUB FDLLE3T EDITION OF HIS POETRY AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. NEW YORK: ROBINSON & FRANKLIN, SUCCESSORS TO LEAVITT, LORD, & CO. 180 Broadway. 1839. ^^yGfC0>»t«^, ^ititeAi»1^5 // /^ NOTICE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. Xn the Dedication of tlie Liie oK Burns by Dr. Curric 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 appi-oba- " 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 of " other friends of 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 chai*y 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 master-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 trulv the vcrv backbone of the poet's life, as edited by 1 ( ii ) 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, hypothetically, from the 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 redactcur. — 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 under such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in- justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and moral 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 of the 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 full extent until nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie's work. It was not until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the person of Mr. John Lockhart, the 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 Miscellany. 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' tliat :" 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 spirit. Mr ( ii' ) Locklmrt, it will fartlicr be observed, besides having compiled his work un- 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 tliat portion of the poet's mantle which invested liis sturdincss 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 liis 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 ISOO, with the pieces brought to light by all the respectable autliors 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, I'aul, and Cromck. 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 liis 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 pictiu'e 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 Yokk, Sept. 11, 1832. CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. OF THE LIFE. Page CirAP. 1. — The Poet's Birth, IJ.W — Circumstances and peculiar Character of his Father and Mother — Hardsliipsof his early ye;irs — Sources, such as they were, of his Mcntiil Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, ~ i — viii Chap. II. — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as I/abourers, at stated W'ages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This period not marked by much I\Iental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir- vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes tlicre ]\Iembcr of a IJatchelor's Club, ^~-„ ix — xis Chap. Ill The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel — 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 — (lurious 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 CfiAP. IV The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja- maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supisly means of outfit — One of COO copies printed at Kilmarnock, IJlitJ — It brinjis 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 — .lamaica again in viev; — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, ~ ^^ -„„„,„ xxxv — Ixii' Chap. V Tlie Poet winters in Edinburgh, 17i!f>-7 — By his advent, the condition of that city — Literary, Legal, Pliilosophical, I'atrician, and Pedantic — is lighted up, as by a meteor — lie is in tlie full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- ressed by the fashionable — What happens to liiin 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 fonr.er exjierience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried oft" tlieir feet by it, wliile the philosophers hardly keep their? — Edition of 1500 copies by Creed), which yields much money to the Poet — Kesolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear hun back to the region of poverty and seclusion, „~„ Ixiv— Ixxi Chap. VI Makes tliree several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends Ln tlie " Auld Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpots, winter 1787-!! — Upset in a hackney coach, whicli 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 ini])lore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop not to desert him — (irowls over iiis publisher, but after settling with him leaves Edinburgh with £500— Steps towards a more regular life, Ixii — Ixxv Chav. VII IM:irries — Announcements, (.'.pologctical,) of the event — Remarks — Becomes (IJIU!) Farmer at ElUcshuid, on tlie Niih, in a romantic vicinity, six vi CONTENTS. miles from Dumfries — The IMuse wakeful as cvrr, while the Poet maintains a varied anil extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Hcinarks uv>nn tlie correspondence — Sketcli of liis person and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shews cause aijainst success in farming — The untoward conjunction of Gaiifjer to Farmer — The notice of tlie squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves Elliesland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, .~ -»~ ~~ ~ CiTAP. VIII — Is more beset in town than country — Ilis early biographers, (Dr. Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct to speak of the I'oet 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 discliurge of his oflicial duties— He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- loved husband, nlthongh passing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- siduous instructor of his diildrcn— Impulses of the French Revolution — Symp- toms of fraternizing — Tlie attention ot 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 ilialect, with tlie otiier attendant facts, as to that portion of liis immortal lays, — Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approac'ies — His peculiar temperament- Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminislicd by narrow circumstances Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter — The Poet misses public pa- tronage: and even tlie fair fruits of his own genius— the appropriation of which is debated for tlie casuists who yielded to him merely the shell — His magnani- mity when death is at hand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man— Dies, 21st July IJI'f^ — Pul)lic funeral, at which many attend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, wlio had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the Poet, living — His family niunilicently provided for by the public —Analysis of character — His integrity, religiciis state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings by .Scott, Campbell, l>yron, and otliers, — Verses on the death of Burns, by I\Ir. Roscoe of Liverpool, „. Character of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, „. Preface to tlie First Edition of Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, Dedication to tlie Caledonian Himt, prefixed to the Edijibuvgh Edition, Pa~^— to a Friend, . to Mr. Syme, , Refusal to Dine, - when at Carlisle, - Halloween, ..........~-.... •.,•... ...■■■ Holy Fair,. Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,— Inscription, Altar of Indcpendcuce,- Laraeul of Queen Mary, -..>.-,> -.^ ..-.>>» 50 78 4n 76 77 23 68 39 81 30 59 79 45, 79 47 81 81 79 46 75 55 55 55 55 55 55 82 83 83 74 74 85 24 6 73 Page Lament for James Earl of Glencalrn, --«-—--—. 52 for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 40 Lines left at a Friend's House, ,.-,-. — 37 left at Carron, —» 68 left at Friar's Carso Hermitage, ,..—— 48 left at Taymouth Inn, 58 on a Posthumous Child, — — 59 on a Wounded Hare, 54 on Bruar Water, ~-— — — 57 on Captiin Grose, ^. 56 on Miss Cruikshanks, ..— .. — ~.- 56 on Religion,- „ -. 78 on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, — ~~— ,.™, 76 on Searing some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, 58 on the Death of J. Macleod, - — ,~ 57 on the Fall of Fyers, ... — . 59 on the Highlands, ——.„„.„ — ... 76 on William .Smcllie,~™ .-, ,.—. 71 to a Mountain Daisy, „-... 38 to an Offended Friend, .,—...-.- ....-~— ., 74 to an Old Sweethe.irt with his Poems, .. 62 to a Young Lady with Books, -_-~ -„ 73 to Mi-s L. wilh Beattie's Poems, — ..~„.. 39 to Robert Graham, Esq ,-. — 75 to Ruin, ~-~.- .... 39 to Sir John Whitefoord, ....-.-, 52 Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, ~-. -„-«.. 35 Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,—. 72 New- Year's Day, a Sketch, .. — ... ... 71 Ode on a Miserly Character, „—.— -~ 49 on my Early Days, . .. _~. — .-.«„ — 61 on Pastoral Poetry, — 70 on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, 61 Poor Maillie's Elegy, ., 16 Scotch Drink, 3 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, 72 Stanzas on Death, . ~, .»-.„„-, 37 Strathallau's Lament, „.—..—..„..-««»—, 69 Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, „. — — — ™ — . 23 The Auld Farmer's New-V ear's Salutation to his Mnrc Maggie,™™..™. „„. — : ~ -, 28 Cotter's Saturday Night, .......^ 53 Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, ~ 16 First Psalm, ~ ™- .... — .... 37 First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, 38 Henpecked Husband, 68 Jolly Beggars, ... 62 Kirk's Alarm,... . ..-~~ 6"! Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, 31 Twa Herds, 67 Vowels, a "Tale, ~l^™ZZIIZiIllIIZI^ 81 Winter, a Dirge,- Esiay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Curiic), 84-97 CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. Andrew and his Cutty Gun,^ Annie Lawrie, As I went out in a May Morning, . Auld Rob Morris, ~v„,>, , , Robin Gray,~«.,.. Aye waukiu' O, ,,.„„^ A waukrife Miniiy, Awa Whigs Awa, ,...... Beds of Sweet Roses, . Bess the Gaukie,-^ Page. ~, 148 -, 173 ~ 1H7 - 176 „ 137 ™ 156 ^ 143 Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, Bide ye Vet (2 sets). Blink o'er the Bum Sweet Betty, Blue Bonnets over the Border,,' Bonnie Barbara Allan, . Dundee, Mary Hay,. Came ye o'er frac France, . Carle an' the King come,- Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,-. Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes, . Charlie is my Darling, . Clout the Cau'dron,. Cock pen,-. Come under my Plaidie,- Comin' thro' the Rye, Corn Rigs are Bonnie, „-. Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), Cromlet's Lilt, . Dtnna think Bonnie Lassie,-. Donald Coupar, . Down the Bum Davie,. Dumbarton's Drums,- Dusty Miller, - Ettriek Banks, Fair Annie of Lochroyan, . Fairly Shot of Her, . False Love and hae ye Played Me This, . Farewell to Ayrshire, „ Fare ye weel my Auld Wife, . For Lack o' Gold She's left me. For the Sake o' 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, -~._-.^,-~v.. Hap and row the Feetie o't,. Here's a Health to them that's awa,- Hey ca' through,—. Highland Laddie, -. Hooly and Fairlie,- Hughie Graham,- I had a Horse and I had nae mair, I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, . I'll never leave Ye, . 1 loo'd nac a Laddie but anc, Jenny Dang the Weaver, If ye'll be my Dawtle and sit on my I'laid, In the Garb of Old Gaul, ..-. .,.. 120 101 178 132 114 156 178 151 157 182 157 129 146 152 105 145 158 156 1211 153 117 1.57 160 114 127 158 . 178 102 153 154 172 154 127 165 105 127 154 162 185 176 159 155 155 108 134 149 Jockey said to Jenny,— —-~ John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, John o' Badenyon, Johnny Cope,- Johnny Faa, - Johnny's Gray Breeks, . Jumpin John, Kate of Aberdeen,- Kathrlne Ogie, Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, Kelvin Grove, Kenmure's on and av.'a Willie, . Killyerankie (the Battle), Killyerankie O (the Braes), . Kind Robin loes me, . Lady Mary Ann,- Lass gin ye Loe mc tell me now, Las.sie lie near me,- Lewis Gordon, . Little wat ye wha's eorain', Lochaber no more, Lochnagar, Logan Braes, (double set),- Logie 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 I been Teething a Heckle, Mill, Mill, O,- My Auld Man, My Dearie, if thou Die, . My Jo Janet, —————. My Love she's but a Lassie yet. My Love's in Germanic, . My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,-~ My Native Caledonia, ^ My only Joe and Dearie O, - My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing,„ My Wife has taen the Gee, — ,„— Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, . O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,- O can ye labour Lea Young Man,- Och 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 Coul,. Our Guidnian cam' Hame at E'en, O'er the Muir amang the Heather, . O'er Bogie wi' my Love, w. O Waly, Waly up yon Bank,- Polwarth on the Green, 115 144 143 156 106 159 107 163 159 156 185 147 16(J 173 146 165 164 119 160 186 184 150 155 149 164 125 121 112 124 164 123 165 118 125 165 174 182 167 153 — 166 ^ 1G6 Poverty parts Gude Company,- Roslin Castle, - . — „ Roy's Wife, Sae Meri-y as We hae been, . Sandy o'er the Lea, — — — ,™. .Saw ye Johiniy Comin', - Saw ye my Father, 170 167 139 161 160 183 119 168 161 150 163 128 185 163 103 170 116 165 .,- 103 175 CONTENTS. Sav/ yc nac my Peggy, She rose ami let me in, i?teer her up and hand her gaun, Strephon and Lydia, Symon Brodie, Tak' your Auld Cloak about you. Tarn o' the Balloch, Tarry Woo The Auld Man's Mare's <\eaA, The Auld Wife ayont the Fire The Battle o' Slierra-muir, The Banks o' the Tweed. The Beds o' Sweet Roses, The Birks of Inverraav, The Blythesome Bridal, The Blathrie o't. The Boatie rows, The Bob of Dumblane,-. The bomiie brucket Lassie, The bonnie Lass o' Branksoime, - The bonnie Lass that made the Bed to me. The Braes o' Ballendean, The brisk young Lad, ~. The Brume o' the Cowdenkiiowes, The Bush aboon Traquair, The Campbells are comin', —«-,- The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, The Coallicr's bonnie Ljissie, The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn, The Flowers of the Forest, The Flowers of Edinburgh, The Foray, The Gaberlunzie Man, . The happy Marriage, „ The Highland Queen, The Jolly Beggar, . The Lammie, The Landart Laird, -,~~^ The Lass of Peatie's Mill, . The Lass o' Liviston, The Last lime I cam' o'er the Muir,, The Lea-Rig,~^ 171 159 107 105 106 m The Life and Age o' Man,, The Maid that tends the Uoats, . The MaltmaJi, The merry Men O, The Miller o' Dee, ~ The Minstrel (Donochtliead), ~ The muckin' o' Geordie's Byre, . The Old Man's Song,- The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us. 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 Thing, The Wee Wifikie, 1 he White Cockade, „. The Widow, The Yellow-hair'd Laddie, The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, There's nae Luck about the House,-, This is no Mine Ain House, Tibbie Fowler, Tibbie Dunbar,—. To Daunton Me,.. To the Kye wi' Me, (2 sets) Todlin Hame, Tranent-Muir, TuUochgorum, 'Twas within a Mile o' Edinburgh Town, . Tweedside (2 sets),.. Up and \\am a' Willie, Up in the Moruiu' early. Wandering Willie Waukin' o' the Fauld, We're a' Nid Noddin,_ Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, Willie was a Wanton W;ig, - Woo'd and Married and u', . CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu,. Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, Aftou Water, . Again rejoicing Nature sees, ~ A Highland Lad 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 Rose Bud by my early Walk,.., A Southland Jennie, Auld Lang Syne,. Auld Rob Morris, . Bessy and her Spinning- Wheel, ~- Behold the hour the Boat arrives, . Beware of Bonnie Ann, .-,.^-.».-... Beyond thee, Dearie, ~,,™..™-.- Blythe hae I been on yon Hill,- Blythe was She, Bonnie Bell,~— ~ Jean, Lesley, ~ Wee Thing, . Bruce at Bannockburn, ■>,.., ^ Caledonia— (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),. Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, .........—.. Reply, ~~- Ca' the Ewes,- Chloe. ~« Page. les ^ 188 188 189 189 189 190 — 190 190 191 191 191 191 192 192 193 192 193 193 193 194 194 194 194 195 -.. 195 ^ 195 ... 196 195 196 Chloris,. Clarinda,- Come let me take Thee to my Breast, - Contented wi' Little, Country Lassie, .... Craigicburn-wood,. Dainty Davie,™..-^— Deluded Swain, Does haughty Gaul, — - Down the Burn Davie, . Duncan Gray....... — ■.... Evan Banks, „„....--.— Fair Eliza, ~- Fairest Maid on Devon Banks,- Fate gave the Word, For the Sake o' Somebody, . Forlorn my Love, ™~...~~ From thee Eliza....... ...>~.>. Gala.Watcr,- Gloomy December, . Green grow the Rashes O, — Gudewife count the Lawin',- Page. .«~ 197 197 197 197 198 193 193 198 199 199 200 200 200 ^ 200 - 201 Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, Handsome Nell, Her flowing Locks, Here's a health to Ane I loe dear, — to Them that's awa, 201 201 202 SOS 202 203 204 201 CONTENTS. Hero's a Rottlo and an Honest Friend, „-^„^,.,,~„ l'(i4 Highl:intl Harry, ,«„„ „, SO.'J Highland Mary, -, ™ „„„^„,„„,„„ 203 How Cruel are the Parents, ,.,-„,-,^,w~.,„~ 204 How lang and dreary is the Night, ,~, ~^>^,~~ 201 1 am a Son of Mars, ^ 205 Jamie come try ine,-~-,~.„.„^,,, 206 I (Iream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,™ 205 I'll aye ca' in by yon Town, „,„,«^,--,„ ,~-, 205 I'm o'er Voimg to Marry yet, . .~^„,~~,-™,„, 205 It is nae Jean thy bonnie*Faee,„~~~v™«,~~— — 206 Jockey's ta'en the Parting Ki-s, 206 John Anderson my jo, ~ 207 John Barleycorn, -,,,^»v,<„,v„„„w,^~ww.~~,,~— ~ 206 Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 ' ■ ••■ - - ■ 208 208 209 209 209 209 210 Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks,- Lay thy Loof in mine Lass, ~-«w 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, . Mary Morison, - Meg o' the Mill, My Bonnie Mary, My Heart's in the Highlands,, My Lady's Gown tliere's Gairs upon't, . My Nannie's awa, . My 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 airts 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 yon Red Rose, „ O leave Novclles ye Slauchlin Belles, O let me in this ae Night,, O Love will venture in, O May, thy Morn,, On a Bank 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 Woodlark, . O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, — ^ <) were I on Parnassus Hill, O wcrt Thou in the Cauld Blast,, O wha is She that Loes me,. Out over the Forth,,,,,^-,^, 210 210 211 211 2U 212 212 212 212 215 213 215 214 211 214 215 214 215 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 218 218 219 218 219 219 220 220 220 S21 216 216 216 Peggy Alison,,,,, Philhs the Fair, Powers Celestial whose protection, Puirtith Cauld,, Kanliu' Roaiia' VVUlic,« -«v^ 221 •,~, 222 222 222 222 Raving Winds around her blowing,-,,- Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, ,,- Scroggum, She's Fair and She's Fause, . She says she Loes me best of a', Sic/a Wife as Willie had,,,,™™. Steer her up and baud her gaun,. Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburn-wood, . Tam Glen,, The Auld Man, The Banks o' Castle Gonlon, - o' Cree, . o' Devon,, o' Doon, o' Nith, - The Bard's Song, The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, . The Big-bellied Bottle,. The Hirks o' Aberfoldie,, The Blue-eyed Lassie, . Page. ^ 223 „ 223 223 223 223 221 224 221 225 225 225 226 22 « 225 236 226 226 227 227 228 22H 'I'he bonnie Wee Tiling,, The Braes o' Ballochmylc, The Carle o' Kellyburn.Braes, ™»,~-~,™w,™ 228 The Chevalier's Lament, 229 The Day Returns, „. — ™,™„~-. — ™™~™ 229 The Death Song, „„-, ™„~ ,™™™„ 230 The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, -„„,„„, 230 Tiie Election,~™™,™~-,™~~~~,«-,™,~„ 230 The Gallant Wcaver,~~~~~~~,-,— 251 The Gardener, „™~~,™,™™™,™,™™, 231 The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast, ,««„„„„„. 232 The Heather was bloorain', , — ~ .„«- -,„„..„ 232 The Highland Lassie 0,~,™~™™-™ 232 The Lail that's far awa, — — ™,-~~„,,«,„ w„, 233 The Lass o' Ballochmylc, — „-. — — ™,„„,™v««. 255 The Lass that made the Bed to me,,™ .«„-, 253 The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, — -„, ,-, 254 The Lover's Salutation, ,~«,,«,i„,,,„,„,,„„„„, 235 The Riggs o' Barley, ~~~~~~„~~~„ 235 The Soldier's Return, ™„„™ 255 The stown Glance o' Kindness,-~,~~„~,,~,„,„„ 237 The Tocher for Me, ~~~ .^JZZ^l^ZZZl. 238 The Woodlark, ™„ „ — .~™-,™™™ s?57 1'lie Young Highland Rover, ™„„ 257 There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame,„ 236 There's a Youth in this City, ~,. — , ~„. „„, 237 There's News Lasses, ,,,,,„,,,^ — .,„„„w~™„~,~„ 237 There was once a Day,~~,,~~« — . — -„ 233 This is no mine ain Lassie, ~~,„«,~,~ 258 Thou has left me ever Jamie, „,. — , „„„„„„, 259 Tibbie I hae seen the Day, ~,-™~™ — -,„„,„„„„ 210 To Mary in Heaven, „,...~~,.,.„,,vw,~„,„„„ 259 True-hearted was He, ~~-w~-~~~~™v,,„~™,,;-240 Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, 210 Wandering Willie,,™,,—, ~«~„~„ 210 What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man, „ 240 Wha is that at my Bower Door, „„,. — , — ™ 241 When Guildfonl Good, ™ 241 Where are the Joys I hae met in the Morning, „ 242 Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, ~ — -. — ~~,„ 242 Willie brew'il a Peck o' Maut, ~™,~,™„, 242 Will Ye go to tlie Indies my Mary, — „„,.„ 243 Wilt thou be my Dearie, ,™,„., ^,^™,„™,~, 242 Von Wild Mossy Mountains,^, ,,^™-,,,„„,^ 243 Young Jockey was the blythest Lad, ,„, ™ w, 245 Young Peggy, „,„^*,,«,«^-w»«,™«,~ — ^™„,, 213 '^ CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 17S3, 1734.. I,ove Letters, at 20, in good English, but unavail- To Mr. Murdoch — st;ite of the Poet and his Opi- Extracls from the Scrap-book, -.,~.-,-^,^„-,™« 250-2 1786. To ^fr. John Riclimond, Edinburgh — first piib- To Mr. Macwhinnie, Ayr — same tojiic,-. ,,^,.,w-.„- 2.^)2 To Mr. James Smith, Mauclihne — route for Ja- Ti) Mr. David Brice — same— about to become Poet in piint — tlie last foolish action he is to To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu- To Mrs O'.mlop — first Letter — licr order for Co- pies — ^Iiis early devoLion to her ancestor, Sir W. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — ■ going al)road— sends Songs,--.„.w.- .^ „ 555 Prnin Dr. niaeklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — . witli just estimate of the Poet's merits — which puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings liim to Edinburgh, „-^„,,„„,^ ,„-..„v., 2.')5 From Sir John Whiicfoord — complimentary,™^,-, 25t> Frr)m tiic Rev. -Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview wit!> Dr. Ulacklocl; — gncxi advice, ,„...„,.„, '256 ToCi.ivin Hamilton, Hauchlino — from Edinburgh — the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kemi)is or J.ihn Bunyan — favours of :lic Edinliurgh public, 256 To Dr. Mackenzie, M.iuehline — witli the Lines on 1787. To Mr. John G.illantine, Ayr — occurrences at To Mr. Vi'illi.im Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and humourously apologetical, «~-«, . ,«..,-, 257 To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and farther incidents at Edinburgh, ~,„ 25S 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 popul.arl'avoiir,™ 2.59 To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of From Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet nnt o( the ir- rilabi/e ffenus — admires his love of Country and independent spirit, not less than his Poetical Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the Mountain Daisy, „„..„„.,.„„.„„.,„„„, — . ,„ 2G0 To Dr. Moore — general character of Miss Williams' To Mr, John H.dlantme — printing at Edinburgh, and g;tting b'n p/iiz done,—.., . .,, 2G1, KroMi Dr. Moore — wiih his View of .Society — and To ihe 10 !rl of Gleneairn — witli L)ncs ior his Pic- i .1 M»e Earl of BurU u; — .ts to Piigrim.Tgts in Calo- Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Fergusson, 2G2-3 To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the I'oet clings to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still the Old Man with his deeds, .«.~™., — ~~ 2G4 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — the Bard — his situation and views, „.„„„—,„, — 264 To l3r. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary critt- To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair — leave taking,. — .„„ 265 From Dr. Blair — who notices his own claims for first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world- gives the Poet, at parting, a certificate of cha- racter, with much good aclvice, 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 NicoU — the Poet's Itinerary in From Mr. John Huteheson, Jamaica — Poems excellent — but better in the English style — Scot- tish now becoming obsolete — di.ssuades from the West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius there," „,,« 268 To Mr. W. Nicoll — on arriving at home — morali- zes over the Scenes and Co:np:iiiions of hisic- cent elevation — gloomily as to the iuture,„^ 2G8 To Gavin Hamihun — c;ccurrcnecs of the second To Mr. Walker, Blair-in-Aiholc — the same — the Duke's family,-™,^ ..„„ 270 To Mr. Gilbert Burns — fuithi'r adventures, — ~-„ 270 From Mr.llams:iy of Ochtertyre^-with Inscriptions — Tale of Owen Cameron — hints for a Poetical Composition on the grand seals and other tas'e- ful and interesting matter, „~ 271-2 Erom Mr. Walki-r, Alhole-llcnisc — particulars of the Poet's visit there — female contrivaucos to From Mr. A. M. an admiring Friend returned from abroad — with tribntaiy Verses, „„ — „, 'i'i~ From Mr. ll.amsay to the-Kc . William Young — introductory of the Poet, ,, ^,,„,-.,.„^ 27i From the same to Dr. tilacklock' — with tliauks for the Poet's acquaintance and Songs— /Anecdotes, 271 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old Tutor, rejoicing 7n the fruits of the genius he had helped to eulti\ate, ~.„ — ^,„„, „ 275 From Mr. R , from Gordon-Ca^tlc — incidents of the Poet's visit there, „,„-.„„ 275 From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natur.al to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- butes to the Song-making onterprize, „.„ 276 From Mrs. Ro.ss of Kihaivauh— Gaelic airs — the Poet's N'orthern Tour,„„.,„, ., „„-., 277 To Mr. DahympleofOrang. 'field— Rhymes, 27« Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 To Miss M • an Essay on the complimentary To Air. Hobcn Ain.slie — friendship,™, ~ 2sl To Mr. John Ballantine — wiih Song, Ve Banks and ii.aes u' iiunnio o'jii, ,„-„„„„-,„ — „..»..> 281 ^ CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Page. To r>r. Mooro, from the Poet— Sketch of his From Mr. Gilbert Burns, a running Commentary on the foregoing, „,„, ^.-„~„„„ ™„-~28G-90 From Mr. Murdoch, as to the Poet's early Tui- From Professor Dugald Stewart — his Sketches of From Mr. Gilbert Burns, giving history of origin of the principal Poems, .,. — 295-7 From the same, in continuation — and Essay on Education of lower Classes, ~^~^.-,-,-..„^ :i?97-302 Teath and Character of Gilbert Burns, 3U2 Tlie Poet's Scrau-Uook, (.farther extracts), ^„502-5 LETTERS, 1785. To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— second visit- bruised limb, -~ 304 To the same — repelling insinuation as to irreli- To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm imputed to him against her, „^^„,^,^ ^ 3.4 To Mr. Robert Clcghorn — origin of the Cheva. lier's Lament, -»-,^„-^~-^^ ~.,,,„»~-,~,„,~ 304 From the same, in answer — and with Farming To Mr. James Smitli, Avonfield — marriage pre- To Mrs. Dunlop — Farming — reasons for and in- structions in the Excise — tart expressions, „„^ 305 From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming Nancy," by a Buchan Ploughman, and other Songs— his own Latin poetry, ^,~,,,^^ r~. ., 306 To Professor DugaUl Stewart — wishes at his going to the Continent, ™ ~ 306 To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil — likes the Georgics — disappointed in the .lEneid, often an imitation of Homer — Dryden, Pope's master, in genius and harmony of language, „,„~.™w, 307 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a dull Letter may be a To Mrs. Dunlop — inequality of conditions, ~«~~ 307 To the same — first from EUisland — his marriage, 5U8 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— a slice of it good for indigestion of ;;!! kmds, . — ~ 308 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — friendshiii — the Poet's suspicious temperament — his p'.irpose to leave the light troops of Fancy for the scpiadrons of heavy-armed Thouglit— Marriage, —„^,^.-~~. — 309 To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchlinc — the Poet's new liouse, .. ^^,^,^^ ,,~ - 3f'9 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a serious Letter, ~- 51U To Mr. George Lockhart, GLi'sgow — admiration of certain Female beauties, — ~ . , 511 To Mrs. Dunlop— a luck-penny — Friar's Carse Hermit.ige and other Lines, ■ ~~ 311 To the same — his answers to lur, iidt Echoes — Marriage Anecdotes — account of his Wife — Let- To the same — gossip of a Dinner-party— Life and Age of Man — religious impressions, ,^,^^,^,^. — 312 To Robert Graham, Esq. with fir.-t Poetical Ad- To Mr. Beiigo, Engraver — estimate of the Poet's new neighbours — matters poetical, ~. - 314 To Miss Chalmers — complimenlai-y to her — ;uul explanatory of his marriage — present state and prospects — Songs,- -^ — -^ — ^^„ — 315 To Mrs. Dunlop — twins — criticisms — verses, — „ 31C To Mr. Peter Hill' — opinions of the Poetry of "I'o Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, ~~~ 317 To i apologetical for the bloody and tyrannical House of Stewart, ^ ™ — ~- 318 To Mr. James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- To.Dr. Blacklock — with Poetical Pieces and Songs — his Marriage and other movements, « 519 To Mrs. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet's esti- mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- tions of the immortal soul — Auld Lang Sync — To a young Lady, tudubinij a Ballad upon hef,-. 32(.i 1789 Fagi. To Sir John Wliitefoord— thanks for his voluntary defence of the Poet, ™„,~^„.^ — 521 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 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage- _ To Bishop Geddes— " What am 1 ?— Where I am ? — and for what am I destined ?"..„„„-. 324 To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of high and low — Mvlne's Poems, —~-~—„-~~- ~,~~ 324 From William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out- _ set and progress,-^ ™ — ~~ 3?5 To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326 ;o 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. Dunlop— Sketch of Fox, 528 To Mr. Cunningham — effusions of Friendship, ~ 328 From Dr. Gregory — iron bound criticism ~~,-~~ 328 To Mr. James Hamilton, Glasgow — consolation, 529 To Mr. William Creech— Toothache, 329 To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton— descriptive of the Poet's feelings and condition, . 330 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same topics, . — 5 .0 From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish his lays, and to abandon the Scottish stanza and To Mrs. Dunlop— low spirits — religious feelings,™ 331 From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute, 332 From Mr. Cunningham — reminiscences of Fergus- To Mr. t^unningham, in answer, „~~™«v.,~~~~ 533 To Mr. Dunlop—domcstic matter.s — Poetical Tri- bute from Miss L a Future State— Zeluco, 334 From Or. Blacklock — a friendly Letter in Rhyme, .334 To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer, .335 To Captain Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 3.55 To tlie same — the Scrap-book, ~-',™~~ ~ — — . 535 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word " Exciseman," 335 To Robert Graham, Esq.-^Captain Grose .ind lo- ; o Mrs, Dunlop — " under the miseries of a diseas- efl nervous system,'' --~~~~~ — ~ — — ~- 337 To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscore,-, 338 From Captain Riddel to Sir John— on same siib- 1790. To Gilbert Bums— the Players — Verses for them, 359 From William Burns — at Newcastle — wants infor- mation and fraternal instructions, . ~«~~~ 359 To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer- Ballads, „ 340 From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices, ~*. 341 From Mr. Peter Hill — " a poor rascally Gauger," — Borough Reform — Books — Note, with secrets worth knowing, _~~,«..~^,~^ . — ~. — 341 To Mr. William Nicoll— last illness and death of Peg Nicolson — matters theatrical — ecclesiastical squabbling — Exciseman's duty, — «« — ~ — . — ~, 342 To Mr. Cunnuigham — on Letter writing— exist- ence — and the course of the Poet's reading — Deism — Scejiticism, .^ k„„v,™ 343 To Mr. Peter Hill — a large order — existence,—- — 345 From William Bums, at London — his adventures — hears the Ca{/' preach at Covcnt Garden Cha- To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of the Union— Lord Chesterfield — Mirror — Lounger— Man of Feel- From Mr. Cuimingham — friendly notices, 3-i5 To Dr. Moore — Letter writing — Zeluco — Miss To Mr. Murdoch — ren. wing friendly intercourse, 346 From Mr. Murdoch— Death of William Burns, ~ 347 'I'o Mr. Cunningham — Independence— Smollett's Ode, «,-„ — ^^.^^.^.^r^^r.^,^ ~» 348 CONTENTS. Page. From Dr. Bi.icklock — a Letter in Rlivme — Dr. AniliTson and the 15ce, , '—. _ 348 From Mr. Cimnin^tiam — a .Song lor each of the four Sensons suggested, , -~™~~~j.-™™ 319 To Mrs. Dunlop — Birth of a Posthumous Cluld — To Crawford Tail, E^^. — recommending a young To Partizaiishii), ,~~~,~— „, 3J0 1701. To Mr. Cunningham — Elegy on Miss Burnet, — 3.')0 To Mr. Peter Hill— Essay on Poverty, . 351 From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— Tarn o' Shantcr,-. ~ 3.^1 To Mr. Tytler— in answer, . , 3o2 I'o Mrs. Dunlop — broken arm — Elegy on Miss nurnet — a remembrance, -«- — ,„j„,*, 3i2 To Lady Marv Constable— a 8nnlf-l)ox, — ™ — . Zm To Mrs. Graham of Fintry — Ballad on Queen Mary — the Poet's gratitude, — 3.i5 From the Rev. Principal Haird— Michael Bruce, ~ 353 To Principal Baird— ofTcring every aid for pub- lishing Bruce's Works, 334 To the Rev. Archibald Allison — his Essays on To Dr. Moore — Songs and Ballads — Zeleuco — pri- To Mr. Cunningham — Song, ■' There'll never be l)eace till Jamie come hauie," ~ . 336 To Mr. Dalzell, Factor to Lord Glencairn — the Poet's grief for his Lordship^ — his wish to attend From Dr. Moore — criticises Tain o' .Shantcr, and other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze- leuco — advises him to be more chary of givmg Copies— and to use the modern English, , — . 356 ^ To Mrs. Duiilop^a domestic occurrence — exclu- sive advantagi s of humble life, , 357 To Mr. Cunningham — in behalf of a persecuted Schoolmaster, . ~ — ~~ 358 From the Earl of Buchan — crowning of Tliomson's Bust at Ednam, . . . ~~ 358 '1 o the same — in answer, — „ • 559 To Mr. Thomas Sloan, Manchester — disappoint- ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet's From tlie Earl of Buchan — suggests Harvest-home for a theme to the Muse, — ~.™. — 559 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the death of her Broiher, Lord Glencairn, ~, — — ™. 3G0 To .Mr. Robert .Vinslie — a Mind diseased, .-. 360 From Sir John Whitcfoord — Lament for Lord From A. f! Tytler, Esq.— the Whistle— the La- To Miss Davies— -entimeutal — with some hints as to a Radical Reform, 56i To Mrs Dunlop — with the Death-Song — lligh- To Captain Grost — laurls Professor Dugald Stew- To the same — Witch Stories of Kirk-Alloway, 3Li5 To Mrs. Punlop — animadversions of the Board — malicious insinuations — a cup of kindness, 3rT4 To Mr. W. Smellie— mtrodudiory of Mrs. Riddel, 564 To Mr. W. NicoU — admiration of, and gratitude To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's Arms, 365 ^1 o Mr. Clarke invitation to come to the Country, 566 1\> Mrs. Dunlop — a Pbtonie altiehment and a Balli^d — Religion indispensible to make Man better and happier, — . 367 To Mr. Cunningiiam — nocturnal ravings, . — 567 To Mrs. I unlop — dilTereuce in Farming for one's | self and Farojing for another, 36S , To the same.— a Family uiflict ion— condolence, — 569 j To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life — | Rights of Wom.an. ,-,, ~- 5S9 j To Robert Graham, Esq. — jusaties himself against the charge of disatfection to the British Coiisti- To Mrs. Dunloi>— the Poet's ini, roved luo>ts — al- | Page, lusfnns to her suggcsflniK for his official promo- To Miss B. of York — moralizes over the chance. medleys of hum.an intercourse, , 371 To Patrick Miller, Esq of Dalswinton — aii honest To John Fr.ancis Erskineof Mar, Esq. — the Poet's independence of sentiment, and particularly his opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, ~ 372-o To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — schooleraft caught by contact, ,~ ,~-~v™.~~__ 57.5-4 To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, , 574 To Lady Glencaini- gratitude to her Family — from an independent Exciseman, ~~ ,- . 571^ To Miss Chalmers — a curious analysis which shews " a Wight nearly as miserable as a I'oct," 37-'> To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, ^-^^^.^ 375-6 LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 1796. To the Earl of Buchan — with " Bruce's Address," 576 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, 576 To a Lady — the same, , , . . 576 To Mr. - — — the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- tion and literary leisure, 378-7 To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated To the same — gin horse routine of Excise business, 577 To the same — effects oi a cool recei)tion,~_„~„„ 577 To the same — a sjiice of caprice, ~,~,«-««»~~~~. 578 To the same — firm yet conciliating, 578 To John Symc, Esq. — praises of Mr. A. — Song on To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- claims his MS.-. ~ -. 578-9 To Mr Cunningham — a Mind Diseased — Religion necessary to Man,-~„,w „,^^^^,^.. „.„,„ 379 To a Lady — from the .Sh.ides, —„,. 380 To the Earl of Glencairn — the Poet's gratitude to his late Brother, : 380 To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Lives of the To Mrs. Riddel — solitary confinement good to re- claim Sinners — Ode for Birth-day of Wasliing- To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for the Museum,. , ■ .,„ 3S1 To Mr. Miller of Dals.iinton — (leclines to be a re- gular contribjtor to the Poet's Corner of the Morning Chronicle, . ™ 5.S1 'I'o Mr. Gavin Hamilton — the Poet rec aninends a particular regimen to liim, 582 To Mr, Samuel Clarke — penitence ; fter exenss, „ 582 To Mr. Alexander Fiiidlater — Supervisor — " So much fi)r schemes," «-^— — . ~- ~ .,-- ."83 To tlic Edito s of the Morning Chronicle — its in- To Mr. W. Dunbar — i\'ew-V"ear wishes,-.^ — 3S3 To Miss Fonttnelle — with a Prolo;;ue for her be- i o Mrs. Dunlop — cares of the Married Life — Dura- fries Theatricals — Cowper's Task — the Poet's 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 Dumfrie., — Free School E- To Mrs. Duiiiop in London — Mr. Thomson's Work — acting Supervisor — New V'car wishes — To -Mrs. Riddel — Anacharsis — the Muses still pre- To Mrs. Dunlop — in affliction, .— ^~ , . 3SS To Mrs. Riddel — on Birth-day Io,alty, 5H8 To Mr. James Johnson — the Museum — a consum- ing illness hanus over the Poet,~..— „,..-,„„„.-, 3S9 To Mr. Cunningham — from the Brow, Sea-bath.. ing Quarters — sad picture, , „. 389 To Mrs. Burns — from the Brow — strengthened. — but total decay of appetite, , .— 389 To Mrs. Dunlop— a last farewell, „.„. . ,„, 5o9 CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON. Page From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to the Select Melodies, ~~~._ ^„ ., .„ 591 The Poet's answer — frankly embarking in the From Mr. Thomson — views of comhieting the Work — and with 11 Songs for New Vcrsps,„.„„ 392 From the Poet— uith the " I.ea Rig"—" My Nan- nie O" — " Will ye go to the Indies my Mary," 393 From the Poet — with" My Wife's a wanton wee thing" — " O saw ye boniiie Lesley," ,„,~-w~«., 593 From the I'oet — with " Ye Banks and liracs nnd Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery,"™, 594 From Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,— 591 From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but cannot alter b nnie Lesley" — additional Verse for the " Lea Rig,"™™—™-™™™,™™^ : 395 From the Poet — with " Auld Rob Morris" and " Duncan Gray,"*,~„^«--w,„^ ~~~~~ 395 From the Poet — with " Poortith Cauld" and " Galla Water," ™.„,.,™™,^™„„„™„ 595 From Mr. Thomson — laudatory for favours re- ceived — details tlie plan of his VVork — P. S. from the Honourable A. Erskine — a brother Poet and contributor, : „„.,„ 396 From the Poet — approves of the details — offers matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory" — English and Scots seis of it, ~— ,. „_„~„~ 596-7 From the Poet — with " Wajidering Willie," ~~— 597 I'rom the Poet — " Open the Door to me 0,",-~,^ 597 I'rom the Poet — " True-hearted was he,"~ 597 From Mr. I homson — with complete list of Songs, and farther >~ — ~~, 405 From the Poet — Peter Pindar — '■ .Scots wlia hae \vi' Wallace bled" — " So may God defnid the c.iuse of truth and liberty as he did that day,",, 404 From the s.nine— with .''oii.g " Behold the hour the Boat arrives," to the Highland Air " Oian gaoil," 406 From Mr. Thomson — " Bruee's Ad;s (irnliam of Fintry, .. ~~ — .——,——_—,».—„ 411 From Mr. Thomsou-'in answer,,. — ,»„,.„„„,—.— -HI From the Poet. — with Song " On the Seas and far From Mr. Thomson — criticises that .Song severely, 412 From the Poet — withdrawing it — " making a Song is like begetting a .Son" — sends " Ca' the yeweg to the kiowes," „— ~— . 41'2 From Ihe same — Irish Air— sends Song to it " Sao fiaxcn were her ringlets" — Poet's taste in Mu.sic like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me ill this ae night'' — Epigram, ~.,,.,„„. — , •112 From Mr. 'J homson — profuse of aeknowledg.. From Ihc same — Pelir Pindar's task c(>mpleud— Hi.s.ai's C..|Iecli ./^ CHAPTER I. Contents. — TJic Poet's Sirth, 1759 — Ch cumstunces and peculiar Character of his Father and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Menta»' Improvement — Commencelh Love and Poetry at 1 5. " My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, And soberly he brought me up in decency and order.V Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759, m 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 Burnes or Burness, (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- lated concerning him. S ii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. William Bunies 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 Doonholm ; 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 i-eceived 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 manners, 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 doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered 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^escribed as " a very sagaci- ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- ner;" and it seems that, in features, and, as he gi-ew up, in general address, the poet resembled her more than his father. ,She had an inexhaustible store of ballads and traditionary tales, and appeal's to have nourished his infant imagination by this means, while her husband paid more attention to " the weightier matters of the law." 'J'hese 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 dah-y 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." These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. F\>rguson ; who, 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 iiJiOO towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr) at Whitsuntide 1766, 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 iklling into the hands of a \\ar&[\ factor, (who afterwards sat for his picture in the Twa Dogs), Burnes was glad to give up his bargain at the e)id of six years. He then removed about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish i)f Tarbolton. But here, after a sliort interval of pa-ospcrity, some uiitbr- lunatc misunderstanding took place as to the conditions of the lease ; the LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ill dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three 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 13th February 178i. Severe labour, and hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a I'obust 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 i-arely 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 few months removed to another situation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John Murdoch to su^)ply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses^ and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterl3^ 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 some parents . 28. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. llx at this time of dajs has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I sec 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 the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest w ish 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 few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, 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 23d, 1787, we have the following ]:xissage in a letter also to Dr. Moore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight. 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 fifty 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 which Burns indulged himself. But two points still remain somewhat doubtful; namely, whether, show and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had it in his power to live always 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 first arrival in the m.etro- polis, faithfully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, '•'■ recede ;" and, moreover, pcr- liaps 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 ; there were no less than 1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession 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 j)oetry made it equal on that score, to any other " Th(> 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 ttirf, 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, that 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-livery), 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- miring 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 liappiness 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, v/ere very early productions : The most important additions were, Death and Doctor Ilornbooh, 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 he 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 have 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, Edinburg.h, 22d March 1787. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixi neglected remains of liis unfortanate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the Canongate churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address to Edinburgh, — 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 ! Scot'm''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-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering 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 splencfour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes. Seeks science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. With open anns 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 l?urnet 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 high 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' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought and pitying tears I view that noble, stately dome, Where ScoticCs 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 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 ?7^y sires have left their shed. And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led ! EniNA ! Sco/ia\<: darling seat ! All haU thy palaces and tow'rs, ^Vhere once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. CHAPTER VI. Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of them, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in the " Atdd Clay Higgin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with 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 fleshpnts, winter 17S7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Ex- cise — Another crisis, in ivhich the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling ivith him leaves Edinburgh with £bOO — 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 Ainslie, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire. — Among other changes " which fleeting time procureth," this amiable gen- tleman, whose youtliful 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 lie had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head on the 23d of July IG37, 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 Nicoll while on the road, and which will be found 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 bet 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, near which a holly busli slill marks the spot on LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii which James II. of Scotlandwas killed by the bursting of acannon. Jedburgh — where he admired the " cliarming 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-famed 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, Warkworth, 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 Aichitecture, &c. ; Sir Alexand^ and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; 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, 3lay 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . The family-meeting with my couqjagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- cularly the sister. " Simday. 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 bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . \ isit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing where James the Second was accidentally killed by tlie 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 fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writei", and to .xiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. > " Jedburgh, Saturday/. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- sations. " 3Ionday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to £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 no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, 1.3th 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. " Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw." Bm-ns 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 m.aternal 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 clay biggin on the 18th 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 I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them, they 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 tliat, 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 atiotlier 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 movmtains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives an account of Jenny Geddes running a race after dhiner 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 " I 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 otherwite the Cusde 11 Ixvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. of Glomn, 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 the days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The Cauldron Linn and Rumbling 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 song, 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, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of tlie soft vernal shower. That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of tlie garden and lawn J Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandermg 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 hitherto published in Britain, we present them 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 the throne ; — An idiot race, to honour lost, Who know them best, despise them most. The young ladies of Harvieston were, according to 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 l!FE of ROBERT BURNS. Ixvil 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 of a company of young ladies. He M'as 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, " I would not look ! look I 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 Currle, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : — " Notwithstanding the various reports I 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 any 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 pal})i- tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. Tn the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make 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." In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, 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 Latinists 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 Bui-ns, who asked and obtained copies and translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was 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 liim sti'ongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write 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 wanting." — 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 flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, than ■with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I should have made little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know Ixvii'i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. when to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether the 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 cuttystool, 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 Nicoll 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. — Linlithgow. — 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 j^olitical economist : — From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God !" And ccrics, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The coiUige leaves the palace far behind ; M'hat is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, k Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined; O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 4fi. w^ For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, ; Re blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixix And, O ! may ITeav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crownt and coroneU be rent, A v'lrtuoiis 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 of 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 oppressive, 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 the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the I^arlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely English heroics — " Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Ijone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell ; The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative fire .... 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 \yorth 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- ing, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- east — sny prayers on it." His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows : — " Dunkeld — 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. — Sotur- da7i — visit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. Mr. Walker, who, as we liave seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in Edinburgh througli Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family of Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the seat 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. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on "the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. It was Avith 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 bonnie 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 Duke's advice, visited the Falls of JBniar, 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 flir. Walker to Mr. Cunninarham, dated Perth, 24th October, 797 LIFi, OF ROBERT BURNS, Ixxi occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did 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, &c. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical bed in which, tradition says, King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- day, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, perhaps owing to her being younger-^ — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung two Gaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting, is still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condesa^ding, and affable — gay and kind. — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- sible — God bless them."* Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ- ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the * Extract from Journal. Ixxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coast of the Murray Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visit at Gordon Castle, *' was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons of such influence, might have begot a permanent intimacy, and on their parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively Nairn, Forres, Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him into the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native district, never to revisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire kindred, and after that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good people, and in a letter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing them in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * " The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses ?" He arrived once more in Auld Reekie, on the 16th of September, having travelled about six hun- dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest- ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among the sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe- riod avowed. Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness,;he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — " Among the heathy hills and rugged woods. The roaring Fyers pours his mossy Hoods," &c. When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — " Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben," &c. And the verses On Scaring some Wildfowl on Loch Turit, — " Why, ye tenants of the lake. For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. were composed while under the same roof. These last, except perhaps Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find many traces of the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these alpine regions. • General Correspondence- ^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. Ixxiii The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. Miller at Ualswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decided to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not, however, un- til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening months were spent in Edinburgh, where Burns found, or fancied that his presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the amusement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful widow — the same to whom he addressed the song, " Clarincla, mistress of my soul," &c. and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides. At this time the publication called Julnigous Museum of Scottish Song was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though Green grow the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the first volume, published in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. Theniel Menzies bonny Mary ; that grand lyric, " Farewell, ye dungeons clurk and stroiig, The wretch's destiny, Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree ;" both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland visit ; and, lastly, Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. Burns had been from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns composed very few pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his so«gs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very likely to agree. Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst the various temptations to comjiany and dissipation which now and hence- forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of lil'e in which • " Clarinda," and " How pleasant the banks of the tleai winding Devon." 12 Ixxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. he was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was pfesent, on the Slst of December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which Dr. Carrie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- ing rhapsody — far, far different indeed from the Chevalier s Lament, which the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy iTiuirs be- tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. " Here I am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am gof half way 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 an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best pajDcr and print in town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft." f — In another letter, which opens gaily enough, Ave find him reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. " I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path that meagi'e, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty, attended as he ahvays is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily withstood his bufFetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is / DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that I would envy — a horse ui his wild st^te traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." j; — 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. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- mission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not 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." 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- finement 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 ove? * Gcnrr^il Con-cspondence, No. 46. t Reliques, p. 43. + Ibid. p. 44. 1] General C'orrcspondcr.cc, No. 43. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxv the annals of Htoratui"e, and think what superior capabilities of misery have been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven witli the possession of those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from Mauchlinc that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exposed licr to the reproaches of her family. The father sternly and at once turned her out of doors; and Burns, unalfle to walk across his room, had to write to his fiiends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for her whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, M-ritten on hearing of this new misfortune, he says, " ' I icish I were dead, hut I'm no like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my 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 now 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 t\\e excise. I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, Avhich have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of /loiiie, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, yoii have boimd 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 promise as of the cold denial." f It would be hard to think that this letter Mas coldly or .negligently received ; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's influence. Mi-. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went inmiediately, without dropping any hint of his intention, and conmiunicated the state of the poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fin tray, one of the con)missioners of excise, who had met l^urns 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 iw but, which is a dangerous, an unliappy situation. I got this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxurj' in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends." J * Reliqiies, p. J'll. f Gencr-.l rorrcspondcnce, No. 40. + Reliqnes, p. ;"0 Ixxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con- finement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he also 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 £200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr. Creech, he found himself in possession of £500, if not of £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 £600 for the first Edinburgh edition, and £100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product of Creech's edition at £500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- ters, at £400 only. NicoU hints, in the letter already referred to, that 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, the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- ducted from the £7 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be reason for thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than £100 for the copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it at the end of his Memoir, " nearly £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 him 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 di dernier resort, to be made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first act, hov/ever, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing £180 or £200, 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 favoui", might help to smooth matters at the grand reckoning" * • General Correspondence, No.66. CHAPTER VII. Co'STEVT^, — Marries —• A7inounce>nents, fapologeticalj, of the event — Remarks — Becomes ( 178S) Fanner at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six miles from Dumfries — The Muse wakeful as ever, u'hile the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary corre- spondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person e general elevation of the adjojjJiig caiintjy. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxv wood as of Iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wliecled, or were, more ])roperly speaking, tumbler-carts, so called to distinguisli tlicm from trail- carts, both of which were in common use. On these rude carriages his manure was taken to the field, ami his crop brought home. Tlse farmer himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred of innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims and rustic saws, which he interpreted as oracles delivered against improve- mcnt. With ground in such condition, with tools so unfit, and with know- ledge so imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wringing a {q\v hundred pounds Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- tunate. An important cl.ange soon took place, by which he was not fated to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the f>»rtitude to await its coming. " In the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, and ten, «nd fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and his house, diifered little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He would have thought his daugliter wedded in her degree, had she married a joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a " portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor- tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to agriculture; the army and navy consumed largely; corn rose in demand; the price augmented ; more land was called into cultivation ; and, as leases expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even began to exchange the hanks of yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He Liid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a tiling unfasliionable, and became a kind o? rustic gentleman, who rode a blood horse, and galloped homo on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and to the terror of every modest pedestrian. "When a change like this took place, and a firmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase the land he rented — Vvhlch many were, and many did — the same, or a still more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland; and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, would, in all human })ossibIIIty, have found the independence which he sought, and sought In vain, from the coldness and parsimony of mankind." Mr. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland In these terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said tliat Burns conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as a man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kii'k on Sunday, thougli he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism of that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- tlvit)% he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. But the failure of his firming projects, and the limited income with v.'hich he was compelled to support an increasing family and an expensive station iu hfe, preyed on his spirits ; and, during tlicGC fits of despair, he was will- Ixxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ing too often to become tlie companion of tlic thoughtless and the gross. I am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also hi the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had so much of the poet about them, and few poets so much oi' the man ; — the man was probably less pure than he ought to have been, but the poet was pure and bright to the last." The reader must be sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different pursuits. " I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally ganger, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has recorded the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on the subject are uniformly bitter. " I have the same consolation," he tells Mr Ainslie, " which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage- ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance of preferment.' " On one.occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " There is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- man ; but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re- tirement : " I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of my associates." Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along with him in the duties of the excise, could present. He Nvas, moreover, wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own, by the reputation which he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment in conversation. From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered it dilKcult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen passing, left his reapers, and trotted l)y the side of Jenny Geddes, until lie could persuade the bard that the day was hot enough to demand an extra-libation. If he entered an inn at midniglit, after all the inmates were in bed, tlie news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- sembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and " Ke ours tl.iiT ight— whn knows w'.iat conies to-morrow ?" was tlie langungo of every eye in the circle tlsat welcomed him. The statoliosi gentry of tlie couMiy, whenever the}- had especial merriment in LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii vieiv, called in tlic wif ami eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.* The famous song of The Whistle of icorth commemorates a scene of this kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- curred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life among this jo- vial squirearchi/. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, had met to deter- mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess the Whistle, which a common ancestor of them all had earned ages beiore, in a Bacchanalian coiltest of the same sort with a noble toper from Denmark; and the poet was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate. " Then up rose tlie bard like a prophet in drink, Craiijdarroch sliall soar when creation shall sink ; But if thou would'st flourish immortal in rhyme. Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublimo." Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe from temptations of this kind, even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his fare, as if they had done Burns and his black boivl f great honour in con- descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and such liquor. We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he Avas half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For example, the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from me. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of liis sight, or he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed, I'll war- rant he would have been as good as his word — though I was both young and strong." Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to Elliesland, was Captain Grose, the celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns briefly describes as " A fine fat fodgel wight — Of stature short, but genius bright ;" and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at full length, in his Olio. This gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set forth in the copy of verses — * These particulars are from a letter of David IMacculloch, Esq., who, being at this period a very young man, a passionate admirer of Burns, and a capital singer of many of his serious songs, used often, in his enthusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions. -j- Burns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was the nuptial gift of Mr. Ar- mour, his father-in-law, who himself fashioned it. After passing through many hands, it is now in excellent keeping, that of Alexander Hastie, Esq. ot London. ixxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " Hear, I^and o' Cakes anil brither Scots, Frae IMaiileiikirk to John O'Groats, A chiijld's aniang ye takiii' notes," &c. and, inter edict, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns had too much in conmion, not to become great friends. The jioet"s accurate know- ledge of Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- quaintance that we owe Tarn o Shunter. Burns told the story as he had heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Caj^tain, and was easily persuaded to versify it. The poem was th.e work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well re- members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her children. " He was busily engaged crooning to hitnsell, and Mrs. Burns perceiving that her j)resence was an interruption, loitered behind with her little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the sti-ange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses which he had just conceived : — " Now Tam ! O Tan: ! had they been queans, A' pluinp and strappin' in their teens ; Their sarks, instead of creesliie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen. hunder *linen, — Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush o' good blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them oft' my hurdles. For ae blink o' the bonnie bardies !" -{- To the last Burns was of opinion that Tam d Shunter was the best of all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has marked the progress of Tarn's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- dition. " By this time he was cross the ford Whare in the snaw the chapman snioor'd. And past the birks and nieikle stane, M'hare drucken Charlie brak's neck-banc ; And through the whins, and by tlie cairn, Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare JMungo's mither hang'd hersell." None of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was Tam o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes of swaggering riot." The then occupier of Shanter, by name Douglas " " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1 700 divisions." — Cromek. ■\- The above is quoted from a MS. journal of Cromek. Mr. M'Diarmid confirms the statement, and adds, that the poet, having committed the verses to writing on the top of his sod-dyke over the water, came mto the house, and read them immediately in high triumph at the fireside. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxix Gruhamo, was, by al! accounts, equally \vliat the Tarn of tlie poet appears, — a jolly, careless, rustic, wlio took much more hiterest in tlie contraband traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers by the name of Tani o'. Shanter. A i'ew words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Eiliesland. Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 1790, met Burns riding rapidly near Closcburn. The poet was obliged to pursue his professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller to Eiliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him, saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, steiaed in haste" Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his iixor Sabina qualis, and his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics." The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temperament, who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" says Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Eiliesland, were told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search ot him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose great-coat, fastened round him by a belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share his humble dinner." These travellers also classed the evening they spent at Eiliesland with the brightest of their lives. Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing of his farm, de- termined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered easy of arrangement ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- sion, which raised his salary from the revenue to £70 per annum, removed his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Eiliesland, however, with a heavy heart. 'J'he affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its early fervour by the thoughts of parting Mith him ; and the roup of his farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of whisky, a verj' melancholy scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is pleasing to know, that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude. Burns had superintended the fo-rmation of a subscription library in the parish. His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much honour: his choice of authors (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now conmion, almost universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of southern Scotland ; but it should never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr. Riddel, " as to take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his public spirit, and exertions for their improvement and information." Once, and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Eiliesland to revisit Edin- burgh. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; that business ac- li xc LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. complished, he returned immediately, and he never again saw the capital. He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " To a man who has a home, however humble and remote, if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic com- fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust — " Vain pomp and glor of die world, I hate you !" " When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gap- ing blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, what merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state of pre- existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a perspective." CHAPTER Yin. Contents. — is tnorc beset in town than country — His early hiographers, (Dr. Cnrrie not e.v~ cepted), fitive coloured too darkly under that licnd — It is not correct to speak of the poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinher, or of his revels as other than occasio7iaf, or of their having interfered with the punctual discharge of his official duties — He is shown to have been the a ffcctioiia'e and beloved husband, althougth passing follies imputed; and the constant a?id most assiduous instructor of his children — Impulses of the French Hevolution — Symptoms of fraternizing — The atttntion of his official superiors is called to them — Prac- tically no blow is injlirted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this period — Gives his whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attend- ant facts, as to that portio7i if his immortal lays. " The King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute ; But I am yours at dinner-time, * Or else the devil's in it." * The four principal biographers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, and Jrving, concur in the general statement, that his moral course from the time when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of the matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : — " In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- prentices, young surgeons, merchants' clerks, and his brother excise- men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- ings in Dumfi-ies after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of course invited to share their hospitality, artd hesitated not to accept the invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a little corrupted, and though a husband and a father, Burns did not escape suffering by the gene- ral contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- vals between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her own * " The above answer to an Invitation was written extempore on a l.e;if torn from liis Ex- cise-boojt, — L'roviek's MSS xcii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. particular causes, sometimes, for dissatisfaction. But that Burns ever sunk into a toper — that he ever was addicted to soHtary drinking — that his bot- tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or that, in spite of some transitory folHes, he ever ceased to be a most affec- tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all fahe. His intemperance was, as Heron says, mfits; his aberrations of all kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources of exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more temptations from without end from v/ithin, than the immense majority of mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — of one, finally, who praj^ed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which the passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at Eillesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and Paul ; and there are hints to the same eflect in the narrative of Currie. The statement has no doubt been exaggerated, but it has its foundation in truth ; and by the kindness of Mr. Train, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gallo- way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw light on this business. Burns was much patronised \^■hen in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of the place — much more so, to their honour be it said, than by any of the influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Ellies- land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour, INIr. Riddel of Friars- Carse, and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- ed to the same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the district, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was thrown, entertained sentiments of the same description. Burns, whenever in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of the old elements of political disaffection in Scotland, put on a new shape at the outbreaking of the French Revolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- bins, ere thej^ were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism were to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France with feelings of*sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but universal 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 sentimeut of the Ady tlian Burns. The revuLion of feeling that took place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stain LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, xciii the course of tlie 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- quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society- was for a time sliaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams of 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 of Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feehngs 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 which 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 assui'ed 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, i?iier alia, gave great of- fence by dem-urring 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 jxissions 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'* 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 saber this morning. From the expressions Captain " made use xciv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. of to me, liad 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 generall}^ 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 M'ho was pre- sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? May our success m the present tear he 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 vmderstood 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 the politics of our poet. At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of INIan, 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 27 th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Solway Frith, and Burns Mas one oi the party Avhom the superintendent conducted to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and the officers were enabled to tliscover 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, IMi\ Crawford, proceeded himself on a similar errand to Eccletochan, and Burns was left with some men un- der his orders, to watch tlie 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 liis 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 cam' fiddlinp; thro' the town, Aud danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' Auld Mahoun, ' We wish you luck o' the prize, man. Chorus ' We'll mak' ourmaut, and brew our drink, ' W'e'U 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 intercepted 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 ? I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- xcvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. berate falsehood, no, not though even worse liorrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung 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, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you 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 I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me ; and which, with my latest breath, I will say I have not deserved !" On the 2d of January, (a week or two afterv/ards), we find him writing to Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — " Mr. C. can be of little service to me at present ; at least, 1 should be sliy of applying. I cannot probably be set- tled as a supervisor for several years. 1 must wait the rotation of lists, &c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer 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 sliow the undisguised emo- tions of my soul. War, 1 deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " " The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " has been torn away by some barbarous hand." — Tl.iere 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-worth 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, aj)pears to have gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himselt 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 ot his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, 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. pAcn Sir Walter Scott 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 j)ropensity 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. I'he inadequacy of the means by which that j)rince attempted to regain the crown forfeited by his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures #- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcvii 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, (Ileliques, p. 240), 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 vive la bagatelle.' The same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice 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, thjit if his superiors in the Excise department had tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they might have spared themselves the disgrace 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 awful 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, I have every reason to think, have gone on in the usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on thi : 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 would 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 the busi- ness, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the great- 15 xcviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. est possible favourite witli liis brothers in arms. His commanding officer. Colonel De Peyster, 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, v/ith 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 liispoo?' and honest 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 Exde 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 hae ivi Wallace hled^ — tlie Song of Death, and Does haughty Gaul Invasion ^hreat, — 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 pronaotion were extinguish- ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. Eindlater, who 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 Supenisor ; a thing not likely to have occurred had tliere been any resolution against promoting him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. On the 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 which, now that passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation : that Burns's subsequent conduct efiaced 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. These Commissioners 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 they 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 i.'200 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, woukl have been at once safe and graceful. What the minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I 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 of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- ing sweetly from nature." * Plad 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 iu 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 does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of those 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 indiscretions of which Burns was actually guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent man, Avill 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 forther 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 ciy 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 support 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 £.50 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 tahle of the late Lord Liverpool, soon after Burns's death. How th;it event might come to be a natural tojiic of conversation at that table, will be seen in the sequel. -f- 3Ir. Gray removed from the school of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. Hetlienbc- came Professor of Latin in the Listituiion at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, and died a few years since in the Lust Indies, as officiating chaplnin to the Company in the pre;id2acy of .'^ladras. c 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 think 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 Dalsvvinton, 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 Mr. 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 eff"usions was written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Sir 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 Cftrlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring tliem 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 INIaggy by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneugh, And JMarjorj o' tne Monylochs, J a carline auld and teugli ; And blinkin Bess o' Annand;'Je, § that dwelt near Solway-side, And whisky .Jean tliat 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 counlrie 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 ane 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 theii errands wcel, and meikle he wad say, And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 5. 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 ue'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 s])ak mim-mou'd ]\Ieg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever niiglit betide ; For the auld guidman o' Lunnun JJ court she didna care a pin ; But she wad send the stidger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ • This is stated on the autliority of Major jMiller. •f- Dumfries. J Lachmaben. § Annan. |1 Kirkcudbright ^ Sanquhar. •» Sir J. Johnstone. ^-f- Major ]\Iiller. JJ George liL S.g The Prince of Wales. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ci fl. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen. That she wad vote tlie border knight, though she should vote her lane ; I'or far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet 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' ; .1 '^ /• • 1 .\_ . 1 ■ 1. 1 • - _ c. :■. ...:,.Ui 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 IMarjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; But I will sen' to I>unnun toun wham I like best at name. 13. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can teU, God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himseU. 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 political 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 unniix'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. Blight richly merit JMuir's and Pahiier'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- tainlj-^ to be regretted." — " I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, ah'cadv 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 during that period of his life emphati- cally called his evil daj^s, I 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 sliall 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 liis 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. I 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 dnmJienness ? " It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivial nature. 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, Avithin 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 which he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting and delightful. I 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 bej'ond the limit marked by prudence ; but what man vrill venture to affirm, that in situa- tions where he was conscious of giving so mucli pleasure, he could at all times have lii^tened to licr voice ? LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cill •< 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 i-etain for his memory that affectionate veneration v/hich 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. " INIy 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 supei'Intendence 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 ma}' not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from him to myself, in a case of only seeinhig 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 shic/le in- stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- crifice to the dark manoeuvres 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 I 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 duties 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. ... 1 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 charged : 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 v/hich prudence would dictate, is unques- • Mr. Findlater watched by Eurus the iiight before he died. civ LIFE OF kOBERT 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 Burns'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. No 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 ! how 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 wisdoni which darts from thy sensorium, sti'aight 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 Tu quoque be addressed ! The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements of Heron, Currie, 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 than fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship 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 schoois ; he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great pains in training their minds to habits of thought 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 his dili- gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, 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 Ihe study of Latin. This boy attended the Grammar School of Dumfries LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cv and soon attracted my notice by the strength 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 inquiry, 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 au- thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible 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, ( Tain o Shanter), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. George Thomson, furnish undeniable proof that, in whatever Jits 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, wliich 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. Enough, 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 Burns's handwriting. His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. (iray justly says, that whoever considers his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not many days ever passed over his head without the production of some nevir 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 very 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, No. V. 16 9 cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. fusions. Burns knew that he vras now engaged on a work destined for the eye and ear of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- ing, " virginibus 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. He 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. 1 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 of 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, Loclutber 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, I 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 of our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let me give you : — Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one tola of the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- tional music preserve its native features. They are, I 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 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- ments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- • Correspondence with I\Ir. Thomson, p. 111. -)- Ibid. p. 80. % Ibid. p. 38. § It may amuse the rciidur to liear, that in spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native dialect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of \\'averley was sub- mitted, hesitated for some tune about publisliing it, on account of the Scots dialogue interwo* ven in tlie 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 Coiki 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 generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I 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 effusions 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 poet's 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 poet's history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ; e.g. " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- spire 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 au contraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put mj'self on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman." :j: " I 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 I 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 " Correspondenne with I\Ir. Thomson, p. 57- + Ihid- p. 119. J Ibid. p. 174. 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 eai'thly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure • Correspondence with I\Ir. Thomson, p. 191. •f Letter in Gilbert Burns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cix — but something wliich exalts me, something whicli enraptm'cs me — 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 ravijjg over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, wJio, 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. Contents The pnet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminished by narrow circumstances, by chagrin from ner/kct, and by the death of a Daughter — The poet 7nisses public patronage : and even the fair fruits of his own genius — the appropriation of ichich is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell — His magnanimity tvhen death is at hand; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 21s< July 1796 — Public funeral, at which many at- tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, icho 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. " I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, 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, pu 3 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, who will not willingly believe it ? the tem- porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the essence of which 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 occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- ved, than Avhen 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 gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad, — " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new ; ■r^y But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing. And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bing. #• » LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.' cxi " O were we young, as we ance hac been, M'c sucl hae been galloping cloun on yon green, And linking it ower the lilywliite lea, — And ■wcrciia m]/ 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 ]>leasing 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 liis character as a man, was, it is too probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it seems to be extremely improbable, that, even 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 effect 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 Miss Chalmers in 1793. cxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Burns has traced his owa 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, " I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of 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 fast ; what wonder that the career of the poet's thick-coming fancies should, in the hnmense 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. Wordsworth 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- sibility 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 it. 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 as LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxiii mere follies — such, for example, 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 world- ly promotion depended, — or that />ar^zaZ exclusion from the specfes of so- ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during some 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 diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? 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 ah 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, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a rep-robate 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 ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of 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 othkr is made up of those feelings and sen- timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul ; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities— an all-power- ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come,- beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. " I do not remember, my dear Cunnmgham, 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 they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- sical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 17 cxlv LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. others, were such superlative sources of enjojTtient.' It is in this point o,t 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 runniag about my desk, will be 3,4Tian of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- lighted ; been spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, 1 can- not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, produced an unfavourable effect,' rather than otherwise, on the exertions, such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even v\ hat other peo- ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the consideration of what he himself had, in eomparative ignorance, adventur- ed, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxili In most of the new departments in wliieli lie made fiome trial of liis strength, (such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire, &c.), he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one magnificent exception in Tarn o Shunter — a piece which no one can under- stand without believing, that had IJurns pursued that walk, and poured out his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers of deseri[)tion of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- line wit and sense of another Dryden. This was a sort of feeling that must liave in time subsided. — But let us not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is. — Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood; which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- flame tile patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;"* — a volume, in which, centuries hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest consolation of his exile. — Already has •' Glory without end Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend The tears and prabes of all time." -f- The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But a splendid mausoleum having been erected by public subscription on the most elevated site which the churchyard presenled, the remain;; were so- lemnly transferred thither on the Bth .June 18 lo; the original tombstone having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. Tiiis shrine of the poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is now in progress, upon a striking projection of tliat most picturesque emi- nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh — The cut annexed to p. cxxxvi. exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the monument last mentioned. • See the Censura Litcraria of Sir Egerton Brydges, vol. ii. p. ■\ Loi^ Bywn's Child Harold, Canto iv. 3C. 55. cxxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT IN DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. IN AETERNUM HONOREM BOBERTI BURNS POETARUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRTNCIPIS CUJUS CARMINA EXIMIA PATRIO SERMONE SCRIPTA ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUe INGENII QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA FACETIIS JUCUNDITATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA OMNIBUS LITTERARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA CIVES SUI NECNON PLERIQUE OMNE8 MUSARUM AMANTISSIMI MEMORIAMQUE VIRI ARTE POeTICA TAM PRAECLARI FOVENTES HOC MAUSOLEUM SUPER RELIQUIAS POETAE MORTALES EXTRUENDUM CURAVERE PRIMUM HUJUS AEDIFJCn LAPIDEM GUUELMUS MILLER ARMIGER REIPUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE AFUD SCOTOS IN REGIONE AUSTUALI CURIO MAXIMUS PROVINCIALIS GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTE GEORGIO WALLIARUM PRINCIPE BUMMAM IMPERH PRO PATRE TENENTE JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECTO THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO POSUIT NONIS JUNIIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCCCXV SALUTIS HUMANAE MDCCCXV. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. cxxxv The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a wide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah ! what poet now shall tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! As green thy towering pines may grow. As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow, As gaily cliarm thy feathery throng ; But now, unheeded is the song, And dull and lifeless all around, For his wild harp lies all unstrung, And cold the hand that waked its sound. What though thy vigorous offspring rise, In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. And health in every feature dwell ? Yet who shall now their praises tell, In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell To love, and liberty, and thee ? With step-dame eye and frown severe His hapless youth why didst thou view ? For all thy joys to him were dear. And all his vows to thee -.vere due; Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, In opening youth's delightful prime, Than when thy favouring ear he drew To listen to his chaunted rhyme. Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 'I'o hill) were all v-ith rapture fraught ; He heard with joy the tempest n^e That Waked him to sublimer thought ; And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume, Where wOd-flowers pour'd their ratlie per- And with sincere devotion brought To thee the summei's earliest bloom. But ah ! no fond maternal smile His unprotected youth enjoy'd. His limbs inur'd to early toil. His days with early hardships tried; And more to mark the gloomy void, And bid him feel his misery. Before his infant eyes would glide Day-dreams of immortality. Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, Sunk with the evening sun to rest. And met at morn his earliest smile. Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile The powers of fancy came along, And sooth'd his lengthened hours of toil, ■U^ith native wit and sprightly song. — Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled. When vigorous health from labour springs, And bland contentment smooths the bed. And sleep his ready opiate brings ; And hovering round on airy wings Float the light forms of young desire, That of unutterable things The soft and shadowy hope inspire. Now spells of mightier power prepare. Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. And Fprae attract his vagrant glance; Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. Till, lost in love's delirious trance, He scorns the joys his youth has known. Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. Expanding all the bloom of soul; And Mirth concentre all her rays. And point them from the sparkling bowl; And let the careless rnomeiits roll In social pleasure unconfined, And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind : CXXXVl And lead his steps those bowers among, M'liere elegance with splendour vies, Or Science biJs her favour'd throng To more refined sensations rise : Beyond the peasant's humbler joys,_ And freed from each laborious strife,. There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits tlie sons of polish'd life. Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high With every impulse of delight, Dash from his lips the cup of joy, And shroud the scene in shades of night ; And let Despair, with wizaid light. Disclose the yawning gulf below, And pour incessant on liis sight Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : And show beneath a cheerless shed, M'ith sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head, The partner of his early joys ; ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. And let his infants' tender cries His fond parental succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; His high reluctant spirit bends ; In bitterness of soul he bleeds. Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laugh the welkin rends As genius thus degraded lies ; Till pitying Heaven the veil extends That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. — Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour tliy tliousanu nils. And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breatlied the soothing strain. ■•-3k-' CHARACTER BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS, MRS. RLDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.» The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with the loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or of anticipating on the province of a biographer. Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- nicate. It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, and perliaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, and considered, with reference to his poetical talents mily : for the fact is, even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person- ally acquainted with him) was actually not \i\^ forte. Many others, per- haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I • Mrs. Riddcll knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for observation of what he said and did, as •well as of wliat was said of him and done towards him. Her beautifully written Elose,—W\ our arm, an' tell your crack Before them a' Paint SiOtland greeting owre her thrissle ; Her mutchK n stoup as toom's a whissle ; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle. Seizin' a stell, Triumphant .'ushin't like a mussel, Or lampit shell. Then on th. tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler right behint her. An' cheek- for- c;.'jw, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join. Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that beaT-^ the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's o'uid rising hot, To see his poor auld ./'s name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. ^ Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho' wliyles ye moistify your leather. Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather, Ye tine your dam ; {Freedom and Whisk;/ gang thegither !) Tak aiF your dram ! THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret hung with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation : A mask that like the gorget sliow'd Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad. He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy-ala-vic'e, Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn. An' snuif the calJar air. The rising sun owre Gahton muir^, Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; The hares were hirplin' down the "urs, The lav'rocks they were chantin' Fu' sweet that day. H. As "lightsomely I glowr'd abroad To see a scene sae gay. Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin' up the way ; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining ; The third that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fasliion shining, Fu' gay that day. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes : Their visage wither 'd, lang, au' 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' tak's me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. * Holy Fair is a comnnon phrase in the west of Scot- land fur a sacramental occasion. POEMS. «' My name is Fun — your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye ha'e ; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Holy Fair, To spend an hour in dafRn' ; Gin ye'U go there, yon rankled pair, We will get famous laughiu* 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 crowdie time. An' soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a weary body, . In droves that day. VII, Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang. In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi* su-eet-milk cheese in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the pJate 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 sliow. 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' heaviu' 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 claes ; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays ; On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' serew'd up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o' chaj)s at watch, Thrang wiukin' on the lasses To chairs that day. XI. O happy is the man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best. Comes clinkin' down beside him ! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back. He sweetly does compose him ! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, Au'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 eldiitch squecl 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 jt^ 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 moral man he does define. But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day XVL In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum : For , frae the water-tit. Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mjir. has view'd it, 8 BURNS' WORKS. While Common-sense Las ta'en the road, Aa' afif, ail' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast, that day. Wee XVII. Deist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes. And thinks it auld wives' fables : But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse So cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit and sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day. XVIIL Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, Vfi yill-caup commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills, And there the pint stoup clatters ; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end. Is like to breed a rupture ' O' wrath that day. XIX, Lc£ze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College : It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony stronger potion. It never fails, on drinking deep. To kittle up our notion By night or day. XX. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, aa' that ane's leak, They're makin' observations ; *^ While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' forming assignations To meet some day. XXI. But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin*. An' echoes back return the shouts : Black is na spairin' : His piercing words, like Highland swords, Divide the joints au" marrow ; 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' bruustane, Wha's ragln' flame an' scoichin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! The half asleep stajt up wi' fear. An' think they hear it ro;uLu', When presently it docs appear, 'Twas but some neighbour snorin* Asleep that day. XXIII. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past. An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' disinist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches ; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps. Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. 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 like a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing ! O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel' How bonnie lads ye wanted. An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! XXVL Now ClinkumheU, wi' rattlin' tow, Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, the best they dow. Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies hak 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 flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy ; An' mony jobs that day begin. May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. • A street so called, which faces the tent in • f Shakcspt are's Hajnlet. POEMS. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- BOOK: A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies fr;ie end to end, And some great lies were never jienn'd : Ev'n Ministers, they liae been kenn'd. In lioly rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nall't \vi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, WHiieh lately on a night Iwfell, Is just as true's tile Du'iis in hell Or Dublin city : That c'ct he nearer enmcs oursel' 'S a mufkle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was rule fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches ; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye Frae ghaists an' witches. The risiitg moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; To count her horns, wi' a' my power, I set mj'sel' ; But whether she had three or four, I couldua tell. I was come round about the liill. And todlin down on Willc's 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' Something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither : An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed leister on the ither, Lay, large 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-ecn,'quo'I; 'Friend! haeyebeenmawin', When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' *_ It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', But naething spak : At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ?' It spak right howe, — ' ]My name is Death, But be na fley'd.' — Quoth I, ' Guld 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 gully !' ' 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 eon a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the threar. Hornbook, is, professionally a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Ajwlhecary, Surgeon, and Physician. i Bucnan's Domestic Medicine. 22 10 BURNS' WORKS. I nearliand coupit wi' my Lurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as wecl hue 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-blade, and send it. As soon's he sniells'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. ' For!)ye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; Distill'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Blidge-tail clippins, An' mony mae.* ' Waes me for Johnny GecCs 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 JuJinny /' 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. ' Whiire 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 Mas ckid a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. ' An honest Wabster to his trade, Wha^e wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tipjjcnce-worth to mend her head, When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed. But ne'er spak mair. •.A fountra Lainl had ta'en the batts, ' Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son fur Hor^ibooJt sets. An' pays him w-eTI ; 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 aflf to her lang hime. 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' pre^ 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' ; Nelst time we meet, I'll wad a groat. He gets his fairin' I' But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Seme wee short hour ayont the tival. Which rais'd us baith I took the way that pleased mysel', And sae did Death. The grave-digger. 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 liunet, 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 stcel'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 Burd, 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 -larae. And hands the rustic straii^;cr \ip to fame, •m^ POEMS. Jl With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give alone excels. *Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap. And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoL^s, 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 reck : The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) 4 Nae mair the fiow'r in field or meadow springs : Nae mair the grove .wi' airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, Alild, 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 Ai/r, 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 drovvsy Z}unaeon-c}ock,f had number'd two. And Wallace tuicer f had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar. Thro* the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gcutly-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings be heard ; Two dusky forms dart tliro' the midnight air. Swift as the Gos^ drives osi the wheeling hare; • A note4 tavern at tlie Aul'/ Brl^ cnd._ ■f "I'lie two Miej-les. j 1 he gos-hav.k, or falcon. Ane on th' Aidd Brig his airy shape uproars, The ither flutters o'er the risiiKj piers : Our warlike Rhymer instantlv descry'd The Sprites that owre the JBritjn of Ayr preside, (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, u' they can explain them, Aad 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 toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at LoiCon, frae ane Adavis 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 necbor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien. He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en — AUI.D BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle. Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street. Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet. Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat stream, * Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would giate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BUIG. 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. \Mien heavy, dark, continued, a'-.a O wad ye tak a thought and men' ! J Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake ! THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot ^he uoost a hitch. An' Qivre she warsled in the ditch ; There, groaning, dying, she did lie. When Hue/hoc* he came doytin by. Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's : He saw her days were near-hand ended. But, wae's my heart I he could na mend it ! He gaped wide, but naething spak ! At length poor Mailie silence brak. * O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying icords attentive hear, A.n' bear them to my Master dear. ' Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will : So may his flock inciease, an' grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! ' Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine : An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. ' O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! But gie them guid cow milk their fill, Till they be tit to fend themsel' ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. ' An' may they never learn the gaets' Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal. At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears. For mony a year come thro' the sheers : So wives will gie them bits o' l;read. An' bairns greet for them when they're deaJi ' My poor tooplamb, my son an' heir, bid him breed him up wi' care ! An' if he live to be a beast. To pit some havins in his breast ! An' warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at hame j An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. ' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string ■ O, may thou ne'er forgather 'ip Wi' ony blastit moorland tosp ; But aye keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! ' An' now, my bairns, wi' niy last breath, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither. Mind to be kin' to ane anither. ' Now, honest Htiglioc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him burn this cursed tether. An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amang the dead. ♦ A neebor herdcallan. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY Lasient in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; Poor Maine's dead ! It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the town she trotted by liim ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o' sense. An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : I'll say't, she never brak a fence. Thro' thievish greed. ^^. POEMS. 17 Cm b irdie, lauely, keeps tlie spcnce Sill' itlailie's dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her i/owe. Conies bleating to him owre the knowe, For bits o' bread ; An' down the briny jieirls rowe For MaUie dead. She was naff get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' haiiy hips: For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed! A bonnier _/?ees/t ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape! It maks guid fellows giru an' gape, Wi'^chokin' dread ; An* Hchiii's bonnet wave wi' crape. For 3IaUie dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Donn ! An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Rubins reed ! His heart will never get nboon His Mailie dead. TO J. S- Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! Sweet'ncr of life, and solder of society 1 I owe thee mucli '——lilair. Dear S- -, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon. And every star that blinks ahoon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, ■ Just gaun to see you : And every ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's tuin'd you aff, a human creature On \\cv first plan, And in her freaks, on every feature. She's wrote, tlie Man, Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure moment's time' To hear what's comin' ? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; Some rhyme (vain thought \) for ncedfu' cash. Some rhyme to court the countra cl.isli. An' raise a diu ; For me an aim I never fash ; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot. Has fated me the russet coat, An' damned my fortune to the groat : But in requit. Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while my notion's taen a sklent. To try my fate in guid black pnnt ; But still the mair I'm that way bent. Something cries ' Hoolie ! I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Ye'll sliaw your folly. ' There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ens\ired their debtors, A' future ages ; Novi' moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages. Then fare\\eel hopes o' laurel-boughs. To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. Forgot and gone ! But why o' death begin a tale ? Just now we're living, sound an' hale. Then top and maintop crowd the sail. Heave care o'er side ! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak' the tide. This life, sae far's I understand. Is a' enchanted fairy land. Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic-wand then let us wield ; For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd. See crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi' wrinkled face. Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, Wi' creepin' pace. 23 18 BURNS' WORKS. Wlieu ance life's day oraws near the gloamin', Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; An' faicweel cheeifu' tankards foainin', An' social noise ; An' farcwcel dear deliuiing woman. The joy of j«ys! O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's riiys the hills adorning ! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, M'e frisk away, Like School-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here. We eye the rose upon the hrier. Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear. Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never tolled nor swat, They drink the sweet and eat the fat. But care or pain ; And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; Keen hope does every sinew brace : Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, An seize the prey : Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the dai/. An' others, like your humble servan'. Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observia' ; To right or left, eternal swervin'. They zig-zag on ; Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. They aften groan. Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— But truce with peevish j)oor complaining ! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? E'en let h«>r gang ! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. INIy pen I here fling to the door. And kneel, ' Ye pow'rs!' and warm implore, ' Tho' 1 should wander terra o'er, 111 all her climes, Grant me but tliis, I ask no mcue. Aye rowth o' rhymes. ' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards : Gie tine braw claes to fine life-guards. An' maids of honour ; An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Cntil they sconner. ' A title, Dempster merits it ; A f;a>-ier gie to Willie Pitt ; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent, per cent But give me real, sterling wit. An' I'm content. ' Wliile ye are pleased to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face. As lang's the muses dinca fail To say the grace.* An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose ; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows. As wcel's I may t Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool. Your lives, a dyke ! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces In your unletter'd nameless faces ; In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're trise, Nae ferly tho' j'e do despise The hairum-scalrum, I'am-stam boys. The rattliu* squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road.— Whilst I — but I shall haud me there— Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony wlicre^ Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. But quat my sang, Content wi' r/ou to mak a |)air, 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 Laureates Ode, witli the other parade of June 4, \~ii6, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imanined him- self transported to the birth-ilay levee; and in hii dreaming fancy, made the following Addiess.'[ I. Guid-imoumn' to your Mdjesttj ! Way 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 Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang the birth- day dresses Sae fiae this day. 11. I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord an' lady, « God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready. Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. III. For ine ! before a monarch's fare, Ev'n there 1 winna flatter ; For neither pension, ])ost, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So nae reflection on your grace. Your kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the race, An' aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. 'Tis very true, my sov' reign king, Mv skill may weel be doubted : But facts aie chiels that wiuna ding. An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, An' now the third part o' the string, An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation. Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. To rule this mighty nation ! But, faith ! I muckle doulit, my Sire, Ye've tiusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. Wad better fill'd their station Than courts you day. VI. An' now ye've glen auld Uritain 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 hargn'ni wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. VIL I'm no mistrusting Wdlte Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guiil fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), That Ive intends to pay your debt, Au' le-;^en a' youi charg^-s ; But, God-sake ! let nae saving Jit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege I may freedom gctk Beneath yoiu- 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, tiiie alTcction, To pay your Queen, with due respect, ]My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. IX. Hail, Majesttj ! Most Excellent f While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies ye ? Thae bonnie bairntime, Hcav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye, In bliss, till fate some tlay is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. X. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sai»s, I'm tauld ye're (hiving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails. An' curse your folly sairly. That e'er ye brak Diana s pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. XI. Yet aft a ragged co'.cte's been known To mak a noble aiver : So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-clavcr : There, him * at Agincovrt wha shone, Few better weie or braver ; An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,-\ He was an unco shaver For monie a day XII. For you, right rev rend Osnahrug, Natie sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys uf Peter, Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. Young royal Tarry Brecks, I learu, Ye've lately come athwart her ; • Kill" Henry V. t Sir John Falstaff", vide Shakeipcare. 20 BURNS' WORKS. A glorious galley* stem an stern, Weel li^g'd for Venus' barter ; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple aim, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses diiinty, Heav'n raak you guld as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty : But sneer nae Jiritish boys awa', For kings are unco scant aye; An' German gentles are but sma\ They're better just than want aye On onie day. XV. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're un(-o muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro'. It m:iy be bitter sautet ; An' I hue seen their cnggie fou. That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggeu they hae clautet Fu' clean that daj THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.f The sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play. An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards gree- "WTiile faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has bewi The thresher's weary Jlingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me : And whan the day had closed his e'e. Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. The auld clay bigglt« > An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin'. All in this mottle, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu* prime. An' done nae-thing. ♦ Alluding to the newspaper account of a cwtain royal sailor's amour. f Diian, a term of Ossian'sfor tlicdiRferentdlvisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. iL of M'Phetson's translation. But stringin' blethers up in rhyme For fooLs to sing. Had I to guid advice but hirtit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, hilf-sarkr Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt' ring, blockhead! Id je ifii^.ne prr^^ Till mj la.',i t.eatn— . When click ! the st-ln'^ t)-e sneck did drvv An' jee ! the dooi g'.ed to the wa' ; An' by my ing'.;- ,iv-.l saw, ?'ow bleezin bright, A tight ji'.ia.»d'>h Hizzie braw. Come full in sight. Y^ me'': PI doubt, I held my whisht Tbi i^f&at al'.h half-fnrm'd was crush't ; I g^oT /'•'■ a;i eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild-glen ; ^n'- 1 "writ, like modest worth, she blush't, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad Itnlhj-hovghs, Were twisted gracefu' round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token ; An' come to stop those reckless vows. Would soon been broken. A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' Was strongly marked in her face ; A wildly- witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her ; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honour Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my Liounie J^ean Could only pear it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, "^ Nanu else cam near it. Her maiitle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold-minglir.g, threw A lustre grand ; And seem'd to my astonish'd view, A tcell known land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost : There, mountains to the skies were tost ; Here, tumbling billows mirk'd the coa.st. With surging foam; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. POEMS. 21 Here Doon poiir'd down liis far-fetch'd floods; There. wolMed Irtrlne sfately thuds : Auld heniilt Ai/r staw tliro' his woods, On to the shore ; And many a lesser torrent scuus, With seeraiqg roar. Low, ill a sandy valk-y spread, An ancient borough rear'd her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read. She boasts a race. To every nobler virtue bred, And polist'd grace. By stately tow'r or palace fair, Or rains pendent in the air. Bold steins of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With feature stern, ]My heart did glowing transport feel, To See a race * heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows ; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their suthron foes. His Countky's SAViouR,f mark him well ! Bold Rkhaidtiins \ heroic swell ; The chief on Sark § who glorious fell, in high command j And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptred Plctlsh shade || Stalk 'd round his ashes lowly laid, 1 mark'd a nuatljl race pourtray'd In colours strong ; Bold, solilier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along. Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, (Fit haunts for friendship or for love In musing mood), An aged Judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good. With deep-struck reveiential awe,** The learned sire and son I saw. To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, * The Wal'aces. 1 William Wallace. ^ Adam Wallace, of Rlchardton, cousin to the im- mortal preserver of Scottish independence. § Wallace, Laird of C'raigie, who was second in com mand, iiiidcT Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle o'l the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigic, who died of his wounds after the action. II Coilus, King of tlie Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- tion says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfielii, where his burial place is still shown. II Uarskimming, the seat ot the late Lord Justice. Clerk. •* Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart. This, all its source and end to draw. That, to adore. Brt/don's brave ward * I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a patriot-name on high, And hero shone. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the hcav'nly-seemingy«!> ; A wliisp'ring throb did witness bear. Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet. ' All hail ! my own inspired bard ! * In me thy native muse regard ; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. Thus pooily low, I come to give thee such reward As we bestow. ' Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light, aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniouslv, As arts or arms they understand. Their labours ply. ' They Scotia s race among them share ; Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart : Some teach the bard, a darling care. The tuneful art. ' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore. And grace the hand. ' And when the bard, or hoary sao-e. Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. ' Hence FuUarton, the brave and young ; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspiicd tongue ; Hence sweet harmonious Beattic suno- His " Minstrel lays j" Or tore, with noble ardour stung. The sceptic's bays. ' To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of human-kind, • Colonel FuUarton. 22 BURNS' WORKS. The rustic Bard, tlie lab'ring Hind, Tlie Artisan ; All cliocse, as various they're inclin'd. The various man. ' WHien yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage skill ; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blithe o'er the hill. ' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For humble gains. And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Sojjie bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race. To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic Sard ; And careful note each op'uing grace, A guide and guard. ' Of these am I — Coilamy name ; And this district as mine I claim. Where once the Camphelh, chiefs of fame, Held ruling pow'r : I maik'J thy embryo tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. ' With future hope, I oft would gaze. Fond on thy little early ways, Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase. In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lavs Of other times. ' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Dolightwl with the dashiiig roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ' Or wlien the deep-green mantled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And jiiy and music ))ouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thie eye the general mirth With boundless love. ' Wlien ripen'd fielila, and azure skies, Call'd turtb the rca|jer's rustling noise, 1 saw thee leave their ev'niug joys. And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. • When youthful liive, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-^hiveriIlg shot thy nerves along. Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour iu song, To soothe thy flame. * I saw thy pulse's maddening play. Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. By Passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light froin heaven. ' I taught thy manners-painting strains. The loves, the ways of simple swains Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the pride of Coila's plains. Become thy friends. * Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; Or wake the bosom-melting throe. With Slienstone's art ; Or pour, with Gray., the moving flow Warm on the heart. ' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. The lowly daisy sweetly blows : The' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade. Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. ' Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shinej, And trust me, not Potosi's mine, *a Nor king's regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic Hard, ' To give ray counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect ; And trust the Universal jilan Will all protect. ' And wear tho>i this,' — she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head ; The polish'd leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO QUID OR TKE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these maxims make a rule. Ami lump them aye tlu'Rither ; Tlie niaid WgJitcoiis is a focil, T!ic ■}{ i'.d H'ise anithcr i POEMS. 23 The cleanest com tliat e'er was dight May liae some jiylcs o' cafTin ; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For riuiilcm (it.s o" dafHn. — Sulunion. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. I. O YE wlia are sae giiid yoursel, Sae pious an' sae holy, Ye've nouj;ht to do hut mark and tell Your nechoiir's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, Supply 'd wi' store o' water. The heapit happer's ebhinj; still, And still the clap i)l;iys clatter. II. Hear me, ye venerahle core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; 1, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. in. Ye see yaur state wi' tlsiirs compared, An' shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard. What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in. An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop. What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail. It maks an unco' lee-way. V. See social life and glee sit down. All joyous and unthinking. Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown Del)auchery and drinking: O would they stay to calculate Til' eternal consequences ; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses ! VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailti/ names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination — But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man. Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang. To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark. The moving whi/ they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark. How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us. He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balani-e let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute. But know not what's resinted. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. An honest man's tlie noblest work of God Pope. Has auld K seen tlie Deil ! Or great M" f thrawn his heel ? Or R ^ again grown weel To jireach an' read ? ' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka cliiel, ' Ttun Samson's dead ! K lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an fause-house. if Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. Theyname the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly toge- ther, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. 24 26 BURNS' WORKS. Rob, stowllns, prie'd her bonnie mou, Fu* cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night. XL But INIcrran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel' : She thio' 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 win't, an' aye she swat, I Wat she made nae jaiikln ; Till something held within the pat, Giiid 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 Graunie saj-s, " Will ye go wi' me, graunie ? I'll eat the apph-\ at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnie :" She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a tunt, In wrath she was sue vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apr^n Out thro' that night. XIV. " Ye little skelpic-limmer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae to fear it; For mcnie a ane has gotten a fright, Ji.a liv'd an' di'd deleeret On sic a night. XV. " Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fyfteen : * Wnioever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these rtireetiuns: Steal out, all alone, to the kUi\, and, ciarkling, throw into the pot a clue of bluevani: wind it in a new clue off the nlil one : and, townrd-i the latter end, something will hold the thread, demand wli.-i hands? i. e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the i^iln-not, by naming the Chris- tian and sirname of your future spouse. t Take a candle, and go alone to a lookinf-o-Iass ; eat an apple before it, and some traditions savT you thoulil comb your hair all the time ; the face o'f your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glais, as if peeping o\cr your shoulder. The simmer had been cauld an' wat. An' stuff was unco green ; An' aye; a rantin kirn we gat, An' just on Halloween It fell that night. XVI. " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fallow ; He's sin g.it Eppie Sim wi' wean. That liv'd ill Aehmacalla: Ho gat hcmp-sccd,* I mind it weel, An' he made unco light o't ; But mony a day was hi/ himseV, He was sae sairly frighted That vera night.' XVII. Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swoor by his conscience. That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; For it was a' but nonsense ! The auld guid-man raught down the pock An' out a handfu' gied him ; Syne bid him slip frae 'mang the folk. Sometime when nae ane see'd him. An' try't that night. XVIII. He marches thro' araang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin, The graip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin : An' ev'ry now an' then he says, " Hemp -seed I saw thee. An' her that is to be my lass, Come after me, and draw thee, As fast this night." XIX. He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery ; Altho' his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie : Till presently he hears a squeak. All' then a grane an' gruntle ; He by his shouthcr gae a keek, An' turabl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night XX. He roar'd a horrid murder shout, In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' au'.d cam rinnin' out. To hear the sad narration : ♦ Steal out unpereeived and sow a handful of hemp- seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can convenient- ly draw after you. Repeat now and then, • Hemi)-seed I sa%v thee; hemp-seed 1 saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.' Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of {he person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp, ."^ome tr.iditioiis say, ' cume after me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thy.self : in which ca=e it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, • come i»fter me, and harrow thee.' POEMS. 21 He swoor 'twan liilchln Jean M'Ciaw, Or crouchle Merran Humphie, Till stop ! she trotte'l thro' them a' ; An' wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night ! XXI. Meg fain wad to the ham hae gane, To u-in three wec/its o' luiething ; * But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith iu : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn, she sets, In hopes to see Tarn Kipples That vera night. XXII. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. An' owre the threshold ventures; But first oil Sawiiie gies a ca'. Syne bauldly in she enters ; A rattan rattled up the wa', Au' she cry'd, L — d ])reserve her ! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night. XXIII. They hoy't out Will, wi" sair advice ; Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; It chanc'd the stack \\ii fuddonid lhrice,\ Was timmer-prapt for thrawia' ; He taks a swirlie uuld moss-oak. For some black, grousonie carlin ; An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, Till blvin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff's uieves that night. XXIV. A wanton widow Leozie was, As canty as a kittlen ; But Och ! that night, amang the shaws. She got a fearfu' settlin' I She thro' the w-hins, an' by the (vjirn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', Wiare three lairds' lands met at a burn, I To dip her left sark-slccve in, Was bent that night. • Tliii charm must likewise be performed unper- ceived, and alone. V'ou go to Die barn, and open botli doors, faking itiem off the hinges, if possible; for theie is danger, that the lieiiiff about to appear, may -'■hut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that iiistrumtnt used in winnowing the corn, which, in oin connlry di;ilect, v/L'call a uifc/it, and go through all the attifudcs of letting down corn against the wind. Re- peat it thiee times; and the ihird time an apparition wi!l pass throi gh the bam, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the emyioy- menf, or station in life. + Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-st ick, and lathom it three time» round. I ho last fathom of the last lime you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- fellow. i V'ou CO out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a soviih running spring or rivulet, where ' time iairdi' kinds meet," i-.id dip >"our J.ft .-hirt •.ilee\e. Co ' XXV. Whyles owre a linn the biirnie plays. As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the biaes, Below tlie spreading hazel, Unseen that night. XXVI. Amang the brackens, on the brae, Between her an' the moon. The deil, or else an outler quey. Gat up an' gae a croon : Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; Ne er lavrock-height she jumpit. But mist a fit, an' in the poul Out-owre the lugs she pluinpit, Wi' a plunge that night. XXVII. In order, on th.' clean hearth-stane, The higgles three * are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'cti, To see them duly changed : Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin' Mar' s-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. He heav'd them on the fire. In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' meriy sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary ; An' unco tales, and funnie jokes. Their sports were cheap an' cheery : Till butter d so'ns,\ wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aif careerin' Fu' blithe that night. to bed in si/jht of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- fore it to dry. Lie awake; and some time near mid- night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry the other side of it. * Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the empty dia'h, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. ■f Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. 28 BURNS' WORKS. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPPOF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW TEAR. A Gtiid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! Hae, there's a rijip to thy auld baggie : Tho' thou's howe-bac-kit, now, an' knaggie, I'vn seen the day. Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy. An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, A bonnie gray : He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A Jilly buirdly, steeve, au' swank. An' set weel down a shapely shank As e'er tred yird ; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like onie bird. ^ It's now some nine-an'-twenty year. Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. An' fifty mark ; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gcai, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie ; Tlio' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : An' sweet an' giacefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air ! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble. An' wintle like a samount-toble, That day ye was a jinker noble, Fer heels an' win' ! An' ran thcrrf til! they a' did wauble, Far, far behin'. When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, Ari' tak the road ! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. Wlien thou was coru't, an' I was melloW, We took the road aye like a swallow : At lirvoses thou had ne'er a fellow. For pith an' speed ; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop- rnmpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle : Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a nohh Jitiie-Ian', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun. On guid INIarch weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our ha"n', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, an' fctch't. an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisk'.t. An' spread abreed thy weel li'.l'd brisket, Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, An' slypet owre. WHien frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy co^ a wee bit heap Aboou the timmer : I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou «'ad hae fac't it ; Thou never lap, and stent, and breastit, Then stood to blaw ; But just thy step a wee thing h'astit, Thou snoov't a\\a. IMy pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw j Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. That thou hast nurst : They drew me thretteen pund an' twa. The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less dcservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. For my lastyb;/, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither ; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; POEMS. 29 \Vi tciitie c-are I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whan- ye may nol)ly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE fLOUGH, NOVEJIBER, 1785. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', titn'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has l>r()ken Nature's social union, An' just. ties that ill opinion y Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-l)i)rn companion An' fclluw-murtal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! A daiinen nktr in a tlirave 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessiu' wi' the lave. An' never miss't ! Thy wee bit Iwusie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. An' weary winter coniin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell. Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o" leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' craureuch cauld ! But, M(>-,'sic, thou art no thy lane, In ])t()ving foreshjht may be vain : The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft agley. An' lea'e us nouglit but grief an pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! The present only tnucheth thee : But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear : An' forward, though I canna see, I guess an' fear. A WINTER NIGHT. P«or naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are. That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. Your loop'd and window'd ragpedness, defend you From seasons such as these ? — Stiaksepeare. When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; , When Phoebus gi'es a short-liv'd glower Far south the lift. Dim-dark' ning through the flaky show'r Or whirling drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked. Wild -eddying swirl. Or through the mining outlet hocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That in the merry month o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing. What comes o' thee .' Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. Lone from your savage homes exil'd, The blood stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Soi-e on you beats. Now JP/icehe, in licr midnight reign, Dark muffled, view'd the dreaiy plain; ' Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn stole — ' Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; ' Descend, ye chilly, smotheriug snows ; Not all your rage, as now, united, shows IMore hard unkindness, unrelenting, Veugcful malice unrepenting, 30 BURNS' WORKS. Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows ! See stern Oi)piession's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! Even in the peaceful rural vale. Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear. With all the servile wretfhes in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide j And eves the simple rustic hind. Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind. Some courser suljstance, unrefined. Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow. The powers you proudly own ? Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone ! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares. This boasting Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- ing blast ! Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! El-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw lie lays himself to sleep. While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall. Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! But shall thy legal rage pui'sue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !' I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail'd the morning with a cheer, A cott;ige-rousing craw. But deep this truth impressed my mind — Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles Goo. EPISTLE TO DAV^IE, A BROTHER POET.* Jamiary While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time. And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. In hamely westlan' jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift. That live sae bien and snug : I tent less, and want les3 Their roomy fireside ; But hanker and canker. To see their cursed pride. II. Its hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd ; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant. An' ken na how to wair't : But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and tier : ' Mair speir na, nor fear na'f Auld age ne'er mind a feg. The last o't, the waist o't. Is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then, content could make us blest ; Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heait that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile. However fortune kick the ba'. Has aye some cause to smile ; And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' : Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. IV. What though, like commoners of air. We wander out wo know not where. But either house or hall ? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all." In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear. * David Sillar, one of (he club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems in the Scottifh dialect. \ Ramsay. POEMS. S) With honest joy oui- hearts will bound, To see the coming year : On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune ; Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't. And sing't when we hae done. V. It's no in titles nor in rank ; It's no in wealth like Lou'on bank, To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in making muckle mair : It's no in books ; it's no in lear, To mak us truly blest ! If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast. We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor ])lea5ures. Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay'es the part aye. That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think yc that sic as you and I, WTia drudge and drive through wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil ; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As haidly worth their while ? Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress ! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess ? Baith careless and fearless Of either heav'n or hell ; Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale ! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make our scanty p'easures less, By pining at our state ; And, even should misfortunes come, I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's tliankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth ; They let us ken ourseK; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses and crosses. Be lessons right severe. There's wit there, ye'll get there, ' ' Ye'll find nae other where. VIII. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! (To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I ; And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; And joys the very best. There's a' the pkitsiires n' the heart, The lover an' the Irien' ; Ye hae your Meff, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean I It warms me. It charms me. To mention but her name ; It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame ! IX. O all ye Powers who rule above ! O Thou whose very self art love ! Thou knowest my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part. Is not more fondly dear ! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive ray soul of rest. Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my feivent pray'r ; Still take her and make her TAy most peculiar care ! All hail, ye tender feelings dear I The smile of love, the friendly tear. The sympathetic glow ; Long since, this world's thorny ways Had numbered out my weary days, Had it not been for you ! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene. To meet with, and greet with ]\Iy Davie or my Jean. XI. O, how that 7iame inspires my style ! The words come skelpin' rank and file, Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine, As Plicebus and the famous Nine Were glowiin' owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp. Till ance he's fairly het ; And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp. An' rin an' unco fit : But lest then, the beast then, Should rue his hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty wizen'd hide. THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BV THEUMFORTIINATE ISSUE OF A FKIENU's AMOUR. Alas ! how oft does GooIy lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; [been ; What Aitken in a cottage would havt Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there^ I ween ! IL November chill blaws loud wl' angry sough ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the 7norn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 25 • Dr. Young. 34 BURNS' WORKS. III. VIII. At length liis lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher thro' [an' glee. To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wlfie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out, amang the farmers roun'. Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town ; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e. Conies^ hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. V. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotlc'd fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, paitial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forwaid points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; The/a?/i«r mixes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an' their mistress's command. The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand. And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : ' An' O ! lie sure to fear the Lord alway ! An' mind your diitij, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore his counsel and assisting might : They never souglit in vain that sought the Lord aright !' VIL But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; | Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. To ilo some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flash her cheek ; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name. While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthies* rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. , [joy. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. IX. O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've paced much this weary mortal roiind, And sage experience bids me this declare^ ' If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' X. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch ! a villain ! hist to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to tlie parents fondling o'er their child ! Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- tion wild ? XL But now the supper crowns their simple board, Thehalesomeprtrr/dc/j, chief o'-ScoiiVs food: The sowpe their only Haivkie does afford. That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell. An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. XIL The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bihle, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare t Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, POEMS. 35 He wales a portion with judicious care ; And ' Let us worship God !* he says, with solemn air. XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : [rise ; Perhaps Dundee's wihl warblinp; measures Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; Or noble JElyin beets the heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickrd ears no heart-felt raptuies raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred pagp, How Abram was ike friend o/'God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie [ire ; Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. XV. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; [name, How He, who bore in Heaven the second Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a HowAe, who lone in J'a^mos banished, [laud : Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great JBab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. XVI. Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, [prays : The saint, the father, and the husband Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,* That t/:us they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. ' XVII. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art. When men display to c""gregations wide. Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, IMay hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul ; Auj :u his book of life the iumates poor enrol. I'ope's Windsor Forest. XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rons nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry piide. Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad ; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest %vork of God !" And certes, it. luir virtue's heav'nly road, The coltagi leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in a. ts of hell, in wickedness* refined ! XX. O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- vent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, "A virtiions populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much- loved Tsle. XXL O T/wu ! who pour'd the patriotic tide. That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The pati*)t's Gud, peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ! ) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN ! I. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and foiests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, 36 I spy'd a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn witli care; His face was i'urrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. II. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? Began the rev'rend sage ; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage ? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. Too soon thou ha-t began To wander forth, with nie, 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-sua Twice forty times return ; And ev'ry time has added proofs. That ♦an was made to mcurn. IV. O man ! while in thy early years, Hew prodigal of time ! IMis-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. 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 ou the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn. Then age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! Show man was made to mourn. VI. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest ; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, Are wretched and forlorn ; Thro' weary life this lesson learn, '' That mau was made to mourn. • VIL Many and sharp the num'rous ills. Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, i-emorse, and shame ! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's iuhumanity to man Mak-es countless thousands mourn ! BURNS' WORKS. vm. See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — By Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn ? 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 mourn ! XI. O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs 'S. Are laid with thee at rest ! . The great, t'ne wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, Oh ! a blest relief to those That, wearv-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 I must appear ! IL If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; in. Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. 1 POEMS. IV. ^Tiere human weaktiess has come short, Qtfrailti/ stcpt aside. Do thou, All Good ! for such thou art, lo shades of darkness hide. Where with irdention 1 have err'd. No other plea I have. But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Deiitrhteth to forgive. STANZAS OK 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, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry Gon, And justly smart beneath his sin-aveoging 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 should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below ! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong furious passioos to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. To rule their torrent iu th' allowed line ! O aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! When for this scene of peace and love, 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 youth, In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! V. 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 latu they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heav'n ! LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES, IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever placed, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way. Nor learns their guilty lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad. But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv'u them peace and rest. But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be trulv blest. S8 BURNS' WORKS. A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, «n3ZR THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. THOU Great Being ! what tliou art Surpasses ire to know : t sine urn I, that known to thee A.re all thy works below. rhy ere iture here before thee stands, All wieti'hed and distiest ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be. To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 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, unbegiiining time, Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of yeais. 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 sous of men, Return ye into nought !' Thou layest them, with all their cares, In cverla'^ting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. Thev flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd ; But long ere night cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd. ON TURNING ONE D3WN WITH THE PLOUGH, IV APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r. Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. The bonny Lark, companion meet . Bending thee 'mang the de«'y weet ! Wi' spieckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth ; Yet cheei fully thou glinted forth Amid the storm. Scarce rcar'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane. Adorns the histic stibblc-fitld. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; Cut now the share uptears thy bed, Aud low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet JJowerct of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betr.iy'd. And guileless trust. Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of s;n)i)le Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Unskilful he to note the card Oi prudtiit lore, Til! billows rage, and uales blow hard. And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffiriiii! worth is giv'n. Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By huin'au pride or cunning driv'n To niis'ry's brink. Till wreuch'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. That Jute is fhinc — no di^^tant date: POEMS. 89 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy l)looni, rill crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy 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 steru-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring, and pouring. The slorm 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 afford, Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; I court, I bog thy friendly aid. To dose this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's ^'oy/fss day ; jMy weaiy heart its throbbings cease. Cold moulilering 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-YEAR S GIFT, JAK. 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 have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail ; I send you more than India boasts In Hdicins simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is rharg'd, perhaps, too true ; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND MAY , 17S6. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end Than juost fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. A\Tille hopes, and ioys, and jjleasuros 8y him, INIake you as poor a dog as I am. Your humble servant the:', 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 ! But if (-n-hich Po-.v'rji ;;br!" Tiiut iu."-i-iie;uiod cuit, '•,Va,i(, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black misthauces, TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADv's BONNET AT CHURCH. Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin*, blastlt wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and spra\4-l, aud sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpiu' 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 hijit;lit O' Miss's brmnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose gut. 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 oil an au'ul Ti.fc's flarxaen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyHecoat ; But bliss's fine Lunardie-I fie, How dare ye do't ! O, ,7;';;iW7,.r!in:ia tos' your head, An' set your beauties ix a.)reud ! Ye littla ken what cursed speed The blastie's makia' \ POEMS. 43 Thae u>/.'jA> x.-i fi-nger-et0h, I dread, Are notice takiu' ! O wad somi- power the glftie gie us To see oiirstU as othtrs see lis J It wad frae uionie a blunder free us, Aud foolish notion : \?Tiat airs iu dress an' guit wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. Edina ! Scotid^s darling seat ! All hail thy ])ulaees and towers, Wtere once beneath a inonarch's foet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd fiow'rs. As on the banks oi Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the liiig'ring hours, I shelter iu thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy tiade 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. Ill 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 v^-alks 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 on my fancy shine : I see the sire of lev e on high. And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; Like some bold veteran, grey in arras. And niark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall aud massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war, Aud oft rejiell'd the invader's shuck. VI. With awe-struek tho\ight, and pitying tear?, I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotia's kings of other vears. 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 ! 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 Jiij/ sires have left their shed, And faced giim danger's loudest roar. Bold-following where yojir fathers led ! VIII. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1st, 1785. While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitrieks scraichin loud at e'en. An' raoruing 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 ua doubt : At length we had a hearty yokin* At sang aboiU. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased me best. That some kiud husband had addrest To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought described 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 spiert. 44 BURNS' WORKS. Tlien a' tliat ken't him round declared He had higine, That nane excell'd it, few cam neai't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of alo, 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 lip I »at, 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-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae pnct, in a sense, But just a rhgvier, 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 ver&e frae prose. To mak a sa7ig ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang. "WTiat's a' your jargon o' your schools. Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars Ye'd better taea up spades and shools. Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak ; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek ! Gie me ae spark o* Nature's fire ! That's a' the learning I desire ; Then the' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart. My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' AUaiis glee, Or Ferguson s, the bauld and slee. Or bright Lnpraih's, my friend to be, If I can hit it ! That -n-ould be lear «neugh for me .' If I could get it. Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few. Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna blaw about mysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me ; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee fout they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monic a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair ; ]May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Wauchline race, or Maiicltline fair, I should be pro\id to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhi/ming-ware Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. An' kirson him wi' reekin' water ; Syne we'll sit down ati' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart ; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before v\e part. A\i'a ye selfish warly race, Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack I I dinna like to see j'our face. Nor hoar your cnick. But ye whom social pleasure diarms, ^^llose hearts the tide of kindness warms. Who holn 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, WTiile I can either sing, or whissle. Your friend and servant. I # POEMS. 45 TO THE SAME. AruiL 21, 1785. While new-ca'd kye rent at the stalse, An' ])o\vnifS reek in pleogli or hraku, This hour on e'enin's fdge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted aiild Lapniik For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' aniang the naigs Their ten hours bite, 3My awkart muse sairjileads 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 dow£F excuses pat lae mad ; ' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! ril write, an' that a hearty blaud, Tliis vera night ; So dinna ye affront your trade. But rhyme it right. ' Shall bauld Lapraih^ the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for )nigh Gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stovv'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 ])oets 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 lav like- some unkenned of isle Beside Neiu- Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan, Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tag a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, Wliile Irwin, Liigar, Ayr, an' Doon, Is'ae body sings. Th' Tlissiis, T'her, Thames, an' Seiiie, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, All' cock your crest, cs and burnies shme Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red- brown wi' heather bells. Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae 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 Coila's haughs an' woods. When lintwhites chant among the buds, An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, 'WTiile 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 blindmg 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 glisty storms. The lang, dark night ! The IMuse, nae poet ever fand her. Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adowu 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 Natures face descrive. And I, wi' pleasure. Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum o'er their treasure. Farewcel, ' my rhyme-composing brither ! We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither. In love fraternal : IMav Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal ! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; While moorlan' herds like guid fat br,vxies ; While terra fiima on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith and practice, In It her t Burns. fST' POEMS. 47 POSTSCRIPT. Mv memory's no worth a preen ; 1 hud amaist forgotten cleaa, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this neiv-light,* '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, Or rules to gi'e, But spalv their thoughts in plain braid lallano. 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 v/as about it, Baith loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap atdd folk the thing mistcuk ; For 'twas the auld moon turu'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 kissels were alarni'd ; The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty cruiit ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks. Were hang'd an' bruut. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' avid-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands, Wi' nimble shanks. Till lairrls forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But neiv-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought fhem ruin'd stick-an'-stowe. Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'll find aue i)lac'd ; • See Note, p. 14. An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the auld-Ught flochs are bleatin' ; Their zealous herds are vcx'd an' sweatiu' ; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-light herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons. To tak' a flight. An' stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them ; An' when the aidd moons gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' thera, Just i' their pouch. An' when the new-light billies see thera, I think they'll crouch ! Sac, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a ' moonshine matter;' But tho' dull pi-ose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSIIfG SOME rOE.MS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thinkin', Your dreams * an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'. Straight to auld Nick's. Ye ba'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 aften wear it. The lads in Hack ! But your curst wit, whea.it comes near it, Rives't aff their back. Think, wicked siimer, wha ye're skaithing. It's just the hiue-gowii badge an' clalthing O' saut\ts J tak that, ye lea'e tlicm naething To ken them by, ♦ A certain humorous dream of his \vas then mak iiig a noise in the coiintry-sicle. 48 Frae ony unregeneiate heathen Like vou or I. I've sent you here some rhymiug ware, A' that I bargaia'd for an' nuiir ; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sanff,* ye'U sen't wi' cannie care. And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bounie spring, An' danc'd my fdl ! I'd better gaen and sair'd the king At Hunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; But, deil-ma care ! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. That sic a hen had got a shot ; I was suspected for the plot ; I scorn'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat. An' pay't tha 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, nicst year. As soon's the clockin' time is by. An' the wee pouts begun toj;ry, 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 tlic wame. Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim. An' thole their blet'ners ! It pits me. aye as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, But petiiii/worlhs again is fair. When time's expedient ; Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. BURNS' WORKS. • A song ho had promiseil the Author. WKIXTEN IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE. ON NITH-SIDE. Tnou w'nom chance may hither lead, Bo thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in siiken stole. Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but s day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshiue-«very hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. ■ As youth and love with sprightly dancCj Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren aif I\Iay delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Si>:ir 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 limg repose : As life itself becomes disease. Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; And teach the sportive 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 ii on their mind, As thou thyself muBt shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. Lead to tlie wretched, vile, and base. Thus resign'd and q\iiet, 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 Ix'fore. Hr POEMS. 49 Stranijer, go ! Hcav'n be thy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. ODE, SACRED TO THE JIE.MORY OF JIR.S. OF DwEi.i.ER in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation ! mark AVlio in widow-weeds appears, La.len witli unhonoured years. Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ! STROniE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'ei'flows. 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 imblest ; She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, ( A vrhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), Seesi thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? No i'allen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, Siie, tardy, hell -ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail. Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here ? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, I GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM AL- MIGHTY GOD ! But now his radiant course is run. For Matthew's cour^ was bright : His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heav'nly light 1 O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; The meikle devil wi a woodie Haurl thee hame to his bl.iok sraiildic, O'er hurcheon hides. And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie \\'i' 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, Wliere, haply, Pity strays lurlorn, 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! 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 yuur glens, Wi' toddlin' din. Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to hn. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head. At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. Come join my wail. Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood j 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. Alourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore. Tell thae far waidds, 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 horn, 50 BURNS' WORKS. Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn ! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ; An' frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring^.tnou 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 Here lies wha weel had won thy pranse. For INIatthew 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, matt ', 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. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief ; And truth I shall relate, man : I tell nae common tale o' grief. For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast. Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; A look of pity hither cast, For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man ; There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways. Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 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 Phoebus cheers the crystal streams. And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r. Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild wl' many a note. Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the Ixink, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen. And milk-white Is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland, May rove their sweets aniang ; j But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, ]\Iaun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o' bonnle 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 niouy a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign bauds, And never ending care. '^Rl POEMS. 61 But as for tliee, thou false woman. My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae : The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That neer wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's flies. Or tuin their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him fur me '. O ! soon, to me, may summei'-suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring. Bloom on my peaceful grave. 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 deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; Will generous Graham list to his poet's v/ail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to hei tale). And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd, And doubly curse the luckless rliyming trade ? Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour. In all th' oinni|)otence of rule and power. — Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, [snug. The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : No nerves 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 : Varapyre booksellers drain him to the heart. And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ; Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His woll-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear ; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, The hapless poet floumiers on through life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired. And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- ceased. For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 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 horn thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the niallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's care.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck 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, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears. And left us darkling in a world of tears) : O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'rl Fintra, my other st:iy, long bless and spare ! h2 BURNS' WORKS. Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, And hiiglit in cloudless skies his sun go down ! ]\Iay bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, With many a fihal tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; His locks were bleached white wl' time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang. The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. The relics of the vernal quire ! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year ! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree. That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie l)efore the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. " I've seen sae mony changefu' years. On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown ; Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care. For silent, low, on beds of dust. Lie a' that would my sorrows share. " And last, (the sum of a' my griefs) .' My noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his country's stay : 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 lat<;st lay. Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only frienii, That fillest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest glooi " 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 tho fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song, Became alike thy fostering care. " O ! why has woith 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 Wliich 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 leinember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me !" LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WniTEFORD, OF WHITEFORH liAllT. WITH THE FOREGOING POE.M. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st. To thee this votive offering I impart, " The te-irful tribute of a broken heart." The friend thou vahied'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 Of nrownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. Gawin Douglas, When chapman billies leave the street, I And drouthy nccbors, necbors meet, POEMS. 5S As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; "While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gcttiu' fou and unco happy. We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hanie, Whare sits our sulky sullen darae, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Kursing 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 Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — d's house, cv'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till JMonday. She prophesy 'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon . Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market niglit, Tam had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that diank divinely j And at his elbow, souter Jaltmnj, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crimy ; 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 7am grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. O'er a' the ills o' life victorious i But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour ap]Moachcs Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, ^'hat 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 king, the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— A better never lifted leg — Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; MHiiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Allorvay was drawing nigh, WHiare ghaists and houlets nightly cry- By this time he was cross the ford, Whai e in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whaie drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare huntei'S fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Muncjo's mither hanged hersel.— . Before him Doon pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirh-xillowiiy seeni'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing — Inspiring bold John Barleycorn I What dangers thou canst malve us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured fi)rward on the light ; And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-buuker in the east. There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. To gie-them music was his charge : He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — ■k 5% BITRXS' WORKS. Coffins stood round like open presses, That sliaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, imchristen'd bairus : 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 grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew^ ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tam, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump an* strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flanncn, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder lineu ! 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 Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawllc, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot. And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook balth meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear), Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn. That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty. It was her best, and she was vauntie. — Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches 1 But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd. And thought his very cen enrich'd : Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main . Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither. And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, Wlien plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes. When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd. When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'U get thy fairin, In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! Kate sooti will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane * of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tale she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff" her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear. Remember Tam o' S/iaiiter'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 : Way nevei' pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains : » It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follov/ a poor wight any far. ther than the middle of the next running stream. — It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bofrles, whatever danger may bL- in his going forward, tliere- is much more hazard in turning back. POEMS. 55 No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, To thee shall honae, or food, or p.istirae yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head , The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. And curse the ruffian's aim, and mouru thy hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 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 bloom that wreath thou well hast won : While Scotia, with exulting tear. Proclaims that Thomson was her son. EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter John in death does sleep ; To hell, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll baud it weel thegither. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : O Death, its my opinion. Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch Into thy dark dominion ! ON WEE JOHNNY. Hicjacet wee Johnny. Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know. That death has murder'd Johnny ! An' here his budi/ lies fu' low — For saul, he ne'er had ouy. FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'renee and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; " For ev'n his failings' leaned to virtue's side."* FOR R. A. Esq. Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name , (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. FOR G. H. Esq. The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, Wliom canting wretches blam'd : But with such as he, where'er he be, Blay I be saved or d d/ 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. Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. • Goldsmith. 56 BURNS' WORKS. TLat weekly tliis area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeliiig strong, Hero heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment cleai-, Can others teach tlie course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below. Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer 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 Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede )'ou tent it : A chield's amang you, taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, niaik weel— And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its riggin. It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' At some black art. — Hk 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 quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; • Vide his .\ntiniiitics of Scotland. I But now he's quat the spurtle blade. And ddg-skin wallet, And ta'eu the — A/itir/uarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : Rusty airn cajis and jinglin' jackets,* Wad had the Lothians three in tackcts, A towmont guid : And parritch pats, and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg ; The knife that uicket 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 port, O port ! Shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him ! Now, by the i)ow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose !^ Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. They sair uiisca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early J\Iay, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! Never Boreas' hoary path. Never Eurus' pois'nous breath. Never baleful stellar lights, Taiut thee with untimely blights ! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew ' IMay'st thou long, sWeet crimson gera, Richly deck thy native stem ; » Vide his treat ioc on Ancient Armour and Weapons. POEMS. 67 Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, Dropping dews, and breatlung balm. While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the diigeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round. And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. 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 May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious sniil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was rung. Dread Omnipotence, alone. Can heal the wound he gave ; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. And fear no withering blast ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR-WATER.* TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phccbus' scorching beams, la flaraiug suramer-piiiJe, * Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful ; but their effect ismuch impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. Dry-v?itherlng, waste my foaming streama. And drink my crystal tide. The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, That thro' my waters play. If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray ; If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang. In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, As poet 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 shcr'd me : But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a linn : Enjoying large each spring and well As nature gave them me, I am, although I say't mysel. Worth gaun a mile to see. Would tb.en my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes ; Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks. And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild. Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child. Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis wild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This too, a covert shall 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 shelt'ring safe retreat. From prone descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair. Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their charmi The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. 28 58 BURNS' WORKS. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. Some musing bard may stray. And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain, grey ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. Mild chequering through the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream. Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool. Their shadows' watery bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band. Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land ! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses. The grace be — " Atbole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses !" ON SCARING SOME WATER- FOWL, IN LOCH-TURIT ; A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTEKTYRE. Why, ye tenants of the lake. For me your watery haunt forsalce ? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly ? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, * Bide the surging billow's shock. Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below ; Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow. Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 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 ^pend. Or, if man's superior might, Dare invade your native right. On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNET-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INK AX KENMORE, TAYMOUIH. Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view— The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divider. The woods, wUd-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. The palace rising on his verdant side, The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! The aixhes striding o'er the new-born stream ; The village, glittering in the moontide beam- Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. And look through nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her scan. And injur'd worth forget and pardon man. ^. POEMS. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 59 Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; Till fiill he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below. Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- scends, And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless showers, The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. Stit iaro tne gap the struggling river toils. And still below, the horrid caldron boils — ON THE BIllTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORK IN PECULIAR CIRCUJISTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a prayer. What heart o* stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair !, November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form ; And gane, alas ! the shclt'ring tree. Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw. Protect thee frae the driving shower, The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want, ^Vho heals life's various stounds. Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. Fair on the summer morn : Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! And firom thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land ! THE WHISTLE A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is cu- rious, I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off' the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots Baccha- nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many over- throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encoun. tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy liaronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, Atid bteiv on the Whistle his requiem shriU. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af. terwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- ton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal de- scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had conti- nued ; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off tlie hard-won honours of the field. I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— " Tliis Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er. And drink them to hell. Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Untnatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy ha* gain'd ; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; • See Ossian's Carie-thura. 60 BURNS' WORKS. Till tliree noble cWeftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; And trusty Glenriddel, so skJH'd in old coins ; And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. " By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel replies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would 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, tbe claret they ply, And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright 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 night. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage. No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-ruling Elder to wallow in \vine ! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- tend ? Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — " Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhjTne, Come — one bottle more^and have at the sub- lime ! " Thy lino, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; So thine be the lauiel, and mine be the bay ; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day I" SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET, f AULD NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor. For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. Ye speak so fair : For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter. Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 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 tauld the Muse ye hae ucgleckit ; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke ; Sic bans as you sud ne'er be fiiikit, Be hain't wha like. • See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, put> lished at Kilmarnoclt, I'H'J, and has not before appear ed in our author's printed poems. ^ POEMS. 61 For me, I'm on Paniassiis brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; W'hyles daez't wi' love, whyles ilaez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons ; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Conmien' me to the bardie clan ; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink, The devll-haet, that I sud' ban. They ever think. Nac thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : But just the pouchie put the nieve in. An' while ought's there, Then, biltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair> Lecze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, ]My chief, amaist my only pleasure. At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, The Jluse, poor hizzie ! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you 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 MIND it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn. Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh. An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn — "When first aniang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass — Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers. Wearing the day awa. II. E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast. That I for poor auld Scotland's sake. Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amaiig the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-ciips aside, An' spared the symbol dear : No nation, no station, IVIv 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, jMy partner in the merry core. She rous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sousie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky e'en That gart my heart-strings tingle ; I fired, inspired. At every kindling keek. But bashing, and d ashing, 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 cliflF and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ; f Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, well,t Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks. The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east. And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form. In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop' d in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. • The reader will find some explanation of thij poem in p. viii. t The King's Park at Holyrood-house. i St. Anthony's Well. 5 St. Aatliony's Chapel. 62 BURNS' WORKS. Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields nnfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And braved the mighty monarchs of the world. — •* My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; *' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save. Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! " A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the oi-phan'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 worthjess name! No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. " And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro* future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPT OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.* Once fondly lov'd, and stLU remember'd dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, Who distant burus in flaming torrid climes. Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. THE JOLLY BEGGARS: A CANTATA. KECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,+ Bedim cauld Boreiis' blast : • The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore, f Tlie old Scotch name for tlie Bat. When hailstanes drive wl' bitter skyte. And infant fiosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing. They ranted and they sang ; Wi' jumping and thumping, The 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 arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — - She blinket on her sodger : An' aye he gies the tousie drab The tlther skelpin' kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Bk smack did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIK. Tun£ — " Soldier's Joy. ' T. I AM a son of Mars who have been in many wars. And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. n. My 'prentlceship I past where my leader breath'd his last. When the bloody die was cast ori 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, Sec. 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 aa happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a diura. Lai de daudle, &c. 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 tether bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore ; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar. AIR. Tune—" Soldier Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 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 rudily, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. in. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch. The sword I forsook for the sake of the church. He ventiir'd the soul, and I risked the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 1 asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. V. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till T met uiy o!d bOy at Cunningham fair ; His rag regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 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 lal, &c RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling, For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail ber braw John Highlandman. Tune—" O an' ye were dead, Gudeman." 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 ! Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! There's not a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. IL With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c, in. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 64) BURNS' WORKS. My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my braw John Higlandman.' Sing, hey, &c. VI. And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappin limb and gausy middle He reach'd nae higher. Had hol'd his heartie I'ie 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. TuTie—" Whistle onxe the lave o't." Let me ryke up to dight that tear. An' go wi me to be my dear. An then your every eare and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was whistle owre the lave o't. n. At kirns and weddings we'se be there. An' O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. III. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. An' sun oursels about the dyke. An' at our leisure, when we like, We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms. And while I kittle hair on tliairnis, Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms, May whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &.C. RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, As weel as poor Gutscraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a rusty rapier^ He swoor by a' was swearing worth. To speet him like a pliver. Unless he would from that time forth, Relinquish her for ever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. And sae the quarrel ended. But though his little heart did grieve. When round the tinkler prest her. He feign'd to sniitle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address'd her. AIR. TuM—'" Clout th» Caldron." I. Mt bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station ; I've traveli'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off I march'^t To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, iNb II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a his noise an' caprin'. An' tak' a share wi' those that bear The budget an' the apron. An' by that stowp, my faith and houp. An' by that dear Keilbagie,* If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. May I ne'er weet my craigle. An' by that stowp, ke. RECITATIVO. The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. ^ Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair. An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night. Buthurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie, The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, Tho' limping with the spavie. » A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour- ite with PoosieNancie's clubs. * Homer is allowed to be tlie oldest balled-singer on record. POEMS. 65 He hirpl'd up, and hip like daft, An' shor'd them Daintie Davie O boot that night. He was a care-defying blaile As ever Baccluis listed, Though Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever niiss'd it. He had no wish but — to be glad. Nor want but — when he thirsted ; He hated nought but — to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested, His sang that night. AIR. Tune—" For a' that, an' a' that." I. I AM a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. For a' that, an' a that ; An' twice as meikle's a' that ; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that. II. I never drank the Muse's stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; But there it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c. III. Great love I bear to a* the fair. Their humble slave, an' a' that ; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. IV. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; But for how lang the Jlie may stang. Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c. V. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; But clear your decks, and here's the sex I I like the jads for a' that. " For a' that, an' a' that, • An" twice as meikle's a' that ; My dearest bluid, to do them guid. They're welcome till't for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth ; They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request. To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best : He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient fur the chorus. Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses.' I. See ! the smoking bowl before us, Blark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. A fig for those by law protected' Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. II. What is title ? what is treasure ? What is reputation's care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where I A fig, &c. III. With the ready trick and fable. Round we wander all the day ; And at night, in barn or stable. Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. IV. Does the ti-ain-attended carriage Through the countiy lighter rove ? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ? A fig, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes ; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c. VL Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ', Here's to all the wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and collets I One and all cry out. Amen ! A fig for those by law protected ! Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. i 66 BURNS' WORKS. THE KIRK'S ALARM : * A SATIRE. Orthodox, orttodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense. Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack. To strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence. Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare. To meddle wi' rtvischief ai-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, And orator Bob \ is its ruin. D'rymple mild, § D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, "^ And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa. Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan. Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle. And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James, |j Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chace in your view ; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- ing the penny. Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and iiowl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld.f f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Tho' ye can do little ikaith, ye'll be in at the death. And if ye canna bite ye may bark. Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a sadnt ye do muster. The corps is no nice of recruits ; Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye might boast. If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark ; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. Poet Willie, I Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where lie sh-t. Andro Gouk, ^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book. And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig. And ye'll hae a calf's head o' »ma' value. Barr Steenie, |{ BaiT Steenie, what mean ye ? what mean ye ? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence to b.avins and sense, Wi* people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride. Of manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock,-f-f Jluirland Jock, when the L — d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins. If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will, W Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull. When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. • This poem was written a short time after the pub- lication of Mr. M'Giir$ Essay. j Mr. M' 11. t I? 1 A n. 5 Dr. D c. •! Mr. n 11. B Mr. M' y. «« Mr. M y. tt Mr. A d. • Mr. G , O c. t Mr. Y g, C t Mr. 1' s, A-r. H Dr. A. M II. II Mr. S \'— -, U— r. •» Mr. S h, G— tt Mr. S il. it An E r m M- POEMS. 67 Poet Burns, Poet Buins, wi' yoiir priest-sk<;lp- ing tiu-ns. Why desert ye your auld native shire ; Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she wero tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. THE TWA HERDS.* O a' ye pious godly flocks, "Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox. Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast. These five-itnd-twenty simmers past, O ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atweea tliemsel. O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'U see how new-light herds will whist3e, An' think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I ha'e min*. O, Sirs ! wliae'er wad hae expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit. To be their guide. What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank. He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, O sic a feast ! The thummart, wir-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in. And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. And sell their skin. What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale. At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club, * This piece was among the first of our Author's pro- ductions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, neai Kihnaniocli. And new-light herds could nicely drubi Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in. Sic twa— O ! do I live to see't. Sic famous twa should disagreet, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en, While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein' ! A* ye wha tent the gospel fauld. There's D n, deep, and P s, ihaul. But chiefly thou, apostle A — d We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, There's scarce a new herd that we get. But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, I winna name, I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame. D e has been lang our fae, M' U has wraught us meikle wae. And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, And baith the S— — t, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief. We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'U soundly buff' our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel, There S — h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey -nick quill, And that ye'U fin*. O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come join your counsel and your skills, To cow the lairds. And get the brutes the power themsels, To choose their herds. Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And learning in a woody dance. And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : • Let him bark there. Tlien Shaw's and Dahymple's eloquence, JNI' IPs close nervous excellence, 68 BURNS' WORKS. H'Q — e's pathetic manly sense. And guid M' ^h, Wi' S— .th, wlia thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff. THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, Who has no will but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. For lords or kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die — for that they're born ! But, oh, prodigious to reflect, A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O Eighty -eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire's tint ahead, An' my auld teethkss Bawtie's dead ; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil ; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit. An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty-eiyht he wish'd you weel. An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck. Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses dight your een. For some o' you hae tint a frien' : In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'U ne'er hae to gi'e again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; Nay, even the yirth itsel' docs cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got tliy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel', a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As meikle better as you can. January 1, 1789. VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. We cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise. But only, lest we gang to hell. It may be nae surprise : But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us ! LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIJI IJIME- DIATELY Al'TER THE POEt's DEATH. He who of R — k — n sang, lies stiff and dead. And a green grassy hillock hides his head j Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, April l-'th 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow, ing Lines : Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found. For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would 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 dainn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. May his son be a hangmau, and he his first trial. POEMS. 69 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'eihangs my dwelling ! Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind. Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'«- us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend !* CLARINDA. Cr.ARiNDA, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Dcpriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy. We part, — but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower. Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. The stream adown its hazelly path, \Vas rushing by the ruin'd wu's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift. Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I tnrn'd mine eyes,f And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie — Liberty ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ; But oh, it was a tale of woe. As ever met a Triton's ear ! He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhyraes.| * Stvathallan, it is presumed, was one of tlie follow- ers of Die young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying cor.ceKlL'it 'in some cave of the Highlands, after the b;ittle of Culloic;!. This song was written before the jear 17SS COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE TRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected : * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. f Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. :|: This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print- ed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Clu.. den, »id by the ruins of Lincluden-.Vbbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of i^lalcom IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some ac- count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- quities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, what- ever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit, ted. Our poet's prudence siipiiresscd the song of Li- berty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It m.ty be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strait^ of poetry could have been found wor- thy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. 70 BURNS' WORKS. Tho' somctliing like moisture coaglobes in tny eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. BIy fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Their title's avow'd by the country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter. The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. Sincere .as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. And ushers the long dreary night .• But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- ner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me v.'ith since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be, Revered Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, R. BURNS. Edinburgh, 1787. THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. Kind sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony a day I've grnin'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; Or what the diumlie Dutch were doin' ; That vile doup skelper. Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the coUieshankie works At\^een the Russian and the Tuiks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt. Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades wcbc hingin How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were saying or takin ought amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game : How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ' Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin. If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser A' this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair'd of. So gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. POEM. ON PASTORAL POETRY. Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, ']Mid a' thy favours ! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, while loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; Wee Pope, the kuurlin, 'till hira rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. POEMS. 71 But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O' heathen tatters : I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit an lear. Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace ; And wi' the far-famed Grecian share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel so clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever. Thou paints auld nature to the nines. In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines. Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays. Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves ai-e nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love. That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. SKETCH. NEW YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS. DUNLOP. This day. Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonths' length again : I see the old bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine. To wheel the equal, dull routine. The abseut lover, minor heir. In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf as my friend he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds. The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila's fair Ra'-liel's care to-day,* And blooming Keith's engaged with Cray); From housewife cares a minute borrow — — That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— And join with me a moralizing. This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver ; " Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ! " The passing moment's all we rest on !" Rest on — for what ! What do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will time, amus'd with proverh'd lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may — a few years must — Repose us in the silent dust. Then, is it wise to damp our bliss .' Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state. Hang matters of eternal weight ; That future-life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone : Whether as heavenly glory bright. Or dark as misery's woeful night — Since then, my honour'd first of frieuds. On this poor being all depends : Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die. Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. Witness that fihal circle round, (A sight life's sorrows to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse) Others now claim your chief regard — Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPORE, ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE.* A UTHOR OF THJ? THILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS- TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. To Crochallan came The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night. His uncombed grizzly locks wild - staring, thatch'd, A head for thought profound and clear, un- match'd ; Yet," tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. His heart was warm, benevolent and good. * This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page G9. * Mr. Smellie, and our poet, were both members of a club in Edinburgh, under the name of Crochallan rencibles. 78 BURNS' WORKS POETICAL INSCRIPTION AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KEK.ROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OF JIR. HERON- WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; Prepared power's proudest frown to brave. Who wilt not be, nor hive a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere. Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here. SONNET, THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can- not bear ; More welcome were to me grim Winter'3 wild- est roar. How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.* Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ; The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others gi-eet ; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. If sorrow and anguish tteir exit await. From friendship and dearest affection re- moved ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved. Lnvcs, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, And flowers let us cuU for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, sliower. For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; Here Vanity strums on her idiot Ijtc ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly gay iu life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. MONODY A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- ly glisten'd ; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired. How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. • Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor. thy character, and one to whom our bard thought himself under many obhgations. ANSWER TO A MANDATE SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FARMER, ORDER- ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED IIST OP HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAK OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDRKS THEY HAD. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, ]My horses, servants, carts, and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle. As ever drew before a pettle. My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been. And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen j My hand-a-/iin,f a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; \ The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough. The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. Kilmarnock. POEMS. 73 And your aulJ Ijoioiigh mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime : My far-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced : The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, A d-nin'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale. As ever ran before a tail ; An' he be spared to be a beast. He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel carriages I hae but few. Three carts, and twa are feckly new, An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; I made a poker o' the spindle. And my auld mither brunt the trundle. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other. Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. And often labour them completely, And aye on Sundays duly nightly, I on the questions tairge them tightly, 'Till, faith; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, (Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) He'll screed you aff effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station. Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; For weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddie in her face. Enough of ought ye like but grace. But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, I've said enough for her already. And if ye tax her or her mither, By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm taking. Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. The day and date as under notet ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic, ROBERT BURNS. « The hindmost on the right-hand, in the plough. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS S BIllTH-DAY, 4lh 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 ? ISIy cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil j To counterbalance 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 ray 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 ! WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARE PRESENTED BKR. Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame. And wakeful caution, still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and leward ; So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. at) T« BQRNS' WORKS. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25tH JANUARY, 1793 THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee. Author of this opening day ! 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 E; 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 proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptatiim. 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. Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfriee. 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 wl' life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi* double plenty o'er the 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, 1 lap a w^icket. 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. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1 79G. Friend of the pott, tricl and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle dcil, Wi' a' his witches Are at i', 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 j (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Wine was th' insensate frenzied part. Ah why sliould I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSIEB, DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to spccl The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill. And potion glasses. O what a canty world were it. Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, As they deserve ; (And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would starve)? POEMS. 75 Dame life, tho' fiction out may tiick her, And in p;iste gems and frippery deck her ; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and nnsickor I've found her still, Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 'Twecn good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like buiidrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a daut ou Wi' felon ire ; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, lie's aff like fire. Ah Nick 1 ah Nick, it is na fair, First showing us the tempting ware. Bright wines anu bonnle lasses rare, To i)ut us daft ; Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare hell's daran'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 th.y fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murdering wrestle. As dangling in the wind he hangs A gibbet's tassel But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, 1 quat my pen ; The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen ! amen ! ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. Mt cui-se 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 squeeze's ; 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 throw the wee stools o'er the nieikle, As round the fire the giglets kecklc. To see nie loup ; ^liilc raving ni.iil, 1 wi>h a heckle Were ia their doup. O' a' the num'rous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutti/ stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the raools. Sad sight to see ! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools. Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Tooth- A CHE, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a* ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel. That gars the notes o' discoid squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel A towmond's Tooth- Ache, TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq OF FINTRY, ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I CALi, 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 from my mind eflface ; 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 inform'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 ! \Ve bless thee, God of nature wide, For ii!l thy goodness lent ; 76 BURX5' WORKS. And if it )j'oa»:e tlioc. licivctily guide, May never worse be sent ; But whether granted, or denied, Lord bless us with content ! Ainen ! TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, ON SENSIBILITT. Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst tnily 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. Hi.ar the wood-lark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless biril ! 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 BT BURNS, TO THE MASTER OP THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVB 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 1809, BY MR. CROWEK. [The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that selection became a duty, and he 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 JMr. 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 cnrrespondence, 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 Heekie's * sair distrest, Down droops her ance wcel burnish't crest, Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava. Her darling bird that she Ine's best, Willie's awa ! Edinburgh. II. O Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco' slight ; Aidd Reekie ay he keepit tight. And trig an' braw ! But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa ! III. The stifFest o' them a' he hnw'd, Thebauldest o' them a' hecow'd ; They durst nae mair than he alhl^^''d, Th.:t was a law : We've lost a birkie wnA worth gdwd, Willie's awa ' POEMS. 77 IV. Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, Fiae colleges and boarding schools, May sprout like simmer ])U(ldock-stools In glen or sh;i\v ; He wlia could brush them down to mods 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 wc see his levee door Plillosopliers and Poets pour,f 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 ; Grief's gicn his heart an unco kickin', Willie's awa ! IX. Now ev'ry sonr-mou'd grinin' blellum, And Calvin's fock, are fit to fi.-il him ; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their helium Willie's awa ! X. Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red Whil? tempests blaw ; But every joy and pleasure's fled Willie's awa ! XI. May I be slander's common speech ; A text for infamy to preach ; * TheChamberofCommerceof Edinburgh of which Mr. C. was Societary. ■f Many literary j^cntlcmcn were acciistometi to meet And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw ; When I forget thee I Wii.me Ckeech, 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 on airn ; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the JMouth o' Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And rode thro' thick and thin ; But now she's floating down tlie 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 — As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &o. ODE TO LIBERTY. (Imperfect'). [In 3 letter to Mrs. Dunlop, the jioet says :— The sub- ject is LiBKUTV : You know, my honoured friend how dear the tlieme is to me. I design it an irregu- lar Ode for General Washington's birth-day. After liaving mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 1 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 j 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 alarmed George the Third for his life. In naming their steeds, the poet and his friend N icol seem at Mr Creech's house at breakfast. Burns often mit I to iVavl had VpV::fCTencerin\l"e\vry'onioii?g'™oJ™ with thom there, wlien he called, and hence the name of course, for the worthies who had used freedom with "' '-''''"^- i both priest and king. i- 78 BURNS' WORKS. Hear it not, Wallace, in tliy bed of death ! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; Disturb not ye tlie hero's sleep, Nor give the cowaid secret breath. — Is this the power in freedom's war That wont to bid the battle rage ? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, Crashing the despot's proudest bearing. That arm which, nerved with thundering fate. Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. O Tiiou Great Being ! what thou art Surpasses me to know ; Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. Thv creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ; O, free my weary eyes from tears. Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be. To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine ! Do Thou, AH Good! for such Thou art. In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have. But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. A PRAYER, WHEK FAINTING FITS, AND OTHER ALARMING SYMPTOMS OF A PLEURISY OR SOME OTHER DANGEROUS DISORDER, WHICH INDEED STILL THREATENS JIE, FIRST PUT NATURE ON THE ALARM. O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear. If I have wandcr'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As somelliing, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Wliere human loeakness has come short. Or frailty stept aside, DESPONDENCY: A HYMN. Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene Have 1 so found it full of pleasing charms ! Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms : Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arras ; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul offence !' Fain promise never more to disobey ; But, should my author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptation ran ? 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 controling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong furious passions to confine ; For all unfit I feel my powers to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line, O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ' LINES ON RELIGION. " 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright ; 'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few ; When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." POEMS. 79 EPISTLES IN VERSE TO J. LAPRAIK. Sept. VZth, 1785. GuiD speed an' furder to you Joliny, Guid liealth, hale ban's, an' weather bony ; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany To clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendia' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin' wrack ; But may the tapma.st grain that wags Come to the sack. I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin showers hue wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg * an' whatt it, Like ony dark. It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill nature On holy men. While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. But niair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. Let's sing about our noble sels ; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us. But browster wives ^ an' whisky stills. They are the muses. Your friendship Sir, I wlnna quat it, An' if ye mak' objections at it. Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd, An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter uight. Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty. Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty. An' be as cantv As ye were nine year less than thretty. Sweet ane-au'-twentv. But stocks are cowpet * wi' the blast, An' now the sina keeks in the west Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Your's, Rab the Ranter. REV. JOHN M'MATH, INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIe's PRAYER, WHICH HE HAn REQUESTEn. Sept. nth, 1785. While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. Or in gulravage f rinnin scow'r To ])ass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. Jly musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' liouse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it. Lest they shou'd blame her. An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple, countra bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a ])ack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me. Can easy, wi' a single wordie. Louse h— 11 upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces. Their sighan, cantan, 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 Gaun, \ 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 burd no crack his jest What wa}' they've use't him. See him, |j 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 ? • Jocteleg— a. knife, t Browster uiiv«— Alehouse wives. * Cnwpet — TumlJled over. t Gidraoage — Running in a confused, disorderly manner, like" boys when leaving school. X Gavin Hamilton, Ksq. II 'Hie poet has introdiieetl the two fivst lines of this stanza into the licillcalion of his works to Mr. Uamil ton. 80 O Pope, had I tliy satire's darts To gie tte rascals their deserts, I'd rip tlieir rotten, hullow hearts. An' tell aloud Tlieir jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I ev'n the thing I cou'd be. But twenty times, I rather wuu'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 may like a lass, But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain. An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. They 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 i maid divine ! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee : To stigmatize fiilse 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 hellisli spii-it. O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers. As men, as Christians too renown'd An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honor) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. An' winning-manner. Pardon this freedom I have ti'en, An' if impertinent I've been, BURNS' WORKS. Impute it not' good Sir, in ane Wbase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ve. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. siauchline. (recomjiekding a boy). Moscjavilk, May 3, 1786. I HOLD it. Sir, my boundcn duty To warn vou how that IMaster Tootie, Alias, Laird INI'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 I muckle doubt him, Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them ; As lieve then I'd have then, Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough. The boy might learn to swear ; But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught. An' get sic fair example straught, I hae na ouy fear. Ye'll catechise him every quirk. An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk — Ay when ye gang yoursel. If ve then, maun be then Frae hame this comin Friday, Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, The orders wi' your lady. i\Iy word of honour I hae gien. In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. To meet the Warld's worm ; 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 bo at a', In faith he's sure to get him. To phrase you an' praise you. Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful Minstrel Burns. * ^raster Tootie then lived in Mauchlinc; a dealer in Cows. It was liis common practice to cut the nicks or marltings from tlie honis of cattle, to disguise their ai.e. — lie was an uvtful trick-contriving character; hence he is calleii a Snich-drawer. In the poet's " Address to ill.' JJeiJ," lie styles that august personage an auld, snic/c-drawing dog ! t The Airles — Earnest money. POEMS. 81 TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CilAICEN-GlLLAN', IN ANSWER TO AN OhT-lGlNG LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF WY POETIC CAKEEK. Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me pioud ; See wha taks notice o' the bard ! I lap and cry'd fu' loud. Now doil-ma care about tlieir jaw, The senseless, gawky million ; I'll cock my nose aboon tliom a', I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 'Twa3 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 spaie you lang to kiss the breath O' niony fiow'i-y simmers ! And bless your bonie lasses baith, I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! And God bless young Dunaskin's laird. The bioj-som of our gentry ! And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, glenriddel, (extempore lines on returing a newspaper). ElUdanJ, Monday JEvening. Your news and review. Sir, I've read through and through. Sir, With little admiring or blaming : The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. • Diogenes. My goose-qiiill too ruilo is tn tell all your good- ness Bestowed on your scrv.mt, the Piiet ; Would to God I hill one like a beam of the sun. And then all the world. Sir, should know it! TO TERRAUGHTY,* ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! Health, ay unsour'd by care or griefs 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 Heavea (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthcn'd days on this blest morrow, i\Iay desolation's lang-tecth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour. Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stouie— Rut for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonie. May couthie fortune, kind and caunie. 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' me. THE VOWELS : A TALE. 'TwAS where the birch and sounding tbong 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 DumfHef This is the J. R who, at the Excise Courts, called for Duriis's reiiorts : they shewed that Ae, while he acted up to the law, couUI reconcile his duty with bumaai ty. ' Altho' an Exciseman he had a heart.' •61 82 BURNS' WORKS. Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to accguut. — First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look'd backward on his way. And flagrant fiom 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, lit to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigiiM. The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! In rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; Th* Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert, Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! As trembling U stood staring all aghast. The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fist. In helpless infmts' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'J him from liis sight. A SKETCH. A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. And still his precious self his dear delight ; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. A man of fashion too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bayntelle, et vice V amour ; So traveird monkics 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 tlie shade. And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn f Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? Shut out, lonej^ird, from all the feather'd train, To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom No friend to pity when thou dost complain, Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. Sing on sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain, 'WTiile the lone echo wafts thy notes along. Is beauty 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 tlie 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 thee> 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 Dundas. He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. He quoted and he hinted. Till in a declamation-mist. His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he graped for't, He faud it was awa, man ; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wl' law, man. POEMS. 83 Mil. Henry Euskine. Collectt'd Han y stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man ; His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gatherings storm, man ; Like wind-driv'n hail it did assid, Or torrents owre a lin, man ; The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Haif-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 must and will deny : Thev sav their master is a knave — And sure they do not lie. You You' How Ave, M'h}' ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. (a parody on ROBIN ADAIr). 'he welcome to Despots, Dumnnrier ; 're welcome to Despots, Dumourier • dors Danijiiore do ? and Boiirnonville too? d'd tl}py not conie alon^ with you, Du- mouriei" ? I v/ill fijht France with you, Dnmourier, — I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 1 will fi.;ht France with you, I will take mv chance with you ; By my soul I'll dance a dance wltli you, Dumou- rrr. 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 lie 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- pouuiicd by order of the Mayor — whose term of of- fice expired next day : — The Muse thus delivered herself on tiie occasion] : Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, The maister drunk — the horse committed ; Puir harmless beast ! take thee nae care, Thou'It be a horse, when he's nae mair— (mayo^^ TO A FRIEND, WITH A POUND OF SNUFF. O coiild I give tliee India's wealth. As I this trifle send ; Wliy then the joy of both would be, To share it with a friend. But gr)ldon sands ne'er yet have graced The Heliconian stream ; Then t.ike what gold can never buy. An honest Bard's esteem. * It is almost needless to observe that the song of Robin Adiii'-, begins thus : — You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair j You're welcome to I'axton, Robin Adair.— How does Jiihnny Mackerel] do ? Aye, and Luke Gardener too ? Why latures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets took the lead. While Henry Home, ' Dr. Wallace, and their learned associates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and studying to 'dear themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamil- ton of Baiigour, 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 Kaimi. tish literature. Scotland possessed her four unu versities before the accession of James to th« English throne. Immediately before the imion, she acquired her parochial schools. These es- tablishments combining happily together, made the elements of knowledge of easv 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 giadually 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 more and more ap[.arent. It seems indeed probable, that the establish- ment of the parochial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less splendid in their nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the people. There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of the British isles 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 aiid in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. The Iil-h, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, but the difference may be considered as in dialect only, and ]irobably produced by the influence of time, like the different dialects of their common language. If this comcctiire he true, the Scottish music must be more imme- diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis- tinct, mii>t have descended from the mouutains 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 posses-ion 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 as most interested the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of time varied probably as the condition 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 Hinitis of Cheviot, and the Bntlle of Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns, when a certain degree of peace and tranqiiillitv took place, the lural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. " In the want of leal evi- dence respecting the history of our songs," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. One would l>e disposed to think, that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, who had f iinuily 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 their circumstances, and satisfied with their kit. Some sparlis of that spirit of chivahy for which they ave celehrated tiy Frois- iart, 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. la 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 tlie borderers like the trumpet's sound, had been, by an oriler of the Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and va- gabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- ment, but contended ill 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 ha\e arisen who were destined to give a new turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would see that the events aiid pursuits which che(pier private life were the proper sub- jects for pojiular poetry. Love, which had for- merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am- bition, became now the maslor-passiun of l^he soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tihullus 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 unatlected sim- plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a Uielancholy cast, a ray of hope ■breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom \\'hich characterizes the sweetest of the Highland luiiiiiris, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of them arc lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, liowever, genuine descriptions of the manners of au energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though in their portraits soma objects are brought into open view, v.'hich more fasti- dious painters would have thrown into shade. " As those rural poets sung fur 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 sekkun committed, to writing, but trea- sured up in the memory of their friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronized by the great, the^e rustic bards lived and died iu 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 chan!;e ; and few of the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, that the music may have remained nearly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled." These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, liowever, be presumed, that the state of ease and tKmquillity described by Mr. Ramsay took place among the Scottish peasantry imme- diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not till after the revolution in UJSS, and the sid)sequent 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 nuiuber of the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung, are in general of mucli 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 IG96, by which a certain degree of instruction was dif- fused universally ahiong the peasantry, contri- buted to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theocritus.' He was born on the high mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- dale, iu 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 was the son of a pea- sant, anil ])robably received such instruction as his ])arish-school bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admitted. Ramsay made his ap- pearance in Edinbvrrgh, in the beginning of- the present century, in the humble character of an ap'jirentice to a barber ; he was then fourteen 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 bscame intimate with many of the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time.* Having published a J " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hig club oi .1111,1 U wits, wlio, about 17!9, published a very poor miscc-llany, to which Dr. Voung, the author of ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 87 volume of poems of his own in 1721, which ■was fivouiably received, ho undertook to make a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards encourafied to present to the world a collection of Scottish son^s. " From what sources he procured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether from tradition or nianusciipt, 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 imj)roper 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 popular, because these dialects have never been spoken by persons of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the English moralists and poets were by this time read bv 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 Si.otsmen 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 fiom the common dialect, as the language of St. James's fi'om that of Thames Street. Had we retained a court and parliament of our own, the tongues of the two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would have its own classics, not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of literature. " Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them at-r 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 hapi)ily in making tender sonnets to fa- vourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and transforming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language of the charactera they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawfurd of Auchinanies, wrote the modern song of Tweerlsitle,* which has been so much admired. In 1713, 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. My sheep I neglected, I lost wif shee.p-hnok, on the marriage of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And about twelve years afterwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune of the Fluivers of the F<'rest,\ and supposed to al- lude to the battle of Flowden. In spite of the (louble rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sorrow. The more m<)der?i words to the same tune, beginning, I have setn the smiUng of for- tune beguiling, 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 delighted with her company, thougn when I saw her, she was very old. iMuch did she know that is now lost." In addition to these instances of Scottish songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardiknuie, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the song entitled the Bilks of Inveimai/, by Mallet ; the love- song, beginning, Fr,r 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 tlie 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 and middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; aud though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceed- ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he being their great favourite next the Scriptures. When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first emotion of genius, he wanted not models sui generis. But though the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand among the Scottish peasantry, the product was probably like that of pears and apples — of a thousand that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or he Night Tlmughis, prefixcil a copy of verses.'' Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay of Ochlbrtyrf. tu the Editor. * Beginning, What beauties does Flora disclose .' t Beginning, I have heard a lilting at our ewes milking 88 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this \siSt desfription. They hud 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 stranger* to the book of na- ture, and to the book of God." From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems under the name of Tlie Ever-green, his collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal of which is the Gcnlle S/iep/ierd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have in some degree super- seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all of these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have been produced in our own times, and of which it will be neces- sary to give a short account. Feigusson was born of parents who had it in their power to procure him a liberal education, a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, implies no very high rank in society. From a well written and app:ircntly authentic account of his life, we learn that he i=pent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- veral j'ears at the universities (.f 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 or2-!th year. Burns was not acquainted with the poems of this yo\ithful genius when he himself began to write poetry ; and when he first saw them, he had renounced the muses. But while he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergtisso7i's Scottish Puems, he informs us that he " strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- gour." Touched by the synijiathy originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- nidar fortune. Burns regarded Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over his grave he erected a monument, as has al- ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has in several instances made the subjects of his imitation. From this account of the Scottish poems known to Burns, those who are acquainted ^yith them will see they are chielly humorous or pathetic ; and unilcr one or other of these descriptions most of his own poems will cla-s. Let us comoare him with his predecessors un- der each of these points of view, and close ouf examination 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 fur 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 provincial, is now scarcely suit- ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of the 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 fornied. Christis Kiik of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, somevvhat modernized in the orthography, and two cantos were added by him, in which he at- tempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem 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 aifray. Ramsay relates the restoration of concord, and the re- newal of the rural sjiorts with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of the poets describes the manners of his res]jective 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 otlier three hundred years. It is an honourable distinction to this body of men, that their character and manners, very little embellished, have been feund 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 ou the throne. The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the happiest of his productions. His chief excel- lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any very high powers either of imagina- tion or of understanding. He was well ac- quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives anject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject, and he has shown that it ni ly be hap- pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle SliephtrJ, the characters are delineations from nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 89 etyle of beautiful simplicity, the passions and nlixtinns of niial life I'.re finely portrayi'd, and the lie.irt is pleasingly intere>teJ in the hiijpi- riess that is liestuuel on ii;nucence and virtue. Tliioughout the \vh;j!e there is an air of reality which the must careles reader cannot but per- ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps ac- quired so hith a rijutation, in which truth re- ceived so little emliiliishment from the imagina- tion. In his p:istoral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appiais to less advantage, indeed, but still with considerable attraction. The story of the Monk and the Milkr^s I'V/e, though some- what licentious, may rank with the happiest produttions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure English compositiun, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom «vcu reaches medio- crity. Meither are bis familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much ajjprobatiun. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- ing, which was consldeialjle, improve his ge- nius. His poems written in pure English, in which he olten follows classical models, though superior to the English poems of Ramsay, sel- dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- posed in the Scottish (lialeet he is often very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the sulijects 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 arc chiefly founded ou the incidents of a town life, whic'i, though they are nut suscepti- ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of Fergussou, 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 The JDaft Days, The Kiyitfs Hirth-dni/ in £duiburi//i, Leith Riices, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of iltc O'rene, as Rain- 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 Fergussou, it ought to be rtcolleeted, that his poems are the careless effu- 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, be wuuld probably have risen to much higher reput.ition. Ho might have excelled in rural poetry, for though bis professed pastorals ou the estahlished Sici;ian mudel, are stale and uninteresting. The Fanner^s luf/h,* which • The farmer's fire-side. 32 may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the happiest cf all his productions, and certainly was the archetj-|)e of the Cuiier's Saturday Niglit. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have shown, that the character and manners of the peasantry of Scotland, of the present times, are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself informs us, he bail " frequently in bis e\e, but rather with a view to kindle at their ilame, than to servile imitation." His descrip- tive jjowers, whether the objects on which they are 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 lessoa of contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves j and this be chooses to execute in the form of a dia- logue between two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons and cha- racters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named C'oisar, 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 Ijpwever full of condescension : " At kiik or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawtcd tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, ^11 stroant on. slants an'' hillocks w'l him." The other, Luath, is a " plougraan'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 breast was white, bis towsie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gaiccie tail, tfi' upward curl. Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to moralize, are desciil>ed with an equal degree of happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the diFercnt condition of the two speakers, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in which be enutnerates the comforts of the ])oor, gives the following ac- count of their meirimeut on the first day of the year : '' That merry day the year begins, Tliey bar the dooi on liosty winds. 00 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, And sheds a heart-inspirin' sU-am ; The luntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill. Are handed round wi' right guiii-will ; The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the house — My heart has been sae fain to see them, 2'hat Iforjoij hue barkit wi' them." Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- man affairs since the days of il^sop, the dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacity, as from his being, more than any other, the friend and associate of num. The dogs of Burns, excepting in their talent tor moralizing, are downright dogs. The " twa dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast between their form and character as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the humour, and deepens tlie impres- sion of the poet's satire. Though in this poem the chief excellence may be considered as hu- mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- position ; the happiest jxiwei-s of description and the deepest insight into the human heart. It is seldon^ however, that the humour of Burns appears in so. simple a form. The livehness ot his sensibility frequently impels him to intro- duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten- derness or of pity ; and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert the higher powers of imagination. In such instances he leaves the society of Riimsay and of Fergns-;on, and associates tii'mself with the masters of Eng- lish poetry, whose language he frequently as- sumes. Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- amples may be found in The Death and^Dyin;, Wordx ofpoar Mnllie, in The atild Farmer n New- Years Morning Salutation to his Mare Mapgie, and in many other of his poems. The praise of whisky is a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. Aftor mentioning its cheering influence in a variety of situations, he describes, with singular liveliness and pov/er of fancy, its stimulating effects ou the blacksmith working at his forge : ' Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong fore- hammer, Till block au' studdie ring and reel Wi' diusome clamour." Again, however, he sinks into humour, and concludes the poem with the following most laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : ♦< Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 'Till where you sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam ; Freedom and Whisht/ gang thegither, Tak' aff your dram !" Of this union of humour, with the higher powers of imagination, instances may be found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook^ and in almost every stanza of the Address to the Dtil, one of the happiest of his productions. After reproaching this terrible being with all his " doings" and misdeeds, in the course of which he "passes through a series of Scottish superstitions, and ri^es at times into a high strain of poetry ; he cnucludes this address, de- livered in a tone of great familiarity, not alto- ether unmixed with apprehension, in the fol- lowins words : " But, fare ye wcel, auld Nickie-ben ! O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! Ye aiblius might — I dinna ken — Still ha'e a stake — I'm wae to think upo' yon den Ev'n for your sake ! Humour and tenderness are here so happily intermixed, that it is impossible to say which preponderates. Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the Caiiseicay and the Plainstmts* of Edinburgh, This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue between the Old and New Bridge over the river Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires that they shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. Though the Canstwuij and the Plainstones talk to- gether, no attempt is made to personify the speakers. In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, the poet, " press'd by care," or " inspired by whim," had left bis bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out alone in the darkness and so- litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the 1 iver, where the stillness was interrupted only by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. It was after midnight. The Uiingeon-clock hail struck two, and the sound had been re- peated by Wallace- Tower. All else was hushed. The moon shone brightly, and " The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream." In this situation, the listening bard hears the « clanging sugh" of wings moving through the air, atid speedily he perceives two beings, reared, the one ou the Old, the oiher on the New Bridge, whose form and attire he deserilies, and whose conveisation with each other he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of the re- spective edifices over which they iireside, and af- terwards, as is usual between the old and young, compare modern characters and manners with those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- • Plains 3 les- ide pavement. ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 91 ppctt'd, ami taunt and scnlil each other in broad Scotch. This conversation, whicli is certainly humorous, may be considered as a ])roper busi- ness of the poem. As the debate runs high, and threatens serious consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of wonders : ,^___ ouiing -through the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec- tion. The mourner compares the fury of the elements with th.it of man to his brother man, and finds the former liylit in the b:i!auce. " See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Ser.ding, like blnoil-hnunds fi-i.ni the slip. Woe, want, and murder, o'er tlie laud." He pursues tliis train of reflection through a variety of particulars, in the course of \\hich he iatrudLiccs the following animated apostrophe :^ " O j'e ! who sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw he lays him down to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifry heap." The strain of sentiment which runs through this poem is noble, though the execution is un- equal, and the versification is defective. Among the serious poems of Burns, The Cotter's Saturdaij Nicjht is perhaps entitled to the first rank. Tlte Former's Innle of Fergus - Sim evidently suggested the jdan of this poem, as lias been already mentioned ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his * Oh.)!c, out-lying. OurJcCu/Wr, Cattle that are un. housed all winter. f SWr) is in this, as in other places, a term of com passion ami cndeurmcnL ESSAY UPOX SCOTTISH POETRY. 93 own powers for tlic execution. Fcig-usson's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms which rle])en(l on rural characters ami nianiiers ha|)]iilv portrayed, and exhihiteil under circumstances hisihly grateful to the ima>;inati(in. Tlie Fiirnicrs Inyle hctjins with desciibing the return of evening. The toils of the day are over, ami the farmer letires to his comfortable fire- side. The reception which ho and his men-ser- vants receive frou) the careful house-wife, is pleasingly described. After their sup])er is over, they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. " 'Rout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; And there how Marian for a bastard son, Upon the cutty->tool was forced to ride. The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming a circle round the fin?, in the midst of her grand- children, and while she spins from the rock, and the spindle j.-lajs on her " russet lap," she is relating to the young ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, " O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' baimly fear; The mind's aye cradCd when the^rat-e is near." In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- tends on one side of the fire, and the cat and liouse-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions to his men-servants for the succeeding day. The house-wife follows his example, and gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; the tire runs low ; sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move off to enjiiy their peaceful slumbers. The jioet concludes by bestowing his blessing on the " husbandman and all his tribe." This is an original and truly interesting pas- toral. It possesses every thing required in this species of coniposition. We might have perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had not Burns written his Cutter's Saltirdai/ Night. The cottager returning from his labours, has no servants to accompany him, to partake of his fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle which he joins, is composed of his wife and chil- dren only ; and if it adiiiits of less varietyv-it af- fords an opportunity for representing scenes that more strongly interest the affections. The younger children running to meet him, and clambci ing round his knee ; th.c elder, returning from their we( kly labours with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains with their pai'onts, and receiving theii father's blessing and iustructicus ; the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter, " wo- , man grown," are circumstances of the most in- teresting kinfi, which are most happily delineat- ed ; and after their fiug:il supprr, the rcpresen- tati.in of these humbler cottagers forming a wider circle round their hearth, ainl uniting in the worship of God, is a jjicture the mo-t deejdy af- fecting of any which the rural nuise has ever presented to the view. Burns was admirablv adai>ted to this delineation. Like all men of genius he was of tl'.e temperament of devotion, and the powers of niemorv co-o])erated in this instance with the sensibility of his heart, and the fervour of his imagination. The Colter's Saturdai/ Night is tender and moral, it is so- lemn and devotional, and rises at length in a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with which it concludes, corres- pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- cepted, which is indeeil a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the manners and custmiis of the Scottish jieasantry would haye amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estim.iteil by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it slides deeply into ihe heart, and is calculitcd, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes and the characteis it so exquisitely de- sci ibcs. Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- fer a few observations on the lyric productions of Burns. His compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, and always after the model of the Scottish songs, on the general character and moral influence of which, some observations have already been of- fered. We may hazard a few moie particular remarks. Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, since in this species of composition, from its ad- mitting the more terrible, as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser- ved as a model to Burns, are almost without exception i).isioral, or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, fiequently treat of a rustic courtship, (ir a country wedding ; or they de- scribe the differences of opinion which arise in niarrie;! life. Burns has imitatcTl this species, and surpassed his models. The song beginning " IIuMjaud, husband, cease your strife," may be cited in support of this observation.* His other * Tlie dirtloffucs I^elwpcn hiisbanils p.'nl (hi'ir ivivrs wliicli fonii liie siibjecls of llie Scotiisli n- , :,.!_■ al- most all Iwdiorous u!nl siitirioal, aiui i^' " . i <■ ts the laily is i;rnc'rr.ily vii'iotious. Ficus : . , ; .:.ri;s of Mr. Pioiieiton, we find that theioiiui ;ii;..,l ui -iiot- ].\r.:\ ilelighicil ill such ri'iiri-senlntioHs from very early limes, in hor raile luauiaiic eii'jrts, as well as in her rustic siui'TS. u ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. comic sons;'' are of equal nii'iif:. In the rural songs of Scotland, whether humorous or ten- der, the sentiineuts are given to iiaiticular cha- racters, and very generally, the incidents are referred to particular .scenerj'. This last cir- cumstance may be considered as a distinguish- ing feature of the Scottish scngs, and on it a considerable part of their attraction depends. On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of the per- son principally interested. If love be described, it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the passion is delineated under a particular as- pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; but those gentler emotions of tenderness and af- fect'on, which do not entirely absorb the lover ; btit permit him to associate his emotions with the charms of external nature, and breathe the accents of purity and innocence, as well as of love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- land are honourably distinguished from the inost admired classical compositions of the same kind ; and by such associations, a variety as well as liveliness, is given to the I'epresentaticn of this passion, which are not to be found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be considered as invocations from lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions a degree of interest and realily is given to the sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy interviews being particularized. The lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on the Hanks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- voked to wander among the wilds of Itoslin or the Woods of Invermnij. Nor is the spot mere- ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described as well as the character, so as to rejnesent a complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the • One or two examples may illustrate this observa- tion. A Scottisli song, written about a hundred years ago, begins thus: — " On Ettrick Banlcs, on a summer's night At gloaming, vvlien the slicep drove liame I met my lassie, braw and tight, ' Come wading barefoot a' her lane. My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms about her lily-neck, And kissed and clasped there fu' lang — My words they were na mony feck." The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the language he employed with his Lowland maid to win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The sentiments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel them with double force, while we conceive that they were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he met all alone on a summer's evening, by the banks of a beautiful stream, which some of us have actually seen, and which all of us can paint to our iir.agiiial inn. I./et us take another example. It is now a nymph that speaks. Here how she expresses herself— " How biythe each morn was I to see ' My swain come o'er the hill ! maxim of Horace, nt picf.ura pncsis, is faithful- ly observed by these rustic banls, who are guid- ed by the same impulse of nature and sensibility which iuflnenced the father of epic poetry, on whose example the precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- gination is employed to interest the feelings. When we do not conceive distinctly, we do not sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstrac- tion, so useful in morals," iind so essential in science, must be abandoned when the heart is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of society paint individual objects ; and hence, among other causes, the easy access they obtain to the heart. Generalization is the voice of poets, whose learning overpowers their genius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. The dramatic style which prevails so much in the Scottish songs, whiie it contributes great- ly to the interest they excite, also shows that they have originated amcuig a jieop'e in the ear- lier stages of society. Where this form of com- position appears in songs of a modern date, it indicates that they have been written after the ancient model.* The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe tical merit, and this inequality often extoruls to the different parts of the same song. Those that are humorous, or characteristic of manners, have in general the merit of copying nature ; those that are serious are tender and often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high powers of imagination, which indeed do not He skipt the bum, and flew to me, I met him with good will." Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- ture. W.' see a shepherdess standing by the side of a brook, watching her lover, as he descends the ojiposite hill. He bounds lightly along; he appro ich-s nearer and nearer; he leaps tlie brook, ami flies into her arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair mourner, and she bursts ii;to the following exclama- tion : — " O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! I wish 1 were with my dear swain, Willi his pipe and his ewes;" Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is pointed out, and the picture is completed. * Tliat 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/ritiugs 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 eftect, of which an instance may be given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a eomposi- tiiiu 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 Ihe rol)ber lulom Gordon. The lady stands on her defence, beats otf the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are carried into effect, we learn from the expostulation ot the lady, wlio is repre entod 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 ohtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs with the more beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same effect. It has given them not merely popularity, but permanence ; it has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of the works of nature. If, from our imperfect 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 inobably from the models on which his versiiicatioa was formed, were faults likely to appear to more advantage i.i this species of composition, than in a^)y 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 polished delicacyj 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 nature are eveiy where associated with the passions and emotions of the miud. Dis- ments and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- terrupted— " O then bcspake her little son. Sate on his nourice knee ; Sajs ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. For tliu rei'k it smither.s me.' " i wad pie a' my gowd, my childe, Sae wad 1 a' my fee, For ae blast o' the westlin wind. To blaw the rehing-rod> in some stream near Duiliam, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupa-tinn on sucli a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replie'e'll work wi' our hand ; And when wearied witliout rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the Rear and the blaithrie o't. k If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; Hae we less, hae wc mair, we will aye be content ; ■■^for they say they hae mair jileiisurc that wins but a groat. Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs S the kirk or the queen ; They're nae matters for a sir.g, let tr.em sink let them swim, On your kirk I'll ne'er encro:;ch, but I'll hold it still remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the LLithiie o't. THE BLAITHRIE O'T. When I think on this world's pelf. And the little wee share I have o't to mys:;lf. " The following observation was found in a merao- landum twok belonging to liuvns : The Highlander^ Prayer at Sheriff-Muir. " O L--d l3e thou with us ; but, if thou l)e 7wt with us, be not agauist us ; but leave U between the red couts end us /' 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 pleugh. 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 5 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's 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 ! TWEEDSIDE. I;^ Ramsay's Tea-talk Miscellamj, he tells 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 Tca-tahle, 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 thiidi the anecdote may be depenrled on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tireedside is Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- ford ; the Maty he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Belches. What beautiea does Flora disclose ! Huw sweet are her smiles iipon Tweed I 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 gliding 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 full the gear and the hlnd'ry o't, is tlie turn of an old Scottish soui;, spolicn v.licn a young hamt- sonie girl marries an old man, uiiou the accomit of Iks wealth.— Kelly's Swts I'>uve:bs. 110 BURNS' WORKS. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring. We'll lo. Since my love is unfaithful, And has forsaken me ! No other love I suffer'd Within my breast to dwell ; In nought I have offended. But loving him too well." Her lover heard her mourning, As by he chanc'd to pass, And press'd unto his bosom The lovely brucket lass : " My dear," he said, " cease grieving, Since that your love's sae true, My bonnie brucket lassie I'll faithful prove to you." SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN. This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par- ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could learn any thing of its author. A LASS that was laden with care Sat heavily under yon thorn ; I listen'd awhile for to hear. When thus she began for to mourn : Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, The birds did melodiously sing. And cold nipping winter did wear A face that resembled the spring. iSae merry as we twa hae beeriy Sue merry as we twa hae been. My heart it is like fur to break. When I think on the days we hae tetiu Our flocks feeding close by his side, He gently pressing my hand, I view'd the wide world in its pride, And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! Jly dear, he would oft to me say. What makes you hard-hearted to me ? Oh ! why do you thus turn away From him who is dying for thee? Sae merry, Sfc. But now he is far from my sight, Perhaps a deceiver may prove, WTiich makes me lament day and night. That ever I granted my love. At eve, when the rest of the folk Were merrily seated to spin, I set myself under an oak. And heavily sighed for him. Sae merry, S^c. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. This is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw« ford's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shews the old " Bush ;" which, when I saw it iu the year 1787, was SONGS. 117 composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of 'Sraqiiair has planted a chiiiip of trees near by, which he calls " The New Bush," Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Pe<;;s;y grieves me ; Tho' thus I lanp;uish and complain, Alas ! she ne'er believes me. Jly vows and si^hs, like silent air, Unheeded never move her ; The bonnie hush ahoon Traquair, Was where I first did love her. That day she smil'd and made me glad, No maid seeln'd ever kinder ; 1 thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her. I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, In words that I thought tender ; If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain. The fields we then fiequented ; If e'er we meet, she shews disdain. She looks as ne'er a(ignation with a ladv, was, a« he pretended, not only deterred from keeping his ap- pointment, but thoroughly reclaimed from all such thoughts in future, by an apparition. See his Life by Doddridge. And Caddell drest, araang the rest. With gun and good claymore, man. 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, man. But gallant Roger, like a soger, Stood and bravely fotight, man ; Fm wae to tell, at last he fell, But mae down wi' him brought, man : At point of death, wi' his last breath, (Some standing round in ring, man), Ou's back lyinsf 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. The clans pursuing still, man. Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, I never saw the like, man ; Lost hands and heads cost them their That fell near Preston-dyke, man. That afternoon, when a' was done, I gaed to see the fray, man ; But hai I wist what after past, I'd better staid away, man : On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands. They pick'd my pockets bare, man ; But I wi.sh ne'er to drie sic fear, For a' the sum and mair, man. STREPHON AND LYDIA.' Tune — " The Gordon's Iiad 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 kuown 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 elude the bad consequences of such a connection, Strephon was sent abroad with a SONGS. 1S3 commission, and perished iu Adniiial Vernon's expedition to Cartliagena. 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. ri-fated youth ! no parent nigh. To catch thy 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 it, 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, 'twa.d be a sin To take me frae my mammy yet. There is a stray, characteristic verse, which ought to be restored. My minnie coft me a new gown. The kirk maun 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. JoHKSON, the publisher, with a foolish deli- cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this humorous baUad. — Buens. Sweet Sir, for your courtesie, When ye come by the Bass then, For the luve ye bear to me, Buy me a keeking-glass, then.^ Keek into the dratv-icell, Janet, Janet ; :And there yell see your honny 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' fa year. My Jo, Janet. But what if dancing on the green. And skipping like a maukin, If they should see my clouted shoon. Of me they will be taukin'. — Dance ay laiyh, and late at e'en, Janet, Janet ; Syne a' their fauts will no be seen. My Jo, Janet. Kind Sir, for your courtesie, When ye gae to the Cross, then. For the luve ye bear to me, Buy me a pacing-horse, then.— Pace upo' your spinning-wheel, Janet, Janet ; Pace upo' your spinning-wlieel. My Jo, Janet. Jly spinning-wheel is auld and stiflT, The rock o't winna stand, Sir, To keep the temper-pia in tiff. Employs right aft my hand. Sir.— MaJi 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 ilf' Gibbon's CoUection.^m Burns. Tune—" The Happy Farmer." O gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, Gtide yill gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn iny shoon. For gude yill keeps my heart abooit, 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 ; A- in BURNS' WORKS. That gear should rnonle I thought a sin, Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. Gude yill, Sfc, The meikle pot upon my back. Unto the yill-house I did pack ; It melted a' wi' the heat o' the moon, Gude yill keeps my heart uboun, Gude y'U, §-c, Gude yill hauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi' tlic 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 comes, and gude yill goes, Gude yill gars me sell my hose. Sell my hose, and 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 Marchnivint, and wife of George Baillie, of Jerviswood. — Burns. There was anes a May, and she loo'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. J3ut now she ciies, §-c. When bonny young Johny came o'er the sea, He said he saw nai thing sue lovely as me ; He hecht me baith rings and niony braw things ; And were na my heart light I wad die. lit hecht me, ^-c. He had a wee titty that loo'd 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. She raised, §"c. The day it was set, and the bridal to he, The wife took a dwani, 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 7nai7i'd Sfc. • The hand of Bums is visible here. The 1st and 4th verses only are the original ones. His kin was for ane of a higher degree," Said, What had he to do with the like of me ? All)eit I was bonny, I was na for Johny ; And were na my heart light, I wad die. Albeit J was, ^c. They said, I had neither cow nor caff. Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the draff. Nor pickles of meal rins throw the mill-ee; And were na my heart light, I wad die. ^or pickles of, S^c. 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. Hut 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, 1 wad die. The live-lang, 8fc. Were I young for thee, as I hae been, We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon green^ And linking it on the lily-white lee ; And wow gin I were but young for thee ! And linking SjX, MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of the paiish 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 mairied 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 profits of the first Michaelmas-moon. — 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 rolb 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, Her love the gods above must shiire ; While mortals with despair explore her, And at distance due adore her. O lovely maid ! my doul)ts 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 ; My Mary's tender as she's fair; Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish, She is too good to let me languish : With success crown'd, I'll not envy The folks who dwell above the sky ; Wlien ]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. — Burks. ^an«^— " TheHigliland Queen."j No more my song shall be, ye swains, Of purling streams or flowrie plains : IMore pleasing beauties now inspire. And Phoebus deigns the warbling lyre. Divinely aided, thus I mean To celebrate, to celebrate. To celebrate my Highland Queen. In her sweet innocence you'l! 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 mein All centre in, all centre in. All centre in my Highland Queen. No sordid wish or trifling joy Iler settled calm of mind destroy : From pride and affectation free, Alike she smiles on you and me. The brightest nymph that trips the green I 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 is tlie work of Balloon Tytler.' — Burns. Xune — " The Muckin' o' Ccordic's Byre." The muckin' o' Geordie's byre, And the shool an' the graip sae clean, Has gar'd me weet my cheeks, And greet wi' l)aith my een. It iciis liter mi/ fiit/ier's will, Nar yet mt/ mit/ier's desire, T/iiit e'er I should fyh my fin gen Wi' muckin'' 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 was ne'er my J'allier's ivill, Nor yet my mithers desire. That e'er I shmdd fyle my fingers 'WV muckin,' 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- dor sentence of death, to have composed this tune, which he called hts 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 pillaged, plundered, murdered, But now, alas ! at length I'm brought to punishment direct : Pale death draws near to me ; This end I never did pi'oject To hang upon a tree. To hang upon a tree, a tree, That cursed unhappy death ; Like to a wolf to worried be, And choaked in the breath : My very heart would surely break Wlien 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 democratical writings: when he took refuge at Salem as a newspaper editor. He also lived before there were Temperance Societies any where. ^^ 126 w- IfeL BURNS' WORKS. No man on earth, tnat drawetli breath. More courage had than I : I daied my foes unto their face, 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 soldiers 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 disgrace : But Peter Brown, that notour loon, Escaped and was made free i Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, To hang upon a tree. Both law and justice burled are. And fraud 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 Macpherson 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 Dufl^, 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 7io for me, Up in the ynorning early ; When a the hills are covered wV snaw, Lm sure it's winter fairly. Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving saiily ; Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Burns. UP 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, Uian 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 mornin' early ; I'd rather gae supperlcss 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 we 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 coacluJing verse sung to these words — it is, An' ay she came at e'enin fii', Amang 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, braw 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, ray 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 Stew- arton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- ham, alias Lord Lyle ; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty. — Johiiie Faa is the only old song which 1 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 himstiton the Jacobite side in 1695. — The old song was as follows : — Dumbarton's drums beat bonny, O, When they mind me of my dear Johnie, 0. How happy am I, When my soldier is by. While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ! 'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, For his graceful looks do invito 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, O: 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 the 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 faithful heart ; • Jean, daughter of John Druramond, of Megg- inch, Esq. 128 BURNS' WORKS. For empty titles we must pnrt ; For glittering sliow sbe has left me, O. No cruel fair sliall ever move My injiirM heart again to love ; Thro' distant ciiniates T iiiiist rove, Since Jeany she has left me, O. Ye powers ahove, I to your care Resign my faithless lovely fair ; Your choicest blessings he her share, Tho' she has ever left me, O ! MILL, IMILL O. The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus : The mill, mill O, and the kill, hill O, And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel O, The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, A.nd danced the miller's reel O. As I cam down yon waterside, And by yon shellin-hlll 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-O, 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 sjiill-O ; While kindly she slept, cIo!-e to her I crept. And kiss'd, and kiss"d her my fill-0. Oblig'd by command in FLiri.Iors to laud, T' employ my courage and ;^ki^-0, Frae 'er quietly I staw, hoist'd sails and awa. For wind blew fair on the hill-O. Twa years brought me hame, where loud-fraslng fame Tald me with a voice right slirilI-0, My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool. Nor ken'd wha'd done her the ill-O. Malr fond of her charms, with my son in 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-O. * The remaining two stanzas, though pretty eno\igh, partake rather too much of the rude simplicity of tho " Olden time" to be admitted heve.—EJ. 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 had done her the deed mysell-0. My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass, Buneath the shilllng-hill-O, If I did ofFence, I'se make ye amends. Before I leave Peggy's miil-0. O ! the mill, mili-O, and the kill, kill-0, And the cogging of the wheel-0, The sack and the sieve, a' thae ye man leave, And round with a soger reel-O. WALY, WALY. , In the west country I have heard a different edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the four lines, beginning with, " ^Vhen cockU' shells," Sj-c, the other way ran thus :^ O WHEREFORE need I busk my head, Or wherefore need I kame my hair. Sin my fause luve has me forsook. And says he'll never luve me mair.— . Burns. WAi.T 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 bafk 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 my hair ? For my true love has me forsook. And says he'll never loe me mair. Now Arthur-seat shall he my bed, The sheits shall noir be fyl'd by me : Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Blarti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw. And shake the green leaves aff the trie ? O gentle death, «'han 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 me 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 M7 love was clad i' th' black velvet, And I mysell in cramasie. But had I wist before I kisst, That love had been sac 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 asain He never be ! TODLEN HAME. This is, perhaps, the first bottle song that ever was composed. — Burns. 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 parts good company. Todlen hame, todlen liame, Coudna my hove come todlen hame 9 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 sma', . We'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'. Todlen hame, todlen hame, A.S round as a neep, come todlen hame. My kimmer and I lay down to sleep. And twa piatstoups at our bed-feet ; And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? Todlen but, and todlen hen, Sae round as my hove comes todlen hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, Ye're ay sae good humour'd when wceting your mou; When sober sae sour, ye'Il 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 ABERDEEN. This song is by the Duke of Gordon. — The dd verses are. There's cauid kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie ; When Uka lad maun hae his lass. Then fye, gie me my cogie. My cogie. Sirs, my cogie. Sirs, I cannot want my cogie : I wadna gie my three-girr'd stoup JPor o' the queues on S^gie. 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, Sfc Burns. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks 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 ; M)Tiheer an allemande prances : In foursome reels the Scotch delight, The threesome maist dance wond'rous ligOVJ But twasome's ding a' out 0' sight, Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. Come, lads, and view your partners well, Wale each a blythsome rogie; I'll tak this lassie to mysel, She seems sae keen and vogie ! Now piper 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 hain, For they maun hae their csme again To dance the Reel of Bogie. Now a' the lads hae done their best. Like true men of Stra'bogie ; We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. And tipple out a cogie : Come now, my lads, and tak your glaM^ 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, ^c, was the late Rev Murdoch M'Lennao, minister at Crathiet De*« side. — Burns. 37 ISO 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 : ^nd we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and ice ran, and we ran, and they ran awa\ man. Brave Argyle f and Belhaven, | Not like frighted Leven, § Which Rothes || and Haddington f sa', man ; For they all with Wightmau ** Advanced on the right, man, While others took flight, being i-a', man. And we ran, and they ran, &,'C. Lord Roxburgh f f was there. In order to share With Douglas, II who stood not in awe, man, Volunteerly to ramble With lord Loudon Campbell, || || Brave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sj-c, Sir John Schaw, f ^ 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. jind we ran, and they ran, §'c. For the cowardly Whittim, **♦ For fear they should cut him, Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man, And that in such thrang, Made Baird edicang, ^W And from the brave clans ran awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, §-c. • The battle of Dumblain or Sheriffmuir was fought the 13lh of November ITIS, between the Earl of Mar, for the Chevaher, and the Duke of Argyle for the go- vernment. Both sides daimed the victory, the left wing of either army being routed. The capture of Preston, it is very remarUable, happened on the same day. t John (Campbell) ?d Duke of Argyle, commander, jn-chief of the government forces ; a nobleman of great talents and integrity, mueli respected by all parties ; died \1\3. t John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven ; served as a vo lunteer ; and had the command of a troop of horse raised by the county of Haddington : perished at sea, § David (Leslv) Karl of Leven; for the government. [{ John (Lcsly) Earl of Rothes; for the government. ^ Thdmas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the governnent. ♦* Major-nencral Joseph Wightman. tl Jolin ^Ker) first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go- men t. Xt Archibald (Do\iglas) Duke of Douglas. III! Hugh (Campbell) Eail of Loudon. ^^ Archibald Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of Argyle. He was dangerously wounded. HH An officer in the troop of gentleman volunteers *** Major-general Thomas Whitham. tft i. e. Aid du camp. Brave IVfar * and Panmure -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, §-c. Grave Jlarshall |] aud Lithgow, § And Glengary's^ pith too, Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, •• And Gordons the bright So boldly did fight. The redcoats took flight and awa', man. And we ran, and they ran, §-c. Strath more ff and Clanronald || Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! Till both these heroes did fa', min ; [j |[ For there was such hashing. And broad-swords a clashing, Brave Forfar §§ himself got a cla', man. And ice ran, and they rati, §-c. * John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander-in-chief of the Chevalier's array ; a nobleman of great spirit, honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1752. t James (Jlaulc) Earl of Panmure ; died at Paris, 17-:;3. 4^ Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the Earl. The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the Earl of Mar's printed account 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 our left were most of them stript and wounded after taken. The Earl of Pan- mure being first of the prisoners wounded after tikcn. Tliey ha^■ing refused his parole, lie was left in a vil- lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the approach of our army, was reseu'd by his brother anil his .servants." II George (Keith) Farl Marisehall, then a youth at college. He died at his government of Nenfchatel in 1 771. His brother, the celebrated Marshall Keith, was with him in this battle. f; James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith. gow : attainted. t .Alexander M'Donald of Gleng.ai-j', laird of a clan; a brave and spirited chief : attainted. »* Thomas Drummonrl of Logie-Almond ; com- manded the two battalions of Drummoiids. He was wounded. ft John (Lyon) Earl of .Strathmoro; "a man of good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- ter." IX Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Ranald. N. B. The Captain of a elan was one who, being next or near in blood to the Chief, headed them inhisinfan ey or absence. ' II II " We have lost to our rcsret, the Earl of Strath, more and the Captain of Clan Ranald." Earl of Mar's Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- count : — " We cann't find above 60 of our men in all kill'd, among whom were the Earl of Stralhniore [and] the Captain of 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 lay on the field watching his dead body, being asked next day who that w.is, answered. He was a man yesterday. — Soswell's Journey to the He- brides, p. .'5.)f). ^ § Archib.ald (Douglas) E.arl of Forfar, who com- manded a regiment in the Duke's army. He is said to have been shot in the knee, and to have had ten or twelve cuts in his head from the broadswords. He died a few days after of his w oiir.ds. SONGS. 131 Lord Perth * stood the stovm, Seaforth -f- l)ut lukcwariu, Kilsytli I and Strathallan || not sla', man ; And Hamilton § pled The men were not bred, For he had no fancy to la', man, ^nd ICC ran, and they ran, §-c. Brave generous Southesk, ^ Tilebairn ** was brisk, Wliose 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 ran, and ihei/ ran, §'c. Lord Rollo -j-f- not fear'd, Kiatore \\ and his beard, Pitsligo II li and Ogilvie §§ a', man. And brothers Rilfours, ^^ They stood the first show'rs, Clackmannan and Burleigh * * * did cla', man. A.nd we ran, and they ran, Sfc. But Cleppan ff f acted pretty. And Strowaa the witty, |^| A poet that pleases us a', man ; For mine is but rhime. In respect of what's fine. Or what lie is able to dra', man. A7td ice ran, and they ran, §c. * James Marquis of Drummonrl, son of James .ich he survived to per- ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden..muir. § Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, command- ing under the Karl of Mar. % James (Carnegie) Earl of Southesk ; was attaint- ed, and, escaping to France, died there in 1729. ** William (Murray) Marqutsof Tullibardin, eldest son to the Duke of Athole. Having been attainted, he was taken at sea in 1746, and died soon after, of a flux, in the Tower. tf Robert (Roilo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular merit and great integrity :" died in 1758. It William (Keith) Earl of Kintore. WW Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo ; " aman of good pans, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved and esteemed." He was engaged again in the affair of 1''15, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad. vanced age in 17tii.'. ^ 5 James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- vie) Earl of Airly. He was attainted, but afterwards pardoned. His father, not dra'ing into the same yoke, javed the estate. ^"i Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- Ic'ish. «*« Robert (Bdfonr) Lord Burleigh. He was at- taiSted, and died in 1757- ttt Major William C'lephane, adjutant-general to the Marquis of Drummond. ittt Alexandir Robertson of Struan; who, having experienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical (iimness. died in peace 17^9. He was an excellent n.i'.'t, ana has left el.gies worthy of 'I'lbiilliiS. For Huntley • and Sinclair, f They both play'd the tinclair. With consciences black like a era', man. Some Angus aud Fifeinen They ran for their life, man, And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, 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, Sfc. Then Laurie, for fear Of what he might hear. Took Drummond'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, S^c. In Burrowstnunness He resides wi' disgrace. Till his neck stand in need of a dra', man. And then in a tether He'll swing frae a ladder, [And] go aff the stage with a pa', man. And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. Rob Roy stood watch On a hill i)T 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, SfC. So we a' took the flight, And IMoubray the 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, §-c. And trumpet M'Lean, Whose breeks were not clean. * Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest son to tlie Duke of Gordon, who, according to the \isual 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 parui ned, and died in 1750. T!ic 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 musiek at a', man.* yind we ran, and they ran, §-c. So there such a race was, As ne'er in that place was, And as httle chase was at a', man ; Frae ither they * run' Without touk o' drum ; They did not make use of a pa', man. A.nd 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 ease. When you have gotten a wife to please. Sae hide you yet, and bide you yet. Ye little ken what'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, Sfc. Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, Or some piece of the spinniiig-wheel, She will drive at you wi' good will, And then she'll send you to the de'il. Sae bide you yet, §"c. • The particulars of tliis anecdote no where appear. The hero is supposed to be the same Jo/m M'Lean, trumpet, who was sent from Lord Alar, then at Perth, with a letter to the Duke of Argv;?, at Stilling camp, on the 30th of October, f^'dt 'Original Letters 1731). Two copies, however, printed not long after 1715, read, " And trumpet Marine." In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter Iffarhie to'd the Earl of Haddington (then Lord Binnini;) th,it the first circuit he ever attended, as one of his Majesty's house- hold trumpeters, was the Northern, in the year 1716, a- long withold Lord Minto. That tliereason of his going there was, that the circuit immediately preceding, his father liad been so harassed in every town he went through, by the people singing his verse, " And trum- pet Marine, iv/iose breeirs," &e. of this song, that he swore he would never go again ; and actually resigned his situation in favour of his son. — CampheU's lliitory 0/ Poetry in Scotl.md. When I like you was young and free, I valued not the proudest she ; Like you I vainly boasted then. That men alone were born to reign. Sae bide you yet, §"c. Great Hercules and Sampson too. Were stronger men than I or you ; Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distafif and the sheers. Sue bide you yet, §-c. Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls ; But nought is found by sea or land, That can a wayward wife withstand. Sae bide you yet, SfC. BIDE 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 barn ; Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn. Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet. Ye little ken what may betide ye yet. Some bonny wee body may be my lot. And I'll be canty wi' thinking o't. When I gang afield, and come home at e'en, I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean j And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee, That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. Sae bide ye yet, SfC. And if there happen ever to be A diff 'rence atween my wee wifie and me, In hearty good humour, although she be teaz'd^ I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. Sae bide ye yet, Sfc. THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. BY ALEXANDER ROSS. There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow, An' she wad gae try the spinning o't. She louted her down, an* her rock took a low, And that was a bad beginning o't : She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang, An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an,* wrang. An' she choked, an' boakcd, 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, ^ m i^ '^ SONGS. 138 But I vow I shall 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' rae. Did sic a mishap an' misanter 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 fi' 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 ng but ane at the beginning o't. Foul fa' her that ever advls'd me to spin, That had been so laog 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 aiies 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 fras spinning wad keep their hands free. For fear of a bad beginning o't. Yet in spite of my counsel if they v.'ill needs run The drearysome 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 1 did, alas, and awow ! To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low, Says, that I hud 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 My heart 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' blecch'd like the snaw, And 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, I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't, A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling. For a' the wan chansie beginning o't. I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how, Ad.' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow, Of good ranty-trce for to carry my tow, An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't. For now when I minj t-". at'et Maggy Grim This morning just a^ iS beg'inriiiig o t, She was never ca'd UAncy, uut canny an' slim. An' sae it has fair'd u my spinning o't : But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry, I'll a' IMaggies can an' her can traps 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 never 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' ray hand to the spinning o't. Qtio' 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 bairos indeed. An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need To sickan an ainshaek that we drive our head. As laugs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now beard 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 I be dung with the spinning o't. For well I can mind me when black Willie Bell 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 ac;ain, But pine away bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen. An' naething 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 ea'ing me black at the bean, But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. But, be that as it happens, I care not a strae. But nane of the lads shall hue 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 surkoat 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 rullions 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 niabbies au' cocks, An' some other thing that the ladies ca' snioks. An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks. And pow what we can at the spinning o't i 'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks Frae our mither'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 plaidcn 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 remai'k-worthy that the song of Uooh/ and Fairli/, in all the old editions of it, is cal- ed The Drunken Wife d Galhwatj, which ocalizes it to that country. — Burks. THE DRUNKEN WIFE o' GALLOWAY. Oh ! what had I to do for to marry? Jly wife she drinks naething but sack and Ca- nary, I to her friends complain'd right early, O ! gin my wife wad drink hoohj and fairly, Hooly and fairly, hoofy and fairly, O ! girt my wife wad drink Iionly and fairly. First she drank cruramie, and syne she dranlt garie j Now she has druken my bonny grey marie. That carried me thro' a' the dubs and the larie O ! gin, §-c. She has druken her stockins, sa has she her shoon. And she has druken her bonny new gown ; Her woe bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely, O ! gin, §'c. If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na mucli care, But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare, When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, O ! gin, §-c. IMy Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad, The best blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely, O ! gin, §"c. The vcrra gray mittens that gaed on my ban's, To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns ; Rly bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly, O ! gin, §-c. 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 ! giyi, §'c. I never was given to wrangling nor strife. Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life ; Ere it come to a \yar I'm ay for a parley. O ! gin, Sfc. 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 ! gin, §-c. When 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, §*c. And when she comes hame she lays on the lads, She ca's the lasses baith limmers and jads, And I, my ain sell, an auld cuckold carlie, O I gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, O ! gin my loife wad drink hooly and fairly. SONGS. 135 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. BY THE REV. J. SKINNER. Tune — " Dumbarton Drums." O ! WHV should old age so much wound us 1 * There is nothing ia it all to confound us : For how happy now am I, With my eld wife sitting by. And our bairns and our oys ■(■ all around us ; For how happy noiv am I, Sfc. We began in the warld wi' naething, And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ac thing We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad ; When we got the bit meat and the cUiithing, 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, §c. When we had any stoclv, we ne'er vauntit, Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit ; But we always gave a share Of the little we cou'd spare. When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. JBut ice 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. JBut ice always had the bliss, Sfc. What tho' 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 b;ig full of poor yellow sleenies. A.nd Lliese, Lin certain, are, §'C. We have seen many wonder and forly, Of changes that almost are yearly. Among I'ich folks up and down, Both in country and in toivn, Mlio now live but scrimply and barely, jimoK^ "ich folks up and down, §r. 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. Indeed we've been in want, S^c. 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 stojie 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 ivhy should old age so much wound uSf There is nothing in it all to confound us t For hoiv happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by. And our bairns and our oys all around us. * This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted. t O^j— Granti-childrcn. TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. A PAiiT of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. •— BuilNS. In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, And frost and suaw on ilka hill. And ]5oreas, 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 fo\i time, The sun shines in the lift sae hie j Sloth never made a gracious end. Go tak your auld cloak about ye. My clouk was anes a good grey cloak, Wlien it was fitting for my wear ; But now it's scantly worth a groat. For I have worn't this thirty year ; Let's spend the gear that we have won. We little ken tlie day we'll die : Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn i o have a new cloak about me. * In the drinking scene in Othello : lago sings,— < King Stephen was a worthy peer, His breeches 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. And thou a(t but of low degree ; 'Xis pride that pulls the country dov/n. Then take thine auld cloak about thee. The old song from which these stanzas were taken was recovered by Dr. Percy, and preserved by him in his Rcliques of Ancient Poetry. 136 BURNS' WORKS. In days wlien our king Robert rang, His trews they cost but huff a crown ; He said they were a groat o'er dear, And call'd the taylor thief and loun. He was the king tliat wore a crown, And thou the man of laigh degree, *Tis pride puts a' the country down, Sae tak thy auld cloiJc about thee. Every land has its ain laugb, 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 deiry ; For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword. That your loid shall nae mair come near ye. " I'll go to bed to my Johny Fai, And I'll go to bed to my deary ; For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, That my lord shall nae mair come near me. " 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 Maybole, where his 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 came tripping down the stair, And a' her maids before her ; As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face, They coost 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 1 hae 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'. auu be, 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 simmer lilies blunie in snaw, bONGS. 137 The frost may freeze the deepest sea, But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me sae young;, Wi' his fause heart and flattei in* tongiie, 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. All auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, &c. His gear may buy him Ivve and yowes, His gear may buy him gleus and knowes, 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 IL 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 lass that made the bed to him : — two verses of it are, I XISs'd 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 ; Blythe 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 onr hero. — Burns, I HAD a horse, and I had naa mair, I gat him frae my daddy ; My purse was light, and my heart was sair But my wit it was fu' ready. And sae I thought me on a timcj Outwittens of my daddy, To fee mysel to a luwland laird, Wha had a bonnie lady. I wrote a letter, and thus began, " Jladam, 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 the laird, And far less frae my daddy, And I would blythely 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, Outwittens o' ony body, And made John Gowhston of the laird, And kiss'd his bonnie lady." 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 flcg, 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 wlsh'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 Sride- groom greets when the sun gan^s down. Tho 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 Jauiie gade to sea. And the crown and the pound were baith for me. 38 1S8 BURNS' WORKS. He had nae been awa a week but onlj' twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father biak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea. And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. My father coudna work, and my mother coudna 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, t 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, the' 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 cou(hia think it he, 'Till he said, " I'm come back fur to marry thee." sair did we g^eet, 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 Gray is kind unto me. UP AND WARN A' WILLIE. The expression, " Up and warn a! Willie,^' alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a High- land 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 1 got from Tom Niel,* of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. Up and warn a\ Willie, Warn, warn a' ,• To hear my canty Highland sang. Relate the thing I saw, WiUie. — Burns^ • Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgli, and lived chiefly by making coffins. He was also Precentor, or Clerk, in one of the churches. He had a good strong voice, and was greatly distinguished by his (louors of mimicry, and his humorous manner orsingin" the old Scottish ballads. Whek 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 whirry 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', Willie. 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 Higiiland 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 Dumblane 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, \Villie» SONGS. 189 We baith did fight and baith did beat, And baith did lin 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- son'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 lan- guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with their Historical Epithets, are done in the true Lowland Scottish taste of au 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 Itoh." " Thraion-inoiCd Rab o' the Dubs." " Roarin Jock V the Swair.'^ " Slaverin Simmie o' Tods/iaiv." " Souple Kate o' Irongray," &c. &c. — Burns. Ft let us all to the bridal. For there will be lilting there ; For Jockie's to be married to Maggie, T-he lass wi' the gaudea 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 bridal, For there will be lilting there. For Jockie's to be tnarry'd to Magyie, The lass with the yauden hair. And there will be Sandie the sutor. And ' Will' with the meikle mow ; And there will be Tam the ' bluter,' With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. And there will be bow-legged Robbie, With thumbless Katie's goodman ; And there will be blue-cheeked Duwbie, And Lawrie the laird of the land. Fy let us all, §"c. And there will be sow-libber Patie, And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill, Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie, That woijs in the how of the hill ; And there will be Alaster Sibbie, Wha in with black Bessy did mool, With sneevling Lillie, and Tibbie, The lass that stands aft on the stool. Fy let us all, §-c. And Madge that was buckled to Stecnie, And coft him [grey] breeks to his arse, ' Wha after was' hangit for stealing, Great mercy it happened na warse ; And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg, Wha ' gade' to the south for manners, And bang'd up her wame in Mons Meg. Fy let us all, §-c«. And there will be Judan Maclawrie, And blinkiii daft Barbra ' Macleg,* Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, And shangy-mou'd halucket Meg. And there will be happer-ars'd Nansy, And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name, Muck Madie, and fat-hipped Lizie, The lass with the gauden wame Fy let us all, &.c. And there will be girn-again Gibbie, With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, And Misieshinn'd Mungo JIacapie, The lad that was skipper himsel. There lads and lasses in pearlings Will feast in the heart of the ha'. On sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings. That are baith sodden and raw. Fy let us all, §-c. And there wiU be fadges and brachen. With fouth of good gappoks of skate, Pow-sodie, and dramraock, and crowdie. And callour nout-feet in a plate ; And there will be partans and buckics, Speldens and whytens enew. And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize, And scadlips to sup till ye spew. Fy let us all, §r.' And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, And sowens, and farles, and baps, With swats, and well-scraped paunches. And brandy in stoups and in caps ; And there will be meal-kail and castocks, With skink to sup till ye rive ; And rosts to rost on a brander. Of flouks that were taken alive. Fy let us all, 8fc. Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles. And a mill of good snishing to prie ; When weary with eating and drinking, We'll rise up and dance till we die. Then fy let us all to the bridal. For there will be lilting there ; For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggy, The lass with the gauden hair. O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG MAN. This song has long been known among the inlxabitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, where it is a great favourite. The fii-st verse should be restored to its original state. # 140 BURNS' WORKS. I FEED a lad at Roodsinass, Wi' siller pennies three ; When he came home at Martinmass, He could nae labour lea. canna ye labour lea, young lad, O canna ye labour lea ? Indeed, quo' he, my hand's out— Au' up his graith packed he. This old way is the truest, for the terms, Jioodmass is the hiring fair, and Halhwmass %\it first of the half year. — Buuns. 1 FEED a man at Martinmas', Wi' arle-pennies three ; But a' the faute I had to him, He could nac labour lea. O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea 9 Gae hack the gate ye came again, Ye'se never scurn me. O clappin's gude iu Fcbarw.ir, An' kissins sweet in jMay ; But what signifies a young man's love An't dinna last for ay. O can ye, S^c. O kissin is the key of hive, An clappin is the lock. An' makin-of's the best thing That e'er a young thing got. O can ye, S)'c. IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. This tune was the composition of General Reid, and called by him The Highland, nr 42d Jiegiment's March. The words are by Sir Harry Erskine. — Burns. In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old Rome, From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come. Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain. But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. Such our love of liberty, our country, and our laws, That like our ancestors of old, we stand by Freedom's cause ; We'll bravely fight like heroes bold, for honour and applause, A.nd defy the French, with all their art, to alter our laws. No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, No luxurious tables enervate our race. Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial strain, So do we the old Scottish valour retain. Such our love, |rc. We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale, As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail. As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap- pear, ttlinerva would dread to encounter our spear. Suck our love, §-c. As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, So are wc enrag'd v/hen we rush on our foes ; We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks. Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes. Such our love, ^c. Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of eld France, In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- vance ; But when our claymores they saw us produce. Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. Such our love, Sfc. In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, Jlay our councils be wise, and our commerce increase ; And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find. That our friends still prove true, and our beau- ties prove kind. T/icn we'll defend our liberty, our country, and our laws. And tench our late posterity to fight in Freedom's cause, That they like our ancestors bold, §'c. WOO'D AND IMAHRIED AND A', Wid'd and married and a', Woo'd and married and a', V/tis she not very weel aff, Was woo'd and married and «' / The bride came out o' the byre. And O as she dighted her cheeks, " Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And has nouther blanket nor sheets; Has nouther blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too ; The bride that has a' to borrow. Has e'en right meikle ado." Woo'd and married, §"c. Out spake the bride's father, As he came in frae the pleugh, " O had yere tongue, my daughter. And yese get gear enough ; The stirk that stands i' the tether, And our bra' basin'd yade. Will carry ye hame yere corn ; What wad ye be at ye jade ?" Woo'd and married, ^c. Outspake the bride's mither, " What deil needs a' this pride ? SONGS 14,1 I had nae a plack in my poucn That night I was a bride ; My gown was linsy-woolsy, And ne'er a sark ava, And ye hae ribbons and buskius Mair than ane or twa." Wood arid married, S^c. " What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, " Tho' we be scant o' claiths, We'll cieep the nearer thegither, And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; Simmer is coming on, And we'll get teats o' woo ; And we'll get a lass o' our ain, And she'll spin claiths anew." Woo'd and married, S^c. Outspake the bride's brither, As he came in wi' the kye, " Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I ; For you're baith proud and saucy, And no for a puir man's wife, Gin I canna get a better, I'se never take ane 1' my life." Woo'd and married, §-c. Outspake the bride's sister. As she came in frae the byre, •' O gin I were but married. It's a' that I desire ; But we puir folk maun live single. And do the best we can ; I dinna care what I should want. If I could but get a man." Woo'd and married and a', Woo'd and married and a', "Was she not very weel aff, Was woo'd and married and a'. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is really attended with less difficulty than to con- vince a blockhead that one of these je;/ d'esprits is a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more palpable imitation than Hardiknutc. The manners indeed are old, but the langiKic^e is of yesterday. Its author must very s-oou be dis covered. — Bukns. BY JANE ELLIOT. I've heard a lilting At the ewes milking, Lasses a' lilting before the break o' day. But now I hear moaning On ilka green loaning, Since our brave fonesters are a' wed away. At buchts in the morning Nae blythe lads are scorning ; The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae : Nae daffin, nae gabbing. But sighing and sabhing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. At e'en in the gloniing Nae swankies are roaming, 'Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ; For ilk ane sits drearie. Lamenting her dearie, The flow'rs o' the forest wli' are a' wed away. In har'st at the shearing Nae blythe lads are jeering, The Bansters are jyart, and runkled, and grey ; At fairs nor at preaching, Nae wooing, nae fleeching. Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. O dule for the order ! Sent our lads to the border ! The English for anes, by guile wan the day : The flow'rs of the forest Wha aye shone the foremost, The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST, Bt MRS. COCKBURN. I've seen the smiling of fortune baguiling, I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost. With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay : Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming. But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae. I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a- dorning. And the red storm roaring, before the parting day ; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams. Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their way. O fickle fortune ; why this cruel sporting ? AMiy thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? Thy frowns canuot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me. Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. # 142 BURNS' WORKS. TIBBIE DUNBAR. Tune — " Johnny M'Gill." This tune is said to be the composition of John M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his own name. — Burns. O, WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- bar ; Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunb:ir ? I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur. And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- bar ! THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- say's. The old words are : — Burns. O THIS is no mine ain house. My ain house, my ain house ; This is no mine ain house, I ken by the biggin o't. There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks. Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; And pan-cakes the riggin o't. This is no my ain wean. My ain wean, my ain wean ; This is no ray ain wean, I ken by the greetie o't. I'll tak the curchie aff my head, AfF my head, aff my head ; I'll tak the curchie aff my head. And row't about the feetie o't. The tune is an old Highland air, called Shican truish willij/ian. THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to com- memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. JMr. Callander of Craigforth, published some years ago, an edition of Chrisfs Kirk on the Green, and the Gaberlunzie-Man, with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of GosfonI, in Aberlady Parish, and that it was suspected by his coteniporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that i)art of the country he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. 'I'liree favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, ^nne of then resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- l)ourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following satirical advice to his Majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon. Sow not your seed on Sandi/Iands, S|)eud not your strength in Weir, And ride not on an JSlephant, For spoiling o' your gear. — Burns. The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, Wi' many good e'ens and davs to me, Saving, Goodwife, for your couitesie, Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! The night was cauld, the carle was wat, And down ayont the ingle he sat ; My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap. And cadgily ranted and sang. O wow ! quo' he, were I as free, As first when I saw this country, How blyth and merry wad I be ! And I wad never think lang. He grew canty, and she grew fain ; But little did her auld minny ken What thir sice twa togither were say'n, When wooing they were sae thrang. And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black As e'er the crown of my dad)'s hat, 'Tis I wad lay thee by ray back, And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang. And O ! quo' she, ann I were as white, As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, I'd dead me braw, and lady like. And awa' with thee I'd gang. Between the twa was made a plot ; They raise awee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock. And f;ist to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise. And at her leisure put on her claise ; Syne to the servant's bed she gaes. To speer for the silly poor man. ' She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, The stiae was cauld, he wa' away, She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, For some of our gear will be gane. Some ran to coffers, and some to kists. But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, She danc'd her lane, cry'd. Praise be blest, I have lodg'd a leal jjoor man. Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae butt the house, lass, and waken m^ And bid her come quickly ben. SONGS. US The servant gade where the daughter lay, The sheets was cauld, she was away, And fast to her goodwife g:m say, She's aff with the Gaberlunzie-nian. O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And h:uste ye find these traytors a2;ain ; For she's be burnt, and hii's be slain, The wearifu' Gabcilunzle-nian. Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit, The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : She cou"d na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, But ay she curs'd and she bau'd. Jlean time far hind out o'er the lea, Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see. The twa, with kindly sport and glee. Cut frae a new cheese a whang : The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. O kend my minny I were wi' yo", lllsardly wad she crook her mou. Sic a poor man she'd never trow. After the Gaberlunzie-man. My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, And ha' nae lear'd the beggar's tongue, To follow me frae town to town. And carry the Gaberlunzie on. Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, And spindles and whoilcs for them wha need, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout o'er my eye, A cripple or blind they will ca' me, While we shall be merry and sing. ■\Vhen Charlie look'd the letter upon. He drew his sword the scabbard from, Come follow me, my merry merry men. And we'll meet wi' Coup i' the morning. Hei/ Jonnie Coup, §-c. Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word, Come let us try both fire and sword, And dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird, That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, S^c. When Jonnie Coup he heard of this. He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness. To flie awa' i' the morning. Hct/ Jonnie Coup, Sfc, Fy now Jonnie get up and rin. The Highland bagpipes makes a din, It's best to sleep in a hale skin. For 'twill be a bluddie morning. Uei/ Jonnie Coup, Sj-c. When Jonnie Coup to Berwick came. They spear'd at him, where's a* your men, The deil confound me gin I ken, For I left them a' i' the morning. Hei/ Jonnie Coup, SfC. Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat. Anil hiive your men in sic a strait. So early in the morning. IJei/ Jonnie Coup, Sfc, Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a Reg, With their claymores and philabegs. If I face them again, deil break my legs, So I wish you a good morning. JJey Jonnie Coup, Sfc. JONNIE COUP. This satirical song was composed to comme- morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the clans. The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heaid some verses, but now only remem- ber the title, which was, Will ye go to the coals In the morning. BUKNS. Coup sent a letter frae Dunbar, Charlie, meet me an ye dare. And I'll learn you the art of war. If you'll meet wi' me in the morning. Hey Jonnie Coup, are ye waking yet 9 Or are your drums a-benting yet ? If ye were waking I woud wait To gang to the coals V the morning. A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. I TICKED up this old song and tune from s country girl in Nithsdale, — 1 never met with it elsewhere in Scotland. — Burns. Whare are you gaun, my bonnie lass, Where are you gaun, my hinnie. She answer 'd me right saucilie, An errand for my minnie. O whare live ye, my bonnlo lass, O whare live ye, my hinnie. By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken. In a wee house wi' my minnie. But I foor up the glen at een, To see my bonnie lassie ; And lang before the gray mom cam, She was na hauf sae saucie. U4 BURNS' WORKS. O weary fa' tlie waiikrife cock, And the foumart lay his crawin ! He wauken'd the auld wife fiae her sleep, A wee blink or the dawin. An angry wife I wat she raise. And o'er the bed she brought her ; And wi' a mickle hazle ruug She made her a weel pay'd dochter. O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! Thou art a gay and a bonnie lass, But thou hast a waukrife minnie.* TULLOCHGOROTL This, first of songs, is the master-piece of cay old friend Skinner. He was passing the day at the town of Ellon, I think it was, in a friend's house whose name was Montgomery Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Ttdlochgorum wanted words, she begged them of ]Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. Tliese particulars I had from the author's son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. — Burns. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, And lay your disputes all aside. What signifies't for folks to chide For what was done before them : Let Whig and Toiy all agree. Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory all agree. To drop their Whig- mig-morum. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, And cheerful sing alang wi' me, The Reel o' TuUochgorum. O, Tullochgorum's my delight, It gars us a' in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite. In conscience I abhor him : For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', BIythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, Blythe and cheerie we'll be a', And make a happy quorum. For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'. As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance till we be like to fa' The Reel o' TuUochgorum. * Tlie peasantry have a verse superior to some of those recovered by Burns, which is worthy of notice- —Ed. ' " O though thy liair was gowden weft, An' thy hps o' drapping hinnie. Thou hast gotten the clog that winna cling For a' you're waukrife minnie." Wliat needs there be sae great a fraise, Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hunder score o* them. They're dowf and dowie at the best, Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, Dowf and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum ; They're dowf and dowie at the best, Their allegros and a' the rest, They canna please a Scottish taste, Compar'd wi' TuUochgorum. Let warldly worms their minds oppress Wi' fears o' want and double cess. And sullen sots themsells distress Wi' keeping up decorum : Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky. Sour and sulky shall we sit Like old philosophorum ! Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever try to shake a fit To the Reel o' TuUochgorum ? May choicest blessings ay attend Each honest, open-hearted friend. And calm and quiet be his end. And a' that's good watch o'er him ; ]\Iay peace and plenty be his lot. Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, Peace and plenty be his lot. And dainties a great store o' them; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot, And may he never want a groat, "That's fond o' TuUochgorum ! But for the sullen frumpish fool. That loves to be oppression's tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him ; May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, Dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, wae's me for him ! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi*" a' the ills that come frae France, Wha e'er he be that winna dance The Reel o* TuUochgorum. JOHN O' BADENYON. This excellent song is also the compositlos of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Tanshart. — Burns. When first I cam to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth. And fain the world would know ; SONGS. 143 Xn best attire I stcpt abroad, With spirits bri^k and gay, And hert) and there and every where Was like a morn in May ; No care I had nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a beau I might have past In country or in town ; I still was pleas'd where'er I went, And when I was aloue, I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself Wi* John o' Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime A mistress I must find. For Cove, I heard, gave one an air, And ev'n improved the mind : _^ On Phillis fair above the rest Kind fortune fixt my eyes, Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice ; To Cupid now with hearty prayer I offer'd many a vow ; And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, As other lovers do ; But, when at last I breath'd my flame, I found her cold as stone ; I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon, When love had thus my heart beguil'd With foolish hopes and vain ; To friendsltip''s port I steer'd my course, And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; A friend I got by lucky chance, 'Twas somethmg like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift, And such a gift was mine ; And now whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom I fieely might apply ; A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon, Methought I should be wiser next, And would a patriot turn, Began to doat en Johnny Wilkes, And cry up Parson Home.* Their manly spirit I adniir'd, And prais'd their noble zeal. Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain'd the public weal ; But e'er a mouth or two had past, I found myself betray 'd, 'Twas self and party after all, For a' the stir they made ; At last I saw the- factious knaves Insult the very throne, I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. • This song was composed when Wilkes, Home, &C, were making a noise about lilicrty. Wliat next to do I mus'd a while. Still hoping to succeed, I pitch'd on hooks for company, And gravely try'd to read : I bought and burrow'd every where, And study'd night and day, Nor niiss'd what dean or doctor wrote That happen'd in my way : Philosophy I now esteem'd The ornament of youth. And carefully through many a page I hunted after truth. A thousand various schemes I try'd, And yet was pleas'd with none, I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon, And now ye youngsters every where, That wish to make a show, Take heed in time, nor fondly hope For happiness belnw ; What you may fancy jjleasure here. Is but an empty name. And girls, and friends, and books, and M, You'll find them all the same ; Then be advised and warning take From such a man as me ; I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, Nor one of high degree ; You'll meet displeasure every where ; Then do as I have done. E'en tune your pipe and please yourselres With John o' Badenyon. THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. Here is a verse of this lively old song that used to be sung after these printed ones.—* Burns, O, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? O, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the ited, An' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, ye»> treen ? COCKPEN. O, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fu* law, O, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law. And when she came ben she kiss'd CockpeOf And syne deny'd she did it at a*. And was ua Cockpen right saucie with a*, And was na Cockpen right saucie with a'. In leaving the daughter of a Lord, And kissin a collier lassie, an' a' i O never look down my lassie, at a , O never look down my lassie, at a', Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure compIetOf As the finest dame in castle or ha*« 39 146 BURNS' WORKS. Tho' thou lias nae silk and holland sae sma', Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', Thy coat and thy saik are thy ain handy-wark, And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! The following set of this song is now very common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the novel of " Marriage :" THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. ■ Tune—" The Laird of Cockpen." The Laird o' Cockpen, he is proud an' he's great ; His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state : He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; At his table head he thought she'd look well ; M'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — Aud wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; And rapjj'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha" Lee : Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. Mistress Joan she was makia' the elder-flower wine : " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" She put aff her apron, and ou her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, aud gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he booed fu' low ; And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird, when the lady said Na', And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumbfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie : And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen, She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : Oh for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o* Cockpen. Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk on the green ; Now she sits in the Ha' like a weel-tappit hen ; But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Coekpea. CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWES. This beautiful song is in the true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or woids were in print before. — Burns. Ca' the ewes to the knoioes, Ca them tchare the heather grows . Co' them whare the burnie rowes, JUt/ bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie. Ca' the ewes, Sj-c. Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide. Beneath the hazels spreading wide, The moim it shines fu' clearly. Ca' the ewes, Ifc. I was bred up at nae sic school, IMy shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me. Ca' the ewes, Sfc. Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep. And ye sail be my dearie. Ca' the ewes, 8fc. If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you my shepherd-lad. And ye may rowe me in your plaid, And I sail be your dearie. Ca' the ewes, Sfc. Wliile waters wimple to the sea ; While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 'Till clay-cauld death sail blin my e'e. Ye sail be my dearie. • Ca' the ewes, §-c. LADIE MARY ANN. The starting verse should be restored ;— • Burns. " Lady IMart Ann gaed out o' her bower. An' she found a bonnie rose new i' the flower } As she kiss'd its ruddy lips drapping wi' dew, Quo' she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie's mou." • Mrs. Bums informeil the Editor that the last vers* of this song was written by Bums. SONGS. U7 LADIE MARY ANN. O Lady Mary Ann looks o'er the castle wa*, She saw three >>'»"'iie boys playing at the ba", The youngesi; ne was the flower amaiig them a' ; My bonnie laddie's young, but he's giowiu' 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. Voung 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 far better days, I tiust, will come again. For ray bonnie laddie's young, but he's grov/- ia' 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. — Bubns. 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 flang amang them a', man ; The butter-box got mony knocks. Their riggings paid for a* then ; They got their paiks, 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 amang them a', man ; The English blades got broken heads. Their crowns were ck-av'd in twa then. The durk and door made their last hour, And prov'd their final fa, man ; They thought the devil had boon 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 : In 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, Carae linking up the brink, man ; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, They bi'od 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/i' on a ri, oh' on a ri. Why should ehe lose king Shames, man ? Oil' rig in di, oh' rig in 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 nane-selTs 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 ' run' awa' then. THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKIT HORN Another excellent song of old Skinner'a.— Burns. Were I but able to rehearse IMy 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 fir awa', Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'. I never needed tar nor kcil To mark her upo' hip or heel. ♦ Prince of Onii'.ge. 148 BURNS' WORKS. Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' 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 fowmart 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 lonn that did it. Sworn I have as well as said it, Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a thra* : 1 never met wi' sic a turn, As this sin ever I was born, My Ewie wi' the crookit 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 fauid, Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' : For a' the claith that we hae worn, Fra« her and ber's sae often 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, &c. ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN. This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu- mour and convivial merriment, is an intimate favourite at Sridal Trystes, and House-heat- ir.ffs. It contains a spirited picture of a country ale-house touched oflF with all the lightsome gaiety so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, whea at a fair. Instead of the line, " 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 heat* them, and drops them into the qnaigh to warm the ale : " Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken To gar the swats gae glibber down." Burns. BLYTH WAS SHE Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, Blyth 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 down, And heght to keep me lawing-free ; But, cunning carling 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 quench'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 heeze our hope. But Andro' wi' his cutty gun. SONGS. 149 The carllng brouglit her kebbuck ben. With girdle-cakes weel-toasteii brown, Well does the canny kiinmer 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, lie 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 hac been east, I hae been west, I hae been far ayont the sun ; But the biythest lad that e'er I sa\7 Was Andre 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 steahng 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 in the same ; He's no in Stirling town this day, Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham, Up then bespake the brave Wliitefoord, As he sat by the bishop's knee. Five hundred white stots I'll gie you If ye'll 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 co.it, Hughie Graham this day shall die. Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop's knee ; Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. O haud your tongue now lady fair. And wi' your pleading let it be ; Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Ita for my honor he maun die. They've ta'en him to the gallows knowCi He locked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek. Nor ever did he bliuk 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 haud your tongue, my fither dear, And wi' your weeping let it be j 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 clearj And let him come at twelve o'clock. And see me pay the bishop's mare. And ye may gie my brother James My sword that's bent in the middle brown. And bid him come at four o'clock. And see his brother Hugh cut down. Remember me to Maggy my wife. The niest time ye gang o'er the moor, Tell her she staw the bishop's mare. Tell her she was the bisliop'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 tlieir 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. Whkre 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 down. Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? Where gat ye your dinner, Mv hanilsotae voun? man .' 150 BURNS' WORKS. O, I dined with my true love, So ni;ike my bod soon : For I'm vvae^ and I'm weaiy, And fain would lie down. O, what was your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? O, what was jour dinner, My handsome young man ? Eels boih'd in broo, mother ; So make my bid soon : For I'm w ae, and I'm wearj'. And fain would lie down. O, where did she find them. Lord Randal, my sun ? O, where did she cutih them, I\Iy 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 weary, And fain would lie down. I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son ! I fear you are jioisoned. My liiindi^ome young man ! yes I am poisoned, — So make my bed soon : 1 am sick, sick at heart. And I now must lie down. LOGAN BRAES. There 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." BuriNS. 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, tliae days are gane> 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 hanie frae Logan Kirk ! I Weil may sing, tliae 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 Bi-aes ! O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl who was not only aw — 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 : — I 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, Keci)ing a' her yowes thegither. O'er the moor amang the heather. O'er the moor amanp 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, 8fc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather, She left her flocks at laige to rove Amang the bouuie blooming heather. O'er the moor, §"C. While thus we lay slie sang a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther. And ay the byrden o' the sang Was— o'er the moor amang the heather. O'lr the mo'ir, i^c. SONGS. 151 She cTiarm'd my lieart, and aye sinsyne, I could na think on any ither : By sta and sky she shall be mine ! The bonnie lass amang the heather. O'er the moor, Sfc. BONNIE DUNDEE. WHARE gat ye tliat hauver-meal bannock, O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye see ! 1 got it fiae a sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! Aft has he doudl'd mo on his knee : May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie. And sen' him safe hanie to his babie and me ! JMay blessins light on thy sweet, we lippie ! Jlay blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree! Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, Thou's deai-er, 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 deai- ! Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the baik o' yon rotten ti-ce, Yo s'lp fiae me like a knotless thread, An' ye'U crack your credit wi' mae tlian me. DONOCHT-HEAD. Tu7ie — " Gordon Castle." Kfen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Hcad,* The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, The Gaberkmzie tirls my sneck. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. " Ciiald is the night, O let me in, " And dinna let your minstrel fa', " And dinna let his wlndin-sheet " Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! " Full ninety winters hae I seen, ' " And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, *' And niony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, " To lilts which frae my drone I blew." IMy Ejipie wak'd, and soon she ciy'd, " Get up, Guidmau, and let him inj *' 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 tlio' she bans and scaulds awee ; But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, O liaith, it's doubly dear to me ! C!onne in, auld Carl ! I'll steer my fire, I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame ; Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate, Ye should na stray sae far frae bame. " 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 coiifiosers 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. 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 tlie 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 bud 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. A mountain in the North, THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. This Song is one of the many efiusiona of Scots jacobitism. — The title, Flowers of Edin~ hurgh, 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. * 'fhis affecting poem was long attributed to Bums. He thus remarks on it, " Donoc/it-Headis not mine: I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." It was the composition of William Pickering, a north of England poet, who is not known to have written any thing more. I5d BURNS' WORKS. ' Bv tlie oye, it is sinp.ular cnougTi tliat tlie Scnttisli IMiises were al! Jacobites 1 have )) liil more attention to every desciiption of Seots songs than jjerhaps any boiiy living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or e»eii the title of the most trilling 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 would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head ; and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting thaa * • — 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. I 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 1 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 naethlng 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 May 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 and pleasant gale ; Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait. And convey me on your tail ; Heavens bless my voyage with success. While crossing of the raging main, And send me safe o'er to that distant shore. To meet my lovely darling swain. All joy and mirth at our return Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing. To grace and crown our nuptial day. Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms. My heart once more I will regain ; Then I'll range no more to a distant shore, But in love will enjoy my darling swain. CHARLIE, HE'S MY DARLING OI.D VERSES. Tune—" Charlie is my darliug." 'TwAS on a Monday morning, Richt early in the year. That Charlie cam to our toun, The young Chevalier. Aurl Charlie he's my darling. My darling, my darling : Clnirlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier. As he was walking up the street, The city for to view, O there he spied a bonnie lass, The window looking through. And Charlie, §•«. Sae licht's he jumped up the stair, And tirled at the pin ; And wha sae ready as hersell. To let the laddie in ! And Charlie, §-c. 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, §'c. It's up yon heathy mountain, And down yon scroggy glen, We daurna gang a- milking, For Charlie and his men. And Charlie, §-c 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-soled 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 inuon. There siM a souter in Solkiik, Wha sings as he draws his thrcad- 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 -igo ; And saw ye there Clerk Dishingtoa ? f Sing irom, igon, ago. His wig was like a doukit hen, Igo and ago ; The tail o*t like a goose -pen, Sing ironi, igon, ago. And d'nna ye ken Sir John M.ilcolm ? Igo and ago ; Gin he's a wise man I mistak him, Sing irom, igon, ago. And haud yc 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 see the leviathan skip, Igo and ago, And wi* his tail ding ower a ship, Sing irom, igon, ago. • There is a somewhat difTcrcnt version of this stranqe song in Herd's Collection, 1776- The present, which t think the best, is copied fiom the Scottish Minstrel. t The person known in Scottish song and tradition by the epithet Clerk Dishiiigton, was a notary who re. sided about ihe middle of the last century in Crail, Mid acted as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. I 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. GALL.* Tune — " My only jo and dearie, O." Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, I\Iy only jo and dearie, O ; Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew, Upon the bank sae briery, O. Tliy ti'eth are o' the ivory, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ce : Nae joy, n.ie pleasure blinks on me. My only jo and dearie, O. When we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinkin* bonnie, O, Aft we Wild d,iff the lee lang day. Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee, And round about the thorny tree ; Or pu' the wild How'rs a' tor thee, My only jo and dearie, O. 1 hae a wish I canna tine, 'Alang a' the cares tliat grieve me, O ; A wish that thou wert ever mine. And never mair 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 (/ill J u-ere fairly shut o' her! Fairlif, fairly, fairly shot o' her I O gin I were fairly shot o her ! If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' htrl Till we were married, I couldna see licLt till her ; For a month after, a' thing aye gaed richt wi' her : But these ten years I hae prayed for a wright to her — O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shot o' her I ^c. Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi* lier : 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 shut o' her ! ^c. She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her ; There's no a gudewife in the haill countrj-tida 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, ana died at an early age^ about the beginning of the present century. 154 BURNS' WORKS. "Wl' dress and wi' drinlc, the dell wadna bide wi' her : O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! O gin I were fairly shut o' /ler ! §-c. If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi' her. And into the yird I'd mak myscll 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 u- ere fairly shut o' her I §*c. FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D ME THIS. False hive ! and hae ye play'd me this, In summer, 'uiid the flowers? I shall repay ye back again In winter, 'raid 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, BIY 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 niaut 's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. And fare ye weel, my pike-staff ; Sing bum, bee, berry, bum : Fare ye weel, my pike-staff; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, Wi' you nae 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, 177^.— A slightly difftr. ent version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth of Davie GcUatley, in the celebrated novel of Waver- lev- •• False love, and hast thou play'd me this. In summer, among the flowers? I will rei)ay thee back again In winter, among the showers. " Unless again, again, my love. Unless you turn again. As you with nther maidens rove, I'll smile on other men " Wlien our gudewife had puddlns to mafe, And she boil'd them in the jian. And tlie harriii o' our door wed, weil, weil. And the barrin^ o" our dour weil. The wind blew caidd frae south to north. It blew into the floor ; Says our giideman to our gudewife. Get u]) and bar the door. And the barrin', Sfc. BIy hand is in my hussyfe skep> Guileinan, as ye may see ; An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner year. It's no be barr'd for ine. And the harrin, §"c. They inade 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 burr in', ^-c. Then by there came twa gentlemen. At twelve o'clock at night ; And they could neither see house nor ha*. Nor coal nor caudle-licht. And the barrin', Sfc. 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 ban in , i^c. And first tiiey ate the white puddlns. And syne they ate the black ; And niuckle thcicht our gudewife to bersell. But never a word she spak. And the barri?i\ 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', ^'c. O, up then startit our gudeman. And an angry man was he : Wild ye kiss ray wife before my face. And scaud me wi' puddin' tree ? And the barrin', 8fc. 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 dnor.» Ajid the barrin', Sfc. ■ From Herd's Collection, 1T76. — Tradition, as re. ported in Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that th« SONGS. 155 LOGIE O' BUCHAN. Tune — " Logic o' Duchan." O, LoGiE o' Budiin, O, Logie, tlip laiid, They hue ta'eti awa Jamie that delved in the yard ; He play'd on the pipe and the viol sae smi' ; They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the tlower o' iheiii a'. Me said. Think na lang, lassie, though I ganc) awa ; He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa ; For the simmer is coming, cauld u;inter''s aira, And I'll come hack and see thee in spite o' them a\ O, Sandie has owsen, and siller, and kye, A house and a haddin, and a' things forhye, But I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet iu's hand, Before I'd hae Sundy wi' houses and land. lie 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 nine o' th.em a' like my Jamie to me. He said, §'c. I sit on my creepie, and spin at my wheel, And tliiidv on tlie laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ; He had l)ut ae sixpence — he brak it in twa, And he gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa. Then, haste yc hack, Jamie, and hide na awa, TIten haste ye hack, Jamie, and bide na awa ; Simmer is comin', cauld wi7tter's awa, And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. Tune — " Hero's a health to tlicm thafs awa." Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; Here's a heallii to them that were here short syne, And canna be here the day. It's gude to be merry and wise; « It's gude to be honest and true ; It's gude to be aff wi' the auld love. Before yc be on wi' the new. " Rudeman" of this son? was a person of the name of John Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford-Muir. There are two tunes to wliich 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 tradilion 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 Ameriean student, we suspect to have been imported from his own country. • " Logie o' Buehan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan of IVterhead, in !us C; leanings of Scarce Old Ballads (I8-'7), to have been the composition of Mr. George Halket, and to have been written by him while school- m-sier of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the year \T5Ci. " The poetry of this indivibells are coming, 8fc. The Campbells they are a' in arras. Their loyal faith and truth to show. With banners rattling in the wind ; The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! • The Campbells are coming, Sfc, MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A HECKLE. Tune — '" Lord Breadalbane's March." O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle, And merry hae I been shapin 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 nicht I cuddle my kimmer. And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a king. Bitter in dule I lickit my wiunins, 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, ray 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 insihuated, as an oh dil, that it was com- posed on the imprisonment of Queen Mary in Loch- leven 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 MAxV. 7*urte^" 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 aulJ man ? In cam her cousin Kate, when it wa3 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, I wish I had my silly auld man !* FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY OLD VERSES. Tune—" Somebody." For the sake of smnthndy. For the sake nf somebody, I could wake a ivinter nicht. For the sake of sumebody, I AM gaun to seek a wife, I am gaun to buy a plaidy ; I have three stane o' woo' ; Carline, is thy dauathter ready ? For the sake of somebody, S^-c. * From Ritson's " Scottish Songs," ITi1,1, into which the editor mentions that it was coiiied from some common collection, whose title he diil not re- member. It has often been the Uisk of the Seottisli 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 mucli force of moral painting, as in the present case. No tune is assigned to thv song in Ritson's Collection ; but tlie present editor has ventured to suggest the fine air, " Saw ye my father," rattier as being suitable to the peculiar rhythm of the verip^, than to the spirit of the compo. tition. 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. What 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, §•(?. Bonny lad, I carena by, Though I try my luck wi* thee,' Since ye are content to tie Tlie half-mark bridal-band wi' me. I'll slip hame 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, J 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 tlie lee, I winna marry ony man but Sandy ower the lee ; I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be ; But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower the lee : For he's aye a-Mssing, kissirtg, 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, ifc. I winna hae the solilier lad, for he gangs to the wars ; I winna hae the sailor lud, 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 iiiuir. For he's aye a-kissing, Sfc, MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET T^ne — " My Love is but a lassie yet." lift/ love, she's but a lassie yet ; My love, she's but a lassie yet ^ 166 BURNS' WORKS. I'll let Iter sta)id a year or hva ; She'll no he half sue saucy yet. I RUE tlie day I sought lier, O ; I rue the day I sought her, O ; Wha gets her, needna say lie's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O. My love, she's, §"c. 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. IHy love, she'S; &i'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. IHy 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 hame, ]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 miduitht cam, We a' \\'cre roariii' 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 niony a sad and sour look. And aye her head she'd shako. My dear, quoth I, what ailcth 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 iny life, I'll be the wife That never taks the gee.* • From llcriVs collection, 177(1. THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME. AI.I.AN RAMSAT. Tutu—" The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.* As I came in by Teviot side, And by the braes of Branksome, There first I saw my bonny bride, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome. Her skin was safter than the 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, Iler clear een were surprising, And beautifully turn'd her neck. Her little breasts just rising : Nac silken hose ivith 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 delyte She'd given clad wi' naething. 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, hot 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 hai'm. 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.* MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING. Tune — "My wife's a wanton wee tiling." M\' wife's a wanton wee thing, My wife's a wanton wee thing, * Tills song, which appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, (1721), was founded upon a real incident. The bonn'ie lass was daughter to a woman who kept an alehouse at the hamlet ntar Branksome Castle, in Teviotdale. A young officer, of some rank, — his name we helieve was Maitianil,— happened to be be quarter- ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, anti married her. So strange was such an alliance deeaned in those days, that the old mother, inider 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 sell'd 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' wi' 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 awa. And we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ; And we're <£ noddin, at our hotise 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.' A.7id we're a noddin, Sfc. Weary fa' Kate, that she winna nod toO'; She sits i' the corner, suppiu' a' the broo ; And when the bit bairnies wad e'en hae their share, She gies them the ladle, but dell 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 1' the stack, And a' '11 be right wi' us, gin Jamie were come buck. And icc're a nvd'Hn', §'c. MY NATIVE CALEDONIA. Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my Jean, And sair, sair I slgh'd, while the tears stood in my een ; For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune is but sma' ; Which gars me leave my native Caledonia. When I think on days now gane, and how hap- py I hae been. While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prinn- rose blaws unseen ; Fra 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 Jeanle still be true, Then blaw, ye favourln' breezes, till my native land I view ; Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while th« heirt-felt tear shall fa'. And never leave my Jean and Caledonia. * From Johnson's Scots M'.isx;il Muspuin, vol, ITI. 1790. Tbe two first stanzas, however, appear in Herd's colkcliuii, 177t>. O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN; Tune — " O, an ye war deid, Guidman." O, AN ye were deid, gulJman, And a green truff on your held, guidman, That I niit;ht ware my widowheid Upon a rantln 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 broe for rae, And the beef fur 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 o them mine, A.nd the lave is our John Highlandman's. IS 163 BURNS' WORKS. on, WHAT A PARISH ! ADAM CRAWFORD. Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." O, what a parish, what a terrible parish, O, what a parish is that of Dunkell ! They hae hangit the minister, drouned the precentor, Duna down the steeple, and drucken the bell! Though tlie steeple was doun, the kirk was still stannin ; They biggit a lum where the bell used to hang ; A stell-pat they gat, and they brewed Hieland whisky ; On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang! O, what a parish, §-c. Oh, had you but seen how gracefu' it luikit, To see the crammed pews sae socially join ! Macdonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poupit, He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! O, what a parish, ^-c. 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, §*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 ca' them the- gither. Far better than roaring o' horrors o' hell.* O, what parish, $-c. OLD KING COUL. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. And a jolly old soul was he ; And old King Coul he had a brown bowl. And they brought him in fiddlers three ; And every fiddler was a very good fiddler, And a very good fiddler was he : Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three : And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, Compared to our sweet Maijorie. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. And a jolly old soul was he ; • Crawford, the inditer of this curious frolic, was a tailor in Edinburgh, and the author of some other good tongs. Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, And they brought liim in pipers threes Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, bow-diddle, went the pipers three ; Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three : And there's no a lass in a' the land, Compared to our sweet Marjorie. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. And a jolly old soul was he ; Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. And they brought him in harpers three : Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the harj)ers ; Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how -diddle, went the pipers ; Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three : And there's no a lass in a' the land. Compared to our sweet Marjorie. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. And a jolly old soul was he ; Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, And they brought him in trumpeters three : Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- ers; Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the harpers ; Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, went the pipers ; Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three : And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, Compared to sweet Marjorie. Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. And a jolly old soul was he ; Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. And they brought him in drummers three ; Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trimipet- ers; Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the harpers ; Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, went the pipers ; Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three : "T And there's no a lass in a' the land. Compared to sweet Marjorie. POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE. JOANNA BAILLIE. Tune—" Todlin hame.' Whek white was ray o'erlay as foam o' the linoi And siller was clinkin' my pouches within ; mii SONGS. 169 When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae ; As I gaed to my love in new deeding sae gay, Kind was she, And my friends were free ; But poverty parts gude corapanie. How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of de- light ! The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd bright ; And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. Woe is me. And can it then be, That poverty parts sic companie ! We met at the fair, we met at the kiik, We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk ; And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of her een. The cheering and life of my bosom have been. Leaves frae the tree At Martinmas flee ; And poverty paits sweet companie. At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' {tride ; The bruse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride ; And loud was the laughter gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter and chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree Are jesting and glee. When poverty parts gude companie. Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet. And mithers and aunties were mair than dis- creet, While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board ; But now they pass by me, and never a word. So let it be, For the worldly and slie Wi' poverty keep nae companie. WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OF WALKINGSHAW, Tune—" Willie was a wanton Wag." Willie was a wanton wag. The blythest lad that e'er I saw ; At bridals still he bore the brag, And carried aye the gree awa. His doublet was of Shetland shag, And wow but Willie he was braw ; And at his shouthers hung a tag That pleased the lasses best of a'. He was a man without a clag ; His heart was frank, without a flaw ; And aye whatever Willie said. It still was haddcn as a law. His boots they were made of the jag, When he went to the weapon-shaw ; Upon the green nane durst him brag, The fient a ane amang them a'. And was not Willie weel worth gowd ? He wan the love o* grit and sma* ; For, after he the bride had kiss'd. He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a*. Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, When by the hand he led them a* ; And smack on smack on them bestow'd, By virtue of a standing law. And was na Willie a great loun, As sbyre a lick as e'er was seen ? When he danced with the lasses round. The bridegroom spier'd where he Lad been. Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring ; Wi' bobbin', faith, my shanks are sair ; Gae ca' the bride and maidens in, For Willie he dow do na mair. Then rest ye, WiUie, I'U gae out, And for a wee fill up the ring ; But shame licht on his souple snout ' He wanted Willie's wanton fling. Then straight he to the bride did fare, Says, Weel's me on your bonny face : With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair. And I am come to fill his place. Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the dance, And at the ring you'll aye be lag, Unless like Willie ye advance ; Oh, Willie has a wanton leg ! For wi't he learns us a' to steer. And foremost aye bears up the ring ; We will find nae sic dancin' here. If we want Willie's wanton fling. • THE AULD ISIAN'S MEAR'S DEAD. Tune—" The auld man's meat's dead." T/ie avid man's mear's dead ; The pair bodt/'s mear's dead ; The auld man's mear's dead, A mile aboon Dundee. There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, A bunder hotts o' muck to spread. And peats and triifis and a' to lead^ And yet the jaud to dee ! The auld man's, Sj'C. She had the fiercie and the fleuk. The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk ; On ilka knee she had a breuk^ What ail'd the beast to dee ? The auld man's, Sfc. •'From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. As it i« there signed by the initials of the author, there arises a presumption that he was alive, and a friend of Ram. I say, at tlie period of the publication of that work. 170 BURNS' WORKS. She was kng-tootliM and blench-lippit, Heam-hongli'd and haggis-fittit, Lang-neckit, chanJler-chaftit, And yet the jaud to dee ! • The auld man's, ^c. ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. MRS. GRANT OF CARRON. Tunc—" The Ruffian's Rant." Roy's wife of AldivaUoch, Hoy's wife of AldivaUoch, Wat ye how she cheated me. As I came o'er the braes of Balloch ? , She vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine ; She said she lo'ed me best of onie ; But, ah ! the fickle, faithless quean, She's ta'en the carle, and left her Jolinie. Roy's wife, §-c. Oh, she was a canty quean. And weel could dance the Hieland walloch ! How hapjiy I, had she been mine, Or I been Roy of AldivaUoch ! Roy's wife, Sfc. Her hair sae fair, her cen sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnle ! To me she ever will bo dear, Though she's for ever left her Johnie. Roy's wife, §'c. STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER GAUN. Tune — " Steer her up and baud her gaun." O STEER her up and hand her gaun ; Her mother's at the mill, jo : But gin she winna tak a man, E'en let her tak her will, jo. Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking ; Cast thy cares of love away ; Let's our sonows drown in drinking ; 'TLs daifin ianger to delay. See that shining glass of claret, How invitingly it looks ! Take it aff, and let's have mair o't ; Pox on fighting, trade, and books ! Let's have pleasure, while we're able ; Bring us in the meikle bowl ; Place't on the middle of the table ; And let wind and weather gowl. Call the drawer ; let him fill it Fou as ever it can hold : Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ; 'Tis mair precious far than gold. By you've drunk a dozen bumpers, Bacchus will begin to prove. Spite of Venus and her mumpers, Drinking better is than love. • The late Rev. Mr. Clunie, minister of the parish of Borthwick, near Edinburgh, (wlio was so enthusias- tically fond of singing Scottish songs, that he used to hang'his watch round the candle on .Sunday evenings, and wait anxiously till the conjunction of the hands at 12 o'clock permitted him to break out in one of his favourite ditties), was noted for the admirable manner in which he sung " Bonny Dundee," " Waly, v.aly, up yon bank," " The Auld Man's Mear's dead," with many other old Scottish ditties. One day, hapi)ening to meet with some friends at a tavern in Dalkeith, he was solicited to favour the company with the latter humorous ditty ; which he was accordingly singing with his usual effect and brilliancy, when the woman who kept the house thrust her head in at the door, and added, at the conclusion of one of the choruses, " Od, the auld man's meat's dead, sureeneuth. Vour horse, minister, has hanged itsell at my door." Such was really the fact. The minister, on going into the house, had tied his horse by a rope to a nook, or ring, near the door, and as he was induced to stay much longer than he intended, the poor animal, either through ex- haustion, or a sudden fit of disease, fell down, and was strangled. He was so much mortified by this unhappy accident, the coincidence of which with the subjeec of his song was not a little striking, that, all his life after, he could never be persuaded to sing " The Auld Man's Meal's dead" again. SYMON BRODIE. Tune — " Symon Brodie." Symon BaoRiE had a cow, The cow was lost, and he could na find her ; When he had done what man could ilo, The cow cam liame, and her tail behind her. Honest auld Symon Brodie, Stupid aidd doitil bodie ! Til awa to the North coimtrie. And see my ain dear Symon Rrodie. Symon Brodie had a wife. And, wow ! but she was braw and bonuie ; She took the dish-clout atf the bulk, And preen'd it to her cockernonie. Honest auld Symon Rrodie, §'c. NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY. Tune—" Farwell to Whisky." You've surely heard o' famous Neil, The man that played the fiddle weel ; I wat he was a canty chiel, And dearly loe'd the whisky, O. And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews, He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose ; And wae was he, you may suppose. To play farewell to whisky, O. Alake, quoth Nell, I'm frail and auld. And find my blude grow unco caidd ; I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whiskv, O. SONGS. 171 Yet tlic doctors they do a' agree, '■'luit whisky's no the drink for mc. lul ! quoth Neil, 'twill spoil niy glee, Should tliey-part nic aud wliisky, O. Though I cJti baith get wine and ale, And find my head and fingers halo, I'll be content, though legs should fail. To play farewell to whisky, O But still- 1 think' on auld king sync, Whpu Paradise our friends did tj-ne, Because something ran in their mind. Forbid like Highland whisky, O. Come, a' ye powers -o' music, \k of gluvcs and kissiu' strings ; 174 BURNS' WORKS. And name a t'lionsand bonnie tning?, And ca' thorn signs he lo'es me. But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob, Seated on the velvet fog, To gifts as lang's a plaiden vvab ; Because I ken h^ lo'es me. He's tall and sonsie, frank and fice, Lo'ed by a', and dear to me ; Wi' him^Td live, wi' him I'd dee, Because my Robin lo'es nie. My tittie Blary said to me, Our courtship but a joke wad be, And I or larig be made to see That Robin didna lo'e me. But little kens she what has been, Me and my honest Rob between ; And in his wooing, O sae keen Kind Robin is that lo'es me. Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. And hasten on the happy iggin, Auither that's like to fa', I hae noo the lassie wi' bairn, Which vexes me warst of a'. gang to the kye wi' me, my love, Gang to the kye wi' me, 1 hae an auld mither at hame. Will doodle it on hei knee. TJIE MILLER O' DEE. Tune—" The Miller of Dee." There was a jolly miller once Lived on the river Dee ; He wrought and sung from morn till night, No lark more blythe than he. And this the burden of his song For ever used to be ; I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody cares for me. A.nd this, §"c. When spring began its merry career, O, then his heart was gay ; He feared not summer's sultry heat, Nor winter's cold decay. No foresight marred the miller's cheer. Who oft did sing and say. Let otliers live from year to year, I'll live from day to day. No foresiyht, &:c. Then, like this miller, bold and free. Let us be glad and sing ; ' The days of youth are made for glee. And life is on the wing. The song shall pass from me to you. Around this jovial ring. Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : And so, God save our king.* Tlie song, 8fc. SAW YE MY FATHER? Tu7ie—" Saw ye my father ?" " O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother, Or saw ye my true love John ?" " I saw not your father, I saw not your mother, But I saw your true love John." " It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae light, And the bells they ring ding dong ; He's met with some delay, that causeth him to stay ; But he will be here ere loiig." The surly auld carle did naething but snarle. And Jonnie's face it grew red ; > Fvr.ni nn old MS. copy. The song seems to have 1 been first iiriiited iu UerU's Colieciion, 177C. -«H 176 BURNS' WORKS. Yet, though be often sighed, he ne'er a word replied, Till all were asleep ia bed. Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, And gently tirled at ihe pin. The lassie, taking ten^ unto the door she went, And she opened and let him in. " And ace ye come at last, and do I hold ye fast ? And is my Johnie true ?" " I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 1 like mysell, Sae lang sail I love you." ♦* Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, And craw whan it is day : Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd. And your wings of the silver grey." The cock proved fause, and untrue he was ; For he crew an hour ower suae. The lassie thought it day, when she sent her love away, And it was but a blink o' the mune. Now ye peep like a powt ; ye gluraph and ye gaunt ; Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned a saunt ? Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir ; We tell our distress ere we look for a cure : There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye hae mair ? Oh ! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thief, That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef ; But the word that makes me saewaefu' and wan, la Tarn o' the Balloch's a married man ! TAM 0' THE BALLOCH. H. AINSLEY. Tune—" The Campbells are coming. In the Nick o' theBalloch lived Muirland Tarn, Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ; A breist like a buird, and a back like a door, And a wapping wame that hung down afore. But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tarn ? For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow tram ; Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out, And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout. ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent. The strength o' a stot — the wecht o' a cow ; Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew. 1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a ram ; O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tarn ? Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed ? Hae they broken your heart or broken your head ? Hae they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ? Or, Tammy, my man, hae ye seen the deU ? Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ? Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale ? HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. Haud awa, bide awa ! Haud awa frae me, Donald : I've seen the man I well could love, But that was never thee, Donald. Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud. And claymore by thy knee, Donald, And Lord o' 3Ioray's mountains high, Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald, What sairs your mountains and your lochs, I canna swim nor flee Donald : But if ye'll come when yon fair sun Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. And take the hills wi' thee, Donald. One of the old verses runs thus :— . Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald, Keep awa your cauld hand Frae my warm knee Donald. AULD ROB MORRIS. ,T^ne—" Auld Rob Morris." MOTHER. Auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen. He's the king o' guid fallows, and wale o' auld men ; He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore too ; Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTEa. Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee ; For his eild and my eild can never agree : They'll never agree, and that will be seen ; For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. SONGS. 177 MOTirEU. Haud your tongue, dochtor, anil lay I)y your piide, For he is the bridegroom, and yo'se be tie bride ; He shall lie by your side, aud kiss y<>u too ; AuJd Rob Morris is the man ye mauu lo'e. DAUGHTER. Auld Rob Morris, I keu him fu' weel. His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; He's out- shinu'd, in-kaeed, and ringle-eyed too ; Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. MOTHER. Though auld Rob Moriis be an elderly man, Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; Then, dochter, ye should na be sa ill to siioe. For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTER. But auld Rob Morris 1 never will liae, His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grcv I Lad rather die than live wi' him a year ; Sae mair o' Rob JMorris I ne\'er will hear. THE MALT-MAN. The malt-man comes on fllunday, He craves wonder sair, Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller, Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. I took him into the pantry, And gave him some good cock-broo, Syne paid him upon a gantree, As hostler-wives should do. Wlien malt-men come for siller, And gaugers with wands o'er soon, Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar, And clear them as I have done. This bewith, when cunzie is scanty,- Will keep them frae making din ; The knack I learn'd frae an auld aunty, The snackest of a' my kin. The malt-man is right cunning. But I can be as slee, And he may crack of his winning, When he clears scores with me ; For come when he likes, I'm ready ; But if frae hame I be. Let him wait on our kind lady. She'll answer a bill for me. THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. There was a wife won'd in a glen. And she had dochters nine or ten. That sought the Ijouse baith but and ben, To tiud their mam a suisliinj;. The auhl wife beyont the Jire, The auld wife aniest the Jire, The avid wife uhoon the fire. She died for lack of snishitig.* Her mill into some hol§ had fawn, Whatrecks, quoth she, let it be gawn, For I maun hae a young goodman Shall furnish me with snishing. The auld wife, Sfc. Her eldest dochter said right bauld, Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld. And if ye with a younker wald. He'll waste away your snishing'. The auld wife, 8fc, The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out, Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout. Your mill can had nae snishing. The auld wife, t^c. Ye lied, ye limmers, cries auld mump, For I hae baith a tooth and stump, And will nae langer live in dump, By wanting of my snishing. T'he auld wife, 8fC. Thole ye, says Peg, that pawky dut, Mother, if ye can crack a nut. Then we will a' consent to it. That you shall have a snishing. The auld wife, §-c. The auld ane did agree to that, And they a pistol-bullet gat ; She powerfully began \o crack, To win hersell a snishing. The auld wife, Sfc. Braw sport it was to see her chow't, " And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row't, While fiae her jaws the slaver flow'd, And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. The auld wife, S^c. At last she ga'e a desperate squeez. Which brak the lang tooth by the neez. And syne poor stumpy was at ease. But she tint hopes of snishing. The auld wife, 8fc. She of the task began to tire. And frae her dochters did retire, Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire, And died for lack of snishing. The auld wife, §-c. Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, Assoon as ye're past mark of mouth. Snishing, in its literal meaning, is sDuiT made of tobacco ; but, in this song, it means sometime* con- tentment, a husband, love, money, &c. 178 BURNS' WORKS. Ne'er do what's only fit for youtli, And leave afF thouglits of snishing' : Else, like tills tfife beyont the fire, "Viir bairns against ynu will conspire ; Nor ivill ye get, imltss 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 theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen, And thonght I ne'er could alter ; But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, They gar my fancy falter. Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap ; She smiles like a May morning, When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, The hills with rays adorning : White is her neck, saft is her hand. Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; With ilka gi'ace 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 Mary Gray, Ye unco sair oppress us ; Our fancies jee between you twa. Ye are sic bonny lassies : Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, To ane by law we're stented ; Then I'll draw cuts, and take ray fate, And be with ane contented. BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a-falling. That Sir John Graeme in the west country Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his man down through the town, To the place where she was dwelHng, O haste, and come to my master dear. Gin ye be Barbara Allan. O hooly, hooly rose she up. To the place where he was l)ing. And when she drew the curtam 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 death 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, Wlien 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 narrow. Since my love dy'd for me to-day, I'll die for hira to-morrow. ETTRICK BANKS. On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night, At glowming when the sheep drave hams , I met my lassie braw and tight, Came wading, barefoot, a' her lane ; My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms about 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 yc 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 lamb-t^me bring Our pleasant summer back again. SONGS. 179 Syne wVien tlie trees are in their bloom, And gowans glent o'er ilka field, I'll meet my lass among the broom, And lead you to my summer-shield. Then far frae a' their scornfu' din, That make the kindly hearts their sport, We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing. And gar the langest day seem short. THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.* DAVID MALLET. T^ne—" The Birks of Invermay." The smiling morn, the breathing spring. Invite the tunefu' birds to sing ; And, while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise. Like them, improve the hour that flies ; And in soft raptures waste the day. Among the birks of Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear ; At this thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feather'd songsters are no more ; And when they drop, and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay ! THE BRAES O' BALLENDEAN. DR. BLACKLOCK. Tune—" The Braes o' Ballendean." Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain ; So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe. The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow ; Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain, Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. * Invermay is a small woody glen, watered by the rivulet May, which there joins the river Earn. It is about five miles above the bridge of Earn, and nearly nine from Perth. The seat of Mr. Belsches, the pro- prietor of this poetical region, and who takes from it his territorial designation, stands at the bottom of the glen. Both sides of the little vale are completely wood- ed, chiefly with birches; and it is altogether, in point of natural loveliness, a scene worthy of the attention of the amatory muse. The course of the May is so sunk among rocks, that it cannot be seen, but it can easilv be traced in its progress by another sense. The peculiar sound which it makes in rushing through one particular part of its narrow, rugged, and tortuous channel, has occasioned the descriptive appellation of | the Humble-Bumble to be attached to that quarter of the vale. Invermay may be at once and coirectlyde- ] scribed as the fairest possible little miniature specimen , of cascade scenery. The song ajipeared in the 401 volume of tile Tea- Table Mi.sci'llany. 1 How happy, he cried, my moments once flew. Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view ! Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawa could survey ; Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful thau they. Now scenes of distress please only my sight ; I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light. Through changes in vain relief I pursue, All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ; From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair—* To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ; But love's ardent fire burns always the same. No winter can cool it, no summei' inflame. But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind. Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. Ah, wretch ! how can life be worthy thy care ? To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. • THE BRUME O' THE CX)WDEN- KNOWES. Tune—" The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes." How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see flly swain come ower the hill ! He skipt the burn and flew to me : I met him with good will. Oh, the brume, the honnie, bonnie brume I The brume o' the Cowdenknowes ! I wish I were with my dear swain. With his pipe and my yoices. I wanted neither yowe nor lamb, While his flock near me lay ; He gather'd in my sheep at night, And cheer'd me a' the day. Oh, 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 br7tme, 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, with great effect, in St. Cecilia's Hall, at Edinburgh, about fifty years ago. Mr. Ty tier, who was a great na- tron of that obsolete place of amusement, says, in nis Dissertation on Scottish Music, " Who could hear with insensibility, or without being moved in the high- est degree, Temlucci sing, ' I'll never leave thee,' or, • The Braos o' Ballendean.' Tlic air was composed by Oiwald. 180 BURNS' WORKS. Hard fate, that I sbould banisli'd be, Gang heavily, and mourn, Because I loved the kindest swain That ever yet was born. Oh, the brume, Sj-c. He did oblige me every hour ; Could I but faithful be ? He stawe my heart ; could I refuse Whate'er he ask'd of me ? Oh, the brume, Sfc. My doggie, and my little kit That held my wee soup whey, My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick. May now lie useless by. Oh, the brume, Sfc. Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! Ye gods, restore me to ray swain — i Is a' I crave or care. Oh, the brume, §'c.* THE CARLE HE CAM OWEU THE CRAFT. Tune—" The Carle lie cam ower Hie Cr.^ft." The carle he cam ower the craft, Wi' his beard new-shaven ; He looked at me as he'd ijeea daft, — The carle trowed that I 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 crookit ; And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! Twice-a-bairn's a lassie's jest ; Sae ony fool for me may hae him. The carle has 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 fumbler to beware That antlers dinna claim their station. Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! I'm flce'd to crack the haly band, Sae lawty says^I^hou'd na hae him. • As the reader may be supposed anxious to know lomcthing of the place which has thus been the subject of so much poetry, tliceditor thinks it proper to inform him, that, " the Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes spelled in old writings, the Coldingknowes, arc two little hills on the east side of the vale of Lauderdale, Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of the village of Karlston, oriel irated as the residence of the earliest known Scottish poet, Thomas the Uhynicr. THE WEE THING. MACNEIL. Tune — •' 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 gloam- in' ? Sought she the bumie whar flow'rs the haw- tree ? Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is 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 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-rolling ee ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me ! — It was na ray 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 ocie 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 t'aee ! — It was, then, your Rlary ; she's frae Castle- Cary ; It was, tlien, 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 his cheek grew — Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee ' SONGS. 181 Ye'se rue sair, tliis morning-, your boasts and your scorning : Defend ye, fause traitor ! fur loudly ye lie. — Awa wi' beguiling ! cried the youth, smiling : AfF went the bonnet ; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shaw- ing — Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-roll- Is it my wee 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 ; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee ! THE WHITE COCKADE. Tune—" The White Cockade." My 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 Hade f O, he's a brisk and a honny lad ! Hetide what may, my heart is glad To see my lad wi' his white cockade, O, leeze me on the philabeg, The hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! But aye the thing that glads ray ee, Is the white cockade aboon the bree. O, he's a ranting, ^~c. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, My rippling kame, and spinning wheel. To buy my lad a tartan plaid, A braidsword and a white cockade. O, he's a ranting, ^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, Sfc. THE WIDOW. ALLAN RAMSAY. The widow she's youthfii', and never ae hair The waur of the wearing, and has a good skair Of every thing lovely ; she's witty and fair, And has a rich jointure, my laddie. What could ye wish better, your pleasure to crown, Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town, With, Naething but — draw in your stool and sit down. And sport 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 wald ; For fortune ay favours the active and bauld, But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld, Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 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, baith early and late : To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate : Speak well, and do better ; (or that's the best gate To win a young widow, my l.iddie. THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LABDIS. OLD VEIISES. Tttne—" The yellow-hair'd LaddS*.* The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae. Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let uane o' them gae; And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. And aye as she miUiit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall he my gude- man. The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. The yowes are new dipt, and they winua bucht in ; They winna bucht in, although I should dee : Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. And aye as she milkit, ^c. The gudewifo cries butt the house, Jeimie, 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 king half hour, and well e'en mak it three. For the yellow-hair'd laddie my gudeman shall be. * • From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724, 182 BURNS' WORKS. THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATIE. Tune—" Tartan Screen." Now wat ye wha I met yestreen. Coming down the street, my joe ? My mistress, 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 x/i rae. And leave the dinsonie 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. Sune as the clear guderaan 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 form'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 and kiss, and kiss and love. MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER ME; IN ANSWER TO THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATY. EAMSAT. Tunc—" My Mother's aye glowrin* ower me." My mother's aye glowrin' ower me, Though she did the same before me j * It is quite as remarkable as it is true, that the mode of courtship among people of the middle ranks in Edinl)urgh has luidcrgone a com|)Ietc 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 tlie evening, in the Meadows, or the King's Park, or the fields now occupied by the New Town ; practices now only known to artizans and serving-girls. The song appcarcil in the Tea. Tabic Miscellany, 172 J. I canna get leave To look at my love, Or else she'd be like to devour me. Right fain wad I tak' your offer. Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher ; Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, And wyte your puir Kate, Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer. For though my father has plenty Of silver, and plenishing dainty. 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 my 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, there awa, baud awa hame ! Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought thee ; Now I have gotten my Willie again. Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie ; Through the lang muir I have followed him hame. Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; Love now rewards all my sorro\v and pain. Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! Come, h)ve, 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 by Lunnon, Saw ye Geordie 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 is little d.inbt 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.j- * From Herd's Collection, 1776. t This plainly alludes to Count Koningsmark and the Quevn. * SONGS. 183 Tho' the claltli wore bad, blytliely may we niffer, Gin we get a wab, it mak's little differ ; We hae tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, Ha's and niaillins braid, but we hae a Geordie. Hey for Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum. Hey for Bobbin' John and his Highland quo- rum ; Many a sword and lance swings at Highland hurdie, 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 liighland laddie, ]\Ty handsome, charrniiig highlatid laddie ; JMay 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, 8fc. 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 in's tartan plaidy. O my bonny, ^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'U screen me with his highland plaidy. O my bonny, S^c. 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. O my bonny, §-c. Few compliments between us pass, I ca' him my dear highland laddie. And he ca's me his lawland lass. Syne rows me in beneath his plaidy. O my bonny, Sfc. Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. Than ihit his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end, While heaven preserves my highland laddie. O my honny, ^-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 shame. And without mair debate o't, Tak hame your wean, make Jenny faia The leel and leesome gate o't. O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE. SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENNYCUICK. 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' meal. And in the ark is plenty. And good hard cakes his mither bakes, And mony a sweeter dainty. A good fat sow, a sleeky cow. Are standing in the byre ; Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou. 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 Ung's there's cocks and clockin' hens. She'll aye hae eggs in plenty. 184' BURNS' WORKS. THE TAILOR. The Tailor fell thro' the bed tliimbles 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 thimbles an' a'. The hissie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; The weather \ras cauld and the lassie lay still ; The ninth part o' manhood may sure hae its wiU; She kent weel the Tailor could do her nae ill. The Tailor grew droosy, 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 uicht 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 TaUor come skippin again. Grim Vengeance laug has ta'en a nap, But we may see him waukcn : Gude help the day, when royal heads Are hunted like a maukiu ! Awa, Willys! awa, SfC. 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 \vra.ng lis. Awa, Whiffs ! awa, §*c. Sae grim he s:it amang the reck, Thraug bundling brimstone matches ; And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taliing Whigs, Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. Awa, Whigs, awa ! Awa, Whiffs, awa ! Ye'll rin me nut o' tcitn spunks, And ne'er do good at d. AWA, WHIGS, AWA! JACOBITE SONG. Tunc — " Awa, Whigs, awa !" Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonny bloom'd our roses, But Whigs came, like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies. Awa, Wliiffs, awa ! Awa, Whigs, awa ! Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons ; Ye'll 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, S^c. A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds. In Scottish yird to cover ; iJut we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks, And pack him to Hanover. Awa, Whigs! awn, Sfc. Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, Deil blind them wi' the stour o't ! And write their names in his black beuk, Wha ga'e the Wliigs the power o't ! Awa, W/iiffs / awa, §-c. LOCH-NA-GARR. Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, In you let the minions of luxury love ; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake re- poses. If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledouid, dear 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 'mid the tempests of dark Loch- na-garr. THE MERRY RLEN, O. When I was red, and ripe, and crouse. Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse, Bly father built a wee house, a wee house. To baud me frae the men, O. There came a lad and gae a shout, Guc a shout, gae a shout. SONGS. 185 The wa's fell in, and I fell out, Amaug the merry men, O. I dream sic sweet things in my sleep, la my sleej), in my sleep, My minny says I winna keep, Amang sao mony men, O. When plums are ripe, they shoulil he poo'd. Should be j)oo'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, Tuw— " Kenmure's 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, Willie, Success to Kenmure's band ! There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, WUlie, Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's bludc, Nor yet o* Gordon's line. O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, O, Kenmure's lads are men ! Their hearts and swords are metal true ; 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 victoiis May Kenmure's lord come hame ! Here's him that's far awa, WUlie, Here's him that's far awa ; And here's the flower that I lo'e best, The rose that's like the snaw. POLWART ON THE GREEN. At Polw.irt 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 lud complete, The lad and lover you. Let dorty dames say Na, As lang as e'er tlicy please, Seoul caulder than the sna', ^^ hile inwardly they bleeze ; But I will frankly shaw my mind, And yield my heart to thee ; Be ever to the captive kind, That langs na to be free. At Pol wart on the green, Amang the new-niawn hay, With sangs and dancing keen We'll pass the heartsome day. At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid, And thou be twin'd of thine. Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad. To take a part of mine. HAME NEVER CAME HE. Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, A plume in liis helmet, a sword at his knee ; But toom cam' the saddle, all bluidy to see. And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cam* he. Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sae aair, Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, Down cam* his sweet wife wi' boonie 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 hraw hemp heckle, And I'll lend you my thripling kame; For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle. If j-e'Il go dance the Bob of Dumblane. Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies, Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame j Consider in time, if leading of monkies Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane, Be frank, ray lassie, lest I grow fickle. And take my word and offer again, Syue ye may chance to repent it mickle. Ye did ni accept the Buh of Dumblane. 41 186 BURNS' WORKS. The dinner, tlie piper, and priest shall be ready, And I'm grown dowy with lyin^ my laue ; Away then, leave baith minny and dady. And try with me the Bob of Dumblaue . LOCHABER NO MORE. Tune — " Lochaber no more." Fakewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, A^Tiere 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 that 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 my mind. Tho' loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the sliore. 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 excjise. Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? Without it I ne'er can have merit Tor thee. And without thy favour I'd l)etter not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. And if I should luck to come gloriously hatne, 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' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. E'cns ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be. I hac gowd and gear, I hae land enough, I hae seven good owsen gauging in a pleugh, Ganging in a pleugh, and linking 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 byie, A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantiu fire, I'll make a rantin fire, and merry shall we be : And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. Jeany said to Jncky, 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 welconier to tak me than to let me be. THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND ANOTHER VEHSIOX. The luve that I hae chosen I'll therewith be content ; The saut sea will bo frozoa Before that I repent ; Repent it will I never TJntil the day I die, Though the Lowlands of Plolland Hae t'.vined my love and me. Rly luve lies in the saut sea. And I am on the side ; Enou^jh 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 Ilae 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. ?,Iy love he built a bonnie ship, ^ And sent her to the sea, Yi'i' seven score guid mariners To hear her corapanie. 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 WEAVER Jknny lap, and Jenny flang, 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 metid it. Jenny lap, and Jenny fl.ing, Jenny dang the weaver j The piper played as Jenny sprang. And ave she Jang the weaver. SONGS. 167 AS I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING. As I went out ae May morning, Ae May morning it happened to be, there I saw a very honnie 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 youug. To be your bride I am too young, And far our proud to be your loon ; This is the merry month of May, But I'll 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 hae we gotten for a king. But a wee, wee German lairdie ? And, when we gaed to bring him. He was delving in hi& yardie : Sheughing kail, and laying leeks, But the hose, and but the breaks ; And up his beggar duds he cleeks — ■ This wee, wee German lairdie. And he's clapt down in our gudemau's cliair, The wee, wee German lairdie ; And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash, And dibbled them in his yardie. He's pu'd the rose o' English luons, 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 yarJie ; And our Norland thistles winna pu'. Thou wee bit German lairdie : A '.1(1 we've the trenching jdades o' weir, Vv\«i piiiae ye o' your German gear — We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear , , Thou feckless German lairdie ! Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole For nursin' siccan vermin ; But the very dougs 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 doil hae we gotten for a king, But a wee, wee German lairdie ? THE FORAY. SIR WALTER SCOTT. The last of our steers on t-he 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 ej'cs that so lately mixed glances with ours. For a sjiace 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 hear my biythe grey ; There is lire In his hoof-clang and Lope in his neigh ; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the dark- ness and rain. The draw-briJge 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 i\ud their glee that sec Teviot again ! ^; 188 BURNS'S SONGS. ADIEU ! A HEART- WARM FOND ADIEU ! Tune—" The Peacock." Adieu ! a Leart-warm fond adieu ! Dear bi-others of the reyslic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions 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, Wliich 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 badge to wear ! Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear ! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a'. One round, I ask it with a tear, To bim, 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 ated birk shades my Mary and me 1^ SONGS. 189 Thy crystal stream, Afton, now )ovoiy it p;li(Jes, And winds by the cot where my Maiy resides ! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet hive, 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 murmnring stream ; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. Tune—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks." Agaix 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 ploughhoy 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 " RAUCI.E CARLINe's" SONG IN THE " JOLLY BEGGARS." Tune — " O an yc war dead, guidman !" A Highland lad my love was born, The Lawland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithful to his can, My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! Sing hey, viij hraw John Highlandman I Sing ho, mi/ hraw John Highlandman f There's 7iot a' lad in a the land. Was match for my hraw John Highlandman t With his phllabcg and tartan plaid. And gude claymore down by his side. The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, ^c. 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 cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my braw John Highlandman. Siyig hey, Sfc. But, och ! they catched him at the last. And bound him in a dungeon fast j My curse upon them every one, They've hanged my braw John Highlandman \ Sing hey, §"c. 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, §-c. AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM- MING BEES. Tune—" The King of France, he rade a Race." Ajiang the trees where humming bees At buds and flowers wei'e hinging, O ; Auld Caledon drew out her drone. And to her pipe was singing, O ; '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 La ha's, They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; The hungry bike did scrape and pike 'Till we were wae and 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, O. 190 BURNS' WORKS. A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. Tune—" For a' that, and a' that. Is there, for hoiiest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward-slave, we pass him by ; We daur l)e puir for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that. The rank is but the guinea-stamp — • The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamcly fare we dine, 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 but a cuif for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, His ribbon, 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 ; Bat an honest man's aboon his micht, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, the pride o' ^'orth.. 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, IMay bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that. ANNA. Tune — " Baiilis of Banna." Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place ^^'llere btidy saw na ; Yestreen lay on this breast o' niiae. The raven lucks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness. Rejoicing ower his niaiina, Was naething to my hiuny bliss. Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs tak the cast and west, Frae Indus to Savauuah ! Gie me within my straining grasp The niifUing form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms. An empress or sultana, While dying raptures, in her arms, I give and take with Anna. Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! Awa, thou pale Diana ! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I'm to meet my Anna. Conie, in thy raven plumage, night, Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a' And bring a.i angel pen to write My transports with my Anna. * ANNIE. Tuve—" Allan 'Water." I WALKED out with the Muscum 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 thorti till I wrote one to suit the measure. By Allan stream I chanced to rove, AVhiie Phffibiis sank beyond Benlgdi, The winds were wliisj^'ring through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready ; I listen'd to a lover'ssang, ■ And thought on jontliful pleasures many; And aye the wild-wood eoho-.'S rang — O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! O, h:!ppy be the woodlxinc bower ; Nao nightly bogle n;ak it eerie ; Nor over so'row stain ti:e hour. The place and time I meet my dearie ! fler head upon my throbbing breast. She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever I Wh.ile many a kiss the seal impress'd, The sacied vow, we ne'er should sever. The hatmt o' Spring's the primrose brae ; The Simmer joys the flocks to follow ; How cheeric, through her short'ning dty. Is Autumn in her weids of yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart. Or chain the soul in sj)occhless pleasure. Or through each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? * This song, like " Highland Mary," affordsa strong proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising and subliming oUjects. Highland Mary was the dairy- maid of Coilsfield ; Anna is said to have been some- thing meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy- rolling when he s;iici, •' I thiiik this is the best love- song lever wrote." SONGS. 191 A RED RED ROSE. Tune—" 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 bonnie lass, Sae deep in luve am I ; Aud I will love thee still, my dear. Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, Atid the rocks melt wi' the sua j I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve, Aud fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY Vv ALK. This song I composed on Bliss Jenny Cruik- shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr, William Cruikshank of the High- School, Edin- burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam merchant, fiow schoolmaster, in Irvine: the Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle, A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn ai'e fled. In a' its crimson glory spread, Aud drooping rich the dewy head. It scents the early moruiiig'. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest. The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Aniang 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 gaj', Shult beauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent's evening ray That watched thy early moruiuj. A SOUTHLAND JENNY. Tins is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- tion, was written from IMrs. Burns's voice. A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, But he was sicken a bashfu' wooer, That he could scarcely speak unto her. But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, Forced him at last to tell his mind till her ; My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry. Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry Come aw3 then, my Norland laddie, Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy j Albeit I hae neither laud 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 minuio wad be angry, and sae wad my daddie. Should I marry ane as dink as a lady, I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, Crudule a' the milk, and keep the house a scauldin ; T.ulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. My father's only dochter, wi' faims and siller ready. Wad be ill bestpwcd upon sic a clownish body ; A' that I said was to try what was in thee, C-ae hanie, ye Norland Jockie, aud court your Norland Jenny ! AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaiatauca be forgot. And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And auld lang syne ! Fo?- auld laiiff sync, my jo, For auld la»Q ^-i/ne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! And surely ye'll be your pint stoup ! And surely I'll be mine ! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld, §-c. We twa hae run about the braes, And pou't the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot Sin auld lang syne. Fur auld, ^c. \ 192 "We twa liae paldl't i' tlie bum, Frae morning sun 'till dine ; But seas between us braid Lae roar'd, ^ Sin aiild lang syne. Fur auld, Sfc. And there's a ban', my trusty fiere, And gies a ban' o' thine ! And we'll tak a right gude willy-waugbt For auld lang syne ! -For auld, Sfc. BURNS' WORKS. 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 cofifers ; he has ousen and kine, 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 ; As biythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the lea ; And dear to my heart as the light to my ce. 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 comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; I wander my lane like a night- troubled ghaist, And 1 sigh as my heart it wad burst ia my breast ! Oh had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad sniil'd upon me ; O how past deserving had then been my bless, As now my distraction, no words can express. BESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. Tune — " The bottom of tlic Punch Bowl.* O LEEZE mo on my spinning-wheel ! O leeze me on my rock and reel ! Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. And haps me feil • and warm at e'en ! I'Jl set me doun, and sing, and spin. While laigh descends the simmer sun ; • Covers me with a stuff agree? V' fo the skin. Blest wl' content, and milk, and meaI-» O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, Aiid little fishes' caller rest ; The sun blinks kindly ia the biel. Where biythe I turn my spinning-wheel. On lofty alks the cushats wail, And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The liutwhites in the hazel braes. 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, dinsonie 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 Jliss Ann IMasterton, the daughter of my friend, Allan Rhistertou, the author of the air of Strath- alhiHS Lament, and two or three others ia this 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 vau : In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 1 ney 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. 19S BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT ARRIVE. Tune—" Oran Gaoil." Behold tlie hour, the boat arrive ; Tlioii goest, thou darling of my heart! Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : " E'en here I took 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 me, 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, &c. 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. Whelp- dale. — The young lady was born at Craigie- burn wood. — The chorus is part of an old fool- ish ballad. — Seyond thee, dearie, heyond thee, dearie, And O to be lying beyond thee, sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, That's laid in the bed beyond thee. CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood. And blythely awakens the morrow ; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn wood, Can yield me to nothing but sorrow. Seyond 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 is wringing. Seyond thee, Ifc. But secret love will break my hatr% If I conceal it langer. Beyond, thee, ^. I see thee gracefu', straight and tall,t I see thee sweet and bonnic. But oh, what will my torment* be, K thou refuse thy Johnie ! JBeyond thee, Sfc. To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be leeOt My heart wad burst wi' anguish* Seyond thee, i^c. 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, §-c. BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HELL Tunt-~" Liggciam cosh." Bltthe 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, IMirth 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 vaf dvrelliog. canna tell, I maun na toll, I dare na for your anger ; BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, blythe and merry real she, Slylhe was she but and ben ; Blythe by the banks of Em, And blythe in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonnnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, S[c. Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer mora ; 45 She tripped by tlie banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Bhjthe, §-c. Her bonny fare it was as meek As ouv lainb upon a lee ; The eveiiiua; sun was ne'er sae sweet As Wii*! the blink o' Phemie's e'e. Bli/tlte, ^-c. The Highland hill's I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; B'lt Phemie was the biythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blythe, Ij-c. BURNS' WORKS. BONNIE WEE THING. Tune—" Bomiie Wee Thing." Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my Iwisom, Lest my jewel I sliould 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. 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, 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 bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks 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 a^ain appear. Thus seasons dancing, life aa 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-faulding let us gang. My 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 The fairies dance sae cheerie. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, INIy bonnie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art. Thou hast stoun my very heart ; I can die — but canna part. My bonnie dearie. CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? Tune—" Roy's 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 thy faithful swain's reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 196 BURNS' WORKS. Farewell ! and ne*er sucli 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 TOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS DECEASE. Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, Stay, my Willie — yet believe me; 'Tweel, thou know'st ua every pang Wad wring my bosom shouldat 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 uniler ! Couid 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 witbm thy bosom. He wanders as free as the wind on his mountain*. Save love's willing fetters — the chains of hii Jean,* CHLOE. ALTERED FROM AN OLD KNOLISH SOlfa 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, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Trippimj o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The fi-ather'd peo])!e 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' gicen brcckan, 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 amang 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 (luring their honeymoon. The air, with many others nfeiiiial beauty, was the comiiosition of a Mr. Mar- shall, who, in Burns's time, v/as butler to the Duke of (Jordon. This bcautifu! song — beautiful for both its amatory and its patriotic jciitiment — seems to have been com. posed by Burns during the period when he was court- nig the Indy who afterwards becanje his wife. The present generation is much interested in this lady, and deservedly ; as, in addition to her poetical history, which is an extremely interesting one, she is a person- ape of the greatest private worth, and in every respect deserving to be csteeined as the widow of Scotland's best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote will perhaps be held as testifying, in no inconsideraiile degree, to a quality which she may not hitlierto liave been supposed to j>ossess — her wit. It is generally known, that Mrs. Burns has, ever since her husband's dealh, occupied exactly the same house in Dumfries, which she inhabited before that event, and that it is customary for strangers, who happen to pass through or visit the town, to pay their respects to her, with or without letters of iutroduetion, precisely .IS they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, or any other public object of curiosity about the place. '^ Gay yfioig English gentleman one day visited Mrs. Burn's, and after he h;id seen all that she liad to show — the bedroom in which the poet died, his original por. trait by Nasmyth, his family-bible, with the names and birthd.iysof himself, his wife, and children, written on a blank-leaf by his own hand, and some other little trifles of the same nature — he proceeded to intreat that she would have the kindness to present him with some relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him, as a wonder, to show in his own country. " Indeed, Sir," said Mrs. Burns, " I have given away so many re- lics of Mr. Burns, that, to tell >e the truth, I have not one left" — "Oh, you must surely have something," said the persevering Saxon ; " any tlnng will do— any little scrap of his handwriting — the least thing you please. All 1 want h just a relic of the poet; and any thing, you know, will do for a relic." Some further altercatiim took place, the lady reasserting that she ha 1 no relic to give, and he .as repeatedly renewing his re- quest. At length, fairly tired out w'ith the man's iiii portunities, Mrs. Burns said to him, with a smile, "'Deed, Sir, unless ye taU m^.?a winna wish gude luck to our cause, Slay never gude 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 causu. And bide by the buff and the blue. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. IMay liberty meet wi' success ! JMuy prudence protect her frac evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the ral son, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeal 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're had wi aue anither j # 208 BURNS' V/ORKS. Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, And we'll sleep thegither 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 micht dee when he liked for Jean ; The guid forgi'e me for let-in', for leeiu'. The guid forgi'e me for leeiu' ! A weel-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffer. I never loot on that I kenn'd it or cared ; But thocht I might hae a waur offer, waur ofifer. 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 bear 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 glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a warlock, Wha glowr'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 caper'd as he'd been in drink. And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 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 begged, 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, 1 think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor* row, I think I mauo wed him to-morrow. * In Scotland, when a cast-ofT 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 the metaphor is made to carry an extremely in- genious sarcasm at the clumsiness or the new mistress's LASSIE Wr THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS. Tune — " Rothicmuichus' Rant." Lassie wi' the lint white lochs, Honnie luhsie, artless lassie. Wilt thou ivi' me tend the flocks ? Wilt thou he iny 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', &,~c. And when the welcome simmer shower H:is cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, At sultry noon, my dearie, O. Lassie wi', Sfc. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way. Through yellow- waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie, O. Lassie, wi', §-c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest, Enclasi>ed to my faithful breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie, wi', Sfc. LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS Tune—" O lay the loof in mine, lass," O tAY 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 ; But now he is my deadly fae. Unless thou be my ain. There's raony a lass has broke my rest. That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; But thou art queen within my breast. For ever to remain. SONGS. 209 LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. Tune—" Duncan Gray." Let not woman e'er ooinplain Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er coni|>lain, Fickle man is apt to rove. Lnnk abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange, Alan should, then, a monster prove ? IVIark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's (low. 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. r LONG, LONG THE NIGHT. Tunc—" Aye wakin'." Long, long the night. Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight. Is on Iter led of sorrow. Can I cease to care, Can I cease to languish. While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish ? Zo7tg, §-c. Every hope Is fled. Every fear is terror : Slumber e'en I dread, Eveiy dream is liorror. Zong, Sfc. Hear me, pow'rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear ine ! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! Zong, 8fc. LOGAN BRAES. Tune—" Logan Water." O, LoGAV sweeetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride ; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now the flowery banks ap])ear Like drumlie winter, dark an drear, While my dear lad maun face his fiies. Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry mouth o' May, Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds icjoice in leafy boweis. The bees hum roiind the breathing flowers ; Hivthe morning lilts his rosy eve. And evening's tears are tears of joy : My soul, delightk'ss, a' surveys. While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Ainang her nestlings sits the thrush : Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Ov wi' his song her cares beguile ; Hut I, wi' my sweet nurslirigs here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, Wliile Willie's far fi'ae 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;* Dut soon may peace bring happy days. And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! LORD GREGORY. On, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. And loud the tempests roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! An exile frae her father's ha*. And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw. If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grore By bonnie Irvine side, Where first I own'd that virgin love 1 lang lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge the vow, Thuu wad for aye be mine ! And my fond heart, itsell sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. 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, ' i he widow's tears, the orph.v''. cri«n "' 47 210 But spare ana pardon my false love His wrongs to heaven and me ! • BURN'S' WORKS. LIJTES ON LORD DAER. This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far 1 sprackled f up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. I've been at drunken ivriters' | feasts, Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, Wi' rev'^rence be it spoken ; I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son. Up higher yet my bonnet ; An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' As I look o'er a sonnet. But for Hogarth's magic power ! To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§ And how he stared and staromer'd, Whan goavan [| as if led wi' brauks,^ An* stumpan on his ploughman shanks. He in the parlour haramer'd. plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte- nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene- volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It was a younger brother of his who, as Eail of Selkirk, became so well known as the advocate of volun- tary emigration, iind who settled the colony upon the Red River. I sidling shelter'd in a nook. An' at his Lordship steaTt a look, Like some portentous omen ; Except good sense and social glee. An' (what surprised me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon. I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, The gentle pride, the lordly state The arrogant assuming ; The fient a pilde, nae pride had he. Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Hencefortn to meet with unconcern, One rank as well's another ; Nae honest worthy man need care. To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother. These lines will be read with no common in- terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- • This song was composed upon the subject of the well-known and very beautiful ballad, entitled " The Lass of Lochroyau." f Clambered. t Attorneys. i Frightened stare. Il Walking stupidly. 5 A kind of bridle. MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. Tune—" Macpherson's Rant" Fareweil, ye prisons dark and strong. The wretch's destinie ! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree ! Sae rantingly, sae wantotily, Sae dantonly gaed lie. He play'd a spring, and danced it round. Beneath the gallows tree ! Oh, what is death, but parting breath ? On mony n. 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, 8fc. 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, !fc. Now farewell, light, thou sunshine brighl^ And all beneath 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 crutl mem'ry ! spare the throe* 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, 1 fain mv crime would cover ; SONGS. 1311 The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan Betray tlie hopeless lover. I know my doom must be despair, Thnu wilt, nor canst relieve me ; But oh, i\Iaria, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me. The music of thy tongue I heard. Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; I saw tlvine eyes, yet nothing fear'o, 'Till fears no more had saved me. The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing ; 'Mid circling horrors yields at lust To overwkehnin'j; ruin. MARK YONDER POMP. Tune—" Deil tak' the wars." BIark 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. The polish'd jewel's blaze, May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright. The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 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. runif — " 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 byde the stoure, A weary slave fiae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure. The lovely Mary Morison ! Yestreen, when to the stented string The dunce gaed through the lichtit ha", To thee my fancy took its wing— I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Though this was fair, and that was braw. And you the toast o' a' tlie town, I sitjh'd, and said amang them a', Ye are na ]Mary Morison. O, Mar)% canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? Or canst thou break that heart of hia, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me shown ; A thocht ungentle canoa be The thocht of JMary Morison. MEG O' THE MILL. Tune—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in aljarrack." O, KEN- ye what Meg o' the Mill Las gotten. An' ken ye what Meg o* the Mill has gotten i She has gotten a coof wi* a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley miller. The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy ; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : The laird was a 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 laird did address her wi' matter mair mo- ving ; A fine piciug-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 mailia* ! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's paile. 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 ia an of- ficer in the East Indies. Tune — " Drumlon Dubh." i Musing on the roai-ing ocean, Which divides my love and me ; Wearying heaven in warm devotion. For bis weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whispring spirits round my pillow. Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow »)ever wounded. Ye who uevef s'lej u tear, 212 BURNS' WORKS. Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gdudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me, Downy steep the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him 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 bonuie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, It's leaviug thee, my boanie filar y. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS, ]My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here — My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Fai'ewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. IMy heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, Cliasiiig the wild deer and following the roe — My heart's in the Higlilands wherever I go. • This song, which Burns here acknowledges to bo liis own, was first introduced by him in a letter to AJrs. OuDlop, as two o!d itanaas. MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. My lady's gown there's gairs upon't. And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. My lord a-hunting he is gane. But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane; By Colin's cottage lies his game. If Coliu's Jenny be at hame. ]\Iy lady's white, my lady's red. And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude, But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks through the heather pass * There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, A lily in a wilderness. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs. Like music notes o' lover's hymns : The diamond dew is her ccn sae blue. Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady's dink, my lady's drest. The flower and fancy o' the west ; But the lassie that man lo'es the best, O that's the lass to mak liim blust. MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune — " There'll never be peace till Janue comeg hame." Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. And listens the laiobkius that bleat ower the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn. And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews of the lawn. The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking dau-n ; And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa' ; Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, AJajie can delight me — my Nannie's awa. SONGS. 213 MY NANNIE, O. Tune — " My Nannie, O." Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, JManj moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa to Nannie, O. The westlanfl wind blaws loud an' shrill ; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; Na' artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; May ill befa' the flatterina; tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O : The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O. A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O ; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. My riches a' 's my penny-fee. An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O ; Nae itlier care in life hae I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O. MY PEGGY'S FACE. BIt Peggy's face, my Peggy's form The frost of Hermit age might warm ; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's miml, Might charm the first of human kind ; I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye. The kindling lustre of an eye ; Wlio but owns their magic sway, Who but knows tliey all decay ! Tlie tender thiill, the pilying tear. The generous ])iir|M)SL', noldy dear, The gentle look, that rage disuuis, These are all immortal charms. MY SODGER LADDIE, THE SOLDIER S DOXY S SONG IN «« THE JOLLY BEGGARS." Tune—" Sodger Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, tho' I canna 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. Sinff, Lai de lal, §*c. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, ffc. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for tlie sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the biyJt/, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Siiiff, Lal de lal, §-c. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, Sfc. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in de-pair. Till I met my old boy at Curminghim fair ; His r(ig regimental tliey flutfer'd so gaufly. My heart it rejoic'J at niv sodger laddie. Sing, L'lidc la!, kc And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a so-ig ; But whiht with both hands I can hold the glass steady. Here's to thte, my hero, my sodijer laddif. Sing, Lal de lal, kc. MY SPOUSE NANCIE. Tune — " My Jo, Janet." HusBAXD, husband, cease your strife. Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; Though I am your wed led wife. Yet I'm not your slave. Sir. One of two must still obey. Nancie, Nancie ; Is it man or woman, say, ]\Iy spouse Nancie ? If 'tis still the lordly word. Service and tsbedience ; I'll desert my soverei;;n lord. And so good -bye allegiance S.wl will I be so bereft, Nam ie, Nancie ; 214 BURNS* WORKS. Yet I'll try to make a snif't, My spouse Nancie. Jly poor heart then break it -must, My last hour I'm near it ; When you lay ine 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 Hon id 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 MEiKi.E thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, Jly laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny. My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'U crack your credit wi' mae nor me. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. Tunt — " My wife's a wanton wee thing." She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie 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 waistlo and the care o't ; W' her I'll hlythely be.ir it, Aiid 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-hody's lord, I'll be slave to nae-hody ; 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 lii)s. 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 GROVE IN GREEN. Now spring has clad the grove in groen, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers j Tlie fiirrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering skowera ; SONGS. 215 Willie 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 ; Jly life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder clitf that grows, Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o'er rae past, And blighted a' my bloom. And now beneath the withering blast, JJy youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. And climbs the early sky, Winnovv-ing 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, Alade me the thrall o' care. O Lad 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 whuse doom is, " hope nae mair. That tongue his woes can 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 spring. By Girvan's fairy haunted stream The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, Thei i wi' my Blary let me flee. There cutch her ilka glance of love The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! The child vvha boasts o' warld's walth. Is aften laird o' raeikle care ; But Mary she is a' my ain, Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! Then lot nie 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." Nov/ 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, Tl^e 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 clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The )-ky 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 1 love thee dearly. Not vernal showers 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 Jlrs. 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 roWf Wj' mony a liill between, 216 BURNS* WORKS. Baith day and nigTit, my fancy's flight Is ever \vi' ray Jean, I see lier in the dewy flow'r, Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; I hear her voice in ilka bird, Wi' music churm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, sliaw, or green, Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde The lasses busk them briw ; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie dings them a' ; In hamely weeds she far exceeds The fairest o' the town ; Baith sage and gay confess it sae, Tho* drest in russet gown. The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, INIair 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 westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees; Wi' gentle gale, frae niuir and dale, Bring hamo the laden bees, And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat ami clean ; Ae blink o' ber wad banish 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 aboon can only ken, To whom the 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 she dang me." O, ay my wife she dang me, And aft my wife she bunged me I If ye gie a wmnaji a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon oweryang ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent, ■ And, fool I was, I married ; But never honest man's intent As cursedly miscarried ! O, ay my wife, §-c. Some sair o* comfort still at hist. 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, §-c. O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. O BONNIE was yon rosy brier. That blooms s.ie far iVae 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 scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. O, FOR ANE AND TAVENTY, TAJVL Tune—" The Moudiewort." An' O, for ane and twenty. Tarn I An hey, sweet ane and twenty. Tarn I Til learn my kin a rattling sang, Ati' I saw ane and twenty, Taml Thet snool me sair, and hand me down, And gar me look like Bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun*. And then comes ane and twenty, Tam I An O, for, §c. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o* gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I need na' spier. An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. An' O, for, S^c. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loof, I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An' O, for, !fc. SONGS. 217 OH, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. Tuw— " Hughie Graham." Oh, gin my love were yon red rose Tliat grows upon the c;istle \va', Antl I niy>eil a drap o' dew, Into her l>onnie l)reast to fa' ! Oh, tliere, beyond expression lilest, I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht ; Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fleyeJ awa by Phoebus' licht. ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS. O, WERE my love yon lilac fair, \Vi* purple blossoms to the spring ; And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing ; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! How I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Oh, wert tliou in the cauld blast. On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My pluidie to the 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. Time—" Donald Blue." O LEAVE novelles, ye Mauchline belles, Ye' re safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching books are baited hooks, ' Fur 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 fur Rob Mossgiel. Sing tal, lal, lay. Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; A heart that warmly seeks to fed ; That feeling heart but acts a part, 'Tis rakish ait in Rob Mossgiel. Sing tal, lal, lag. The frank address, the soft caress. Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, The frank address, and poiitesse. Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. Sing tal, lal, lay. O LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT Tune—" Let me in this ae night." O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou wakin, I would wit. For love has bound me hand and foot. And I would fain be in, jo. O let me in tliis ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, For pity's sake this ae night, jise and let me in, jo. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, Nae star bliidis thro' the driving sleet, * Tak pity on my weary feet. And shield me frae the rain, jo. O let me in, Sfc. Tlie hitter blast that round me blaws Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. O let me in, S^c, HER ANSWER. O TELL nae me o' wind and rain, Upbraid nae me wi" cauld disdain, Gae back 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 kt 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. J tell you now, Sfc, The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed : Let simple maid the lesson read. The weird may be her oin, jo. / tell you now, ^e. 48 218 BURNS' WORKS. The bird tliat clianu'd liis summer-day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Let witless, trustinsf woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo. I tell you now, Sj-c. O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur ua 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' v/omankind, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view. For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jlay. 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 giey, WTiere, 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 sue clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve. And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve. And this will be a posie to my ain 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 to them we darna tell. The dearest o' the quorum, And hercs to, §"e. 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 weclfar'd face. And the glancin' of her sparklia' e'en. She's fresher than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen. When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn ; An' she^ twa glancin' sparklia' 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 IMay 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 shadtts the mountain side at e'en. When fluw'r-reviving rains are past ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' 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 song was an early prortuction. .t was re» covered I'rom tlie oral coramiiuication of a lady residi- iiff at Olasgnw whom tliv li.ird \:\ f^ai-ly life affeetion. :itily adtn;;3i.l. % SONGS. 219 Her voice is like the ev'ning tliiush That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the hush ; An' she's Uva, glaacin' spaikliu' e'en. Her lips are like the cherries ripe, That sunny walls from boreas screen, They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; Au' she's twa glancia' sparklia' e'en. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. With fleeces newly washeu clean. That slowly mount the rising step ; An' she's twa glancin' sparkliu' e'en. Her breath is like the fragi'ant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd Iioan, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; An' she's twa glancin' sparkliu' e'en. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, Eut the mind th;it shines in ev'ry grace An' cliiefly in her sparklin' e'eu OX 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 mv heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away. On stormy seas and far atcay ; X^ightly dreams and thouglits by day, Are aye with him that's far aivay. WTien 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 boyi Fate, do with me what you may, Spare but him that's far awaj- ! On the seas and far away, §-c. At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power, As the storms the forests tear. And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, AU I can — I weeji and pray For his weal that's far away. On the seas and fir awny, ^c. Peace, thy olive wand e.\tend, And bid \vild war his ravage end, JMan with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet. Then may heaven with prosperous ga Fill my 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 FLOWERS. Tune — " On a bank of flowers." On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, For summer lightly drest. The youtliful, 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 lo\e'y form, her native ease. All harmony 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 Nelly, starting, half awake, Away affrighted springs ; But Willie followed — as he should ; He overtook her in the wood ; He vowed, he prayed, he fouud the maid Forgiving all and good ! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH, Oh, open the door, some pity show, Oh, open the door to me, oh ! Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true. Oh, open the door to me, oh ! Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh ' 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 hehind 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." O Philly, happy be that day When roving through thV gather'd hay, ]\Iy youthfu' heart was stown away, Aud 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. As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear Aud charming is my Philly. 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 wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o* my 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. 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 wheel at random rin. And fools may tyne, and knaves may WID ; 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 WOOD- LARK. Tunc — " Loch-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 hoard 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 mail" ! Or my poor heart is broken ! O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOUN. Tune—" 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 haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree ; How blest, ye flow'rs, that round her blaw ! Ye catch the glances o' her 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 blythe 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"ndise could yield me joy ; SONGS. 221 But gie me ucan.e in my arms, And welcome L.iplanri's drcarie sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, Though raging winter rent tlie air ; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter theie, 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. If 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 dear. For, while life's dearest blood runs warm. My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart : For, as most lovely is her form. She Las the truest, kindest heart. O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. This air is Oswald's : the song I made out of 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 Muse, 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 I love thee ! By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; And But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? I'm thinking', wi' sic a braiv fellow, In poortith I might niak a fen ; What care I in riches to wallov.-, If I raaunna marry Tam Gleu. There's Lowrie the laird o'X)umelIcr, " Gude day to you, brute," he coraes ben He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Gleu ? My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men j They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think sae o' Tara Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten ; But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing. And thrice it was written Tam Gleu. The last Hallowe'en I was waukin ]My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin. And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 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 IMAN. But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoiced the day, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled. On winter blasts avv'a ! Yet maiden May, in rich array. Again shall bring them a'. • Cragie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the river Mortal, and about three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated lor its medicinal wa- ters. The woods of Cragie-burn, and of Uumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. U was Oiere he met the " Lassie wi' the lint.white locks," and that he conceived several of his beautiful Ijrics. But my white pow, i^ae kindly thowe S'.iaii melt the snaws of .-1^0 ; I\ly trunk of eilil, bnt buss or beilJ, Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleejiless pain ! Thou golilen time o' youthfu' prime, Why contest thou not again ! THE BANKS O' BOON. Ye hanks and braes o' bonnie Boon, How can )X' bloom sae fresh and fair; [low can ye chant ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'U break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Beparted never to return. Ofc hae I rov'd by bonnie Boon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve. And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause lover stole my rose. But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 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 eommix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands : These, their richly gleaming wave3, I leave to tyrants and their slaves j Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle- Gordon. Spicy forests ever gay. Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil, Or the ruthless native's way. Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave. Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms, by Castle -Gordon. Wildly here, without control. Nature reigns and rules the whole j In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood, . Life's poor day I'll musing rave^ 49 )a^: 226 BURNS' WORKS. And find at night a slielterlug cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle- Gordon. And art thou come, and art thou true I 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 cliri." These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Jliss Chailotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- vin Hamilton, of IMauchline ; and was linrn on the banks of Ayr, hut was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Hervcyston, 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 flow'r on the banks of the De- von, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr: Mild he the sun on this sweet-hhishing flow'r, In the guy 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 spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill, hoary-wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest, The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! Let Bourbon 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 BANKS OF CREE. Tune—" T!ie bar.Us of Crce." He HE is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade j The village bell has toll'd the hour, O, what can stay my lovely m lid ? Tis not IMaria's whispering call, Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Jlixt with some warbler's dying fall. The dewy star of eve to hail. It is !Maria*s voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark to the grove. His little faithful mate to cheer. At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. THE BARD'S SONG. THE bard's song IN "THE JOLLY BEGGAB^. Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." See the smoking bowl before us, IVIark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the choi'us, And in raptures let us sing — A. Jig for t/iose hy latv protected, Liberty^s a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards ivere erected, Cliur,ches built to please the priest, "Uliat is title what is treasure, What is reputation's care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where. A fig for those, §"c. Life is all a variorum, W^e regard not how it goes ; Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose. A fig fur those, Sfc. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! Here's to all our wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and callets ! One and all cry out. Amen ! A Jig for those, 8fc. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, between the di'ke op argylk and thi eakl of mar. " O CAM ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, maa? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man ?" I saw the battle sair and teugh. And reekin-red ran monie a shcugh, INIy 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 lush'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 ! SONGS. 227 Tl.ey li,u-kM aua hiisli'il, while broadswords clush'd, And thro' thoy dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, Till fey nieu died awa, maa. But had you seen the philibcgs. And skyrin tartnn trews, man, When in tije teeth they ibr'd our whigs, And covenant true bhies, mtin ; In hues extended lang and large. When l)avonets opposeii the targe, And tliousan/:)u beware at the huntiug, young men ; Tak some on the icing, and some as they spring, 13ut cannily steal on a honnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; Her plumage outlustrcd the pride o' the spring, Jj Aud O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. ^ * / red, SfC. AulJ Phcsbus 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. lied, Sj-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, §-c. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. This was a composition of mine in very earJy life, before I was known at all in the world. Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, Sail ever be my Rinse's care ; Their titles a' are em])ty shew ; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, yjboon the plain sae rashy, O, I cet me dow7i zvi' right pood willf To sing my Highland lassie, O. were yon hills and vallies mine. Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, §fc. But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea ; But while my crimson currents flow, I'll lo'e my "'^'Jand lassie, O. Within the glen, Sfc. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change. For her bosom burns with honour's glow My faithful Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, Sfc. For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; For her I'll trace a distant shore ; SONGS. 23? That Indian wealth mny lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O. Within the ylen, ^c. She has my heart, she has my hind, I!y secret truth anil iuinmu's l)aiiii ! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me loTi', I'm thine, my Hi^lil-.uid lassie, (). J'arewdl llie (jlcn, sue biis/iy, O, Jh^arewcll t/ie plain, sae ras/ii/, O, To otiicr lands I now must go. To sing mg Highland lassie, O. THE LAD THAT'S FAR AV/A. Tune — " 0"cr tlic hills and far awa." O, HOW can I be blithe and ghd, 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 j But aye the tear comes in my ce To think on hlni that's far awa. BIy father pat me frae his door, l\ly friends they hae disown'd me a' ; But I hae ane will take my part, The bounie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gao 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 cleed the birken shaw ; And my sweet babie will l)e 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 pe.irls hang; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; All nature list'ning seeni'd the while. Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoiced in Natuie's joy ; When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanced to spy : Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air hke Nature's vernal smile j Th? lily's hue, and rose's dye, Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. Fair is the morn in flowery Jlay, And sweet is night in Autumn mild. When roving thrnuirh the garden gay, Or wanii'ring in the lonely wild ; Hut woman. Nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile j Even there her other works are fuil'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, V7ith jov, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The boauie lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slipp'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, Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* THE LASS THAT IMADE THE BED TO IME.f WHE>f Januar winds were blawin' cauld, Unto the north I bent my way, Tl'.e niirksome nicht did me enfauld, I keud na where to lodge till day ; But by good luck a lass I met, Just in the middle of my care. And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair. I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And thank'd her for her courtesie ; I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. And bade her make the bed to me. * Ttiis sons "'as written in praise of Miss Alexander of Ballochmx le. Burns happeutd one fine cvenwig to meet this young lady, when walking through the beautiful woods of liallochniylc, which lie at the dis- tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. 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 somewhat mortified to find, that cither maidenly modest, or piide of supe- rior station, prevented her from acknowledging the re. coiiit of his compliment : Indeed it is no where record, cd that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest sense ot it ; as to hir tiie pearls seem to have been li- terally thrown away. t There is an older and coarser song, containing the same incidents, and said to have been occasioned by an adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the Presbvterian army, 1650-51. Tha affair happened at the house of Port-Lethem, in Aber- deenshire, and it was a daughter i|Ohe laird that mad* the bed to the king. ^ 234 BURNS' WORKS. She made the bed baith wide and braid, Wi' tu'a 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 some mair beneath my heid. A cod she laid beneath my heid, And served me with a due lespect j And, to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. Haud aff your liands, young man, she says, And dinna sae uncivil be ; It will be time to speak the morn, If ye 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 ewer again, And aye she wistna what to say ; I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; The lassie thocht na lang till day. Upon the morrow, when we rase, I thauk'd her for her courtesie ; And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, And said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me. I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twiaklin' in her ee ; 1 said, RIy 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 me. The braw lass that made the bed to me ; I'll ne'er forget, till the day 1 dee. The lass that made the bed to me. THE LAZY MIST. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 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 ; How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd la 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. Hiiw 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 musk 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 fiae the furrowed field Return sae douff and weary, O ; Down by the burn, where scented birkl Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, ^ I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind 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, I\Iy ain kind dearie, O. Altliougli the night were ne'er sae wild. And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, Sly ain kind dearie, O. 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, I\Iy father dear and brethren three : Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman s ee i Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou oe. For mony a heart thou hast maoe aair. That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee ! SONGS. 2S5 THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune — " Deil tak tlie wars." Sleep'st thou, or wak'stthou, fairest creature ? Rosy inorn now lifts his eye, Numliering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods ; Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower : The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.* Phoebus 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'ercist my sullen sky ; But when in beauty's light, She meets my ravlsh'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-Rjgs 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 thiough the barley. The sky was blue, the wind was stiH, The moon was shining clearly ; I sot her down, wi' right good-will, Amang the rigs o' barley. I ken't her heart was a' rav aln ; 1 loved her most sincere.y ; I kiss'd her ower and ower again, Amang the rigs o' barley. • Var'aticm. Now to the streaming foun ajn, Or up the heathy mountain The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly- wanton stray ; In twining hazel boweis His lay tlie linnet pours: The lav'rock, &c. t Varkition. When frae my Chloris parted. Sad, cheerless, brnkenheartcil, Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast ni'y sky ; But when she charms my sight. In pride of beauty's lb;ht. When thro' my very lie^irt Her beaming glones dart ; Tis then, 'tis then 1 wiike to life and joy. I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarely My blessing? on that happy place, 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 ; 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 thcta a' Ainang the rigs o' barley. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. Tunc—" 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; 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 j And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy ; I thought upon the witching smile. That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy oft I courted. Wha spied 1 but my aiu 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 and country lang - Tak pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully she gazed on me, And lovelier grew than ever ; Quoth she, A sodgei ance I loved, Forget him will I never. 230 BURNS' WORKS. Our humble cot and liamely fare, Ye freely shall partake o't ; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're 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 thon my aiu dear M'^illie ? 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 poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quoth she, IMy granilsire left me gowd, A niailin plenish'd fairly ; Then come, ray faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. For gold the merchant ploughs tlie main. The farmer ploughs the manor j 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 NITII. Tune — " Robic 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 : Wlien shall I isec that honoured land. That winding stream I love so dear ! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here. How lovely, Nit'n, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. Far from thy bonnle banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days i ' " Gums, I have been informed," says a clergyman of Duinfriesshirt', in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, eriitor of Select Melodies of Scotland, " was one sum- mer evcnii^g in the inn at IJrownhill, willi a couple of friends, k]\vii a jioor way..\vorn soldier passed the win- 'clii'v. Of a sudden it s-truck the poet to c.ill him in, agd Ret tiie recital of his adventures; after hearing Wttich, he all at o ce fell into one of those fits of ab. stractioii, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the region where he had his gailand and his sinjiiiig-robes flboiit hirr., ar«t tin; result was this r In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus O wliistle ami I'll come to Ihoc, my jOj O whistle and I'll come to tlico, my jo; 'J ho' father and molhcr and a' should say no, O whistle and I'll come to thte, ciy jo. WILLIE BREW'D A PECK 0' AlAUT This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— . The occasion of it was this : — JMr. Wm. NicoP, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the au- tumn vacation, being at JMoiiat, 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. INIasterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business. O Willie brew'd peck o' maut, Aad Rob an„ ■ i .. Thomson for publication in his splendid collection of| ^hey f''arm th admiring gazers sight tlie national music and musical poetry of ScotliUid. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; O' nice education but snia' is her share ; Her parentage humble as humble can be ; But I lo'e ihe dear lassie because she lo'es me. Her parentage, Sfc. 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, §-c. Cut 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-conquering charms ! And the heart-heating, ^c. YOLT^G JOCKEY. Tune — " Jockie was the blythest lad." Young Jockey was the blithest lad In a' our town 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 geuty 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 hameward ca'. An' ay the uight comes round again. When in his arms he taks me a' ; An' ay he vows he'll be my ain As lang's he has a breath to draw. YOUNG PEGGY Young P€gs;y blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass. With eaily gems adorning : Her eyps outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower. And glittft o'er the crystal streams. And cheer each fresh'ninjr flower. Her lips more than the cherries bright, A richer die lias grac'd them. I And sweetly tempt to taste them : 244) BURNS' WORKS. Her smile is as tlie ev'ning mild, WHien feuther'd pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting. Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain Her wiiming pow'rs to le^^scn : And fretful envy grins in vain. The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, From ev'ry ill defend her ; Inspire the highly favour'd youth The destinies intend her ; Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom ; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.* • This was one of the poef s earliest compositions. It is copied I'rom a MS. book, which he had before his first pul)lication. CORRESPONDENCE ROBERT BURNS ^' 246 THE CORRESPONDENCE. NOTICE. Of the following letters "of Biu-ns, a consld 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 feelings 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 to exscind parts of great delicacy — the unbridled effusions 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 iastances he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote out his communications in a f;:irer cha- racter, or perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the original sketches v/ere found ; and as these sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be considered as the offspring ^f his mind, where they have seemed in themselves \vpi-,thy ofta 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, JSsq- Among these was the account of his life,' addressed to Dr. INIoore, and printed in the Life. In copying from his imperfect sketches (it docs not appear that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- respondents before him) he seems to liave occa- 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 eifusions, even of literary characters, who have not been in the habit of carrying their compositions to the press. These corrections have never been extended to any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, even where his phraseology may seem to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- giUge, 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 pubhshere. The series commences with the Bard's Xove Letters — a-the first four being of that description. They were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : why, h^s not been explained. They have been held tolbe sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. He states the is^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 tlie taste of the fair maiden : had the wooel#Uscd a sprinkling of his native tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitution- al enthusiasm, he might have had more success. 21? LETTERS, &c. LOVE LETTERS. No. I. (written about the year 17S0.) 1 VERILY believe, my dear Eliza, that the pure genuine feelings of love, are as rare in tiie 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 v,-ell-grounded af- i'ction 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 jirinciple 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, atid sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to tbo 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 cOHifortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher pa(fts of my natural temper, and bettering the un- kindly circamstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy nf a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's per.son, 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 choq^' one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say of on-old horse, one w'lo will be a good drudge and draw kindly. 1 (iisd-ain their dirty, puny ideas. 1 would h9 heartily out of humour with myself, if I thougl- ' I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the jjleasuros of society. Poor devils ! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propqge quite other pleasures with my dear partner No. II. TO THE SAME. MY DEAR ELIZA, I DO not remember in the coin-i^e 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 ajfcction is really pla^ ced on the person. Though 1 be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the aifair of courts'nip 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- riageSji'than usually are. * It Is natiual for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, and customai-y for him to keep them company when occasion serves ; some one of them i^'more agreeable to him than .jks rosfr.;i,there is something, he knows not ivhat, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company.-' This I take to be what is called love with tlie greatest part of us, and I must own, my dfc^r Eliza, it is a hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover.-Jfifou cannot lefuse but be is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, per- hajjs in ii'few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same uuaiScountable fancy mav make liim as distractodMifond of another, whilst ^'ou are quite forgot.' ' I im aware, that perhaps the next titljpsi have the pleasure of seeing you, you may li'd mo take my own lesson' tome, and tell me th;.t tShe passiqb I have professed for you is pcrha; s om of tnose transient flasliLS I have ns BURNS' WORKS. been describing ; but T hope, my dear Eliza, you will do me the justice to beheve me, when I assure you, that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence, so long as you con- tinue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe rue, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the mar- ried state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please ; and a warm fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like whal t'"'"/ describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties of tlie mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always been my o])inion, 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 he indifferent to rae, I will regard my Eliza with the tendercst af- fection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- proved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. " O I i-i^r^v stats, when souls each other draw, " When love is liberty, and nature law." I know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl 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 ynu. When I look over what I have written, T am sensible it is vastly dillerent from the ordinary style of courtship — hut I shall make no ajiolo- gy — I know your good nature will excuse what your good sense may sec amiss. be performed, if he be villain enough to prac- tise such detestable conduct : but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of in- tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. Tiiere 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 vou, 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 yon, and it is this ; that you would soon either jjut an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall 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 ; I hope jou shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover. No. III. TO THE SAME. Jiy DEAR 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 lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. 1 do not think that it is very difficult for a person of or- dinary capacity to talk of love and fondues*, which are not felt, and to make vows of con- ytuncy and fidelity, which are never Luteuded to No. IV. TO THE SAME. I OUGHT in good manners to have acknow- leilged 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 cu the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your letter. I road it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest language of re- fusal, still it was pcrem]itory ; " you wcie sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me" what, without y(Ui, I never can obtain, " you wish nie all kind of happiness. " It would be weak and iinniauly to say, that without you I never can be hajipy ; but suie I am, that shdr- CORRESPONDENCE. 219 ing life witb 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, possibly in a few instances, may be met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender fLMiiiniue softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with in such a degree in this world. All these charming fpialities, heigh- tened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- ed to approach, 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 fancy 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 exjiect to remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, 1 wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear expression for once.) LETTERS, 1783, 1784. No. V. TO MR. JOHN aiURDOCH, SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. DEAR SIR, Lochlee, \blJi January, 1783. As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter, without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill re- pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and fi-ieniiship, I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. — One would have thought, that bred as I have been, under a fathcF.who has figured pretty well as un Jiommc ihs affaires, I might have been what the world calls a pushing, ac- tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see, and observe ; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be any thing original about' him which shows me human nature in a different light from any thing I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their manners, and their ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheer- fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the present hour, 1 am very easy with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift * of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me : I know that even then my talent fur what country folks call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- fied by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, that even then — I would learn to be happy. However, I am under no apprehensions about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- deed for the sake of the money, but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest, 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Slienstone, particularly his Elegies ; Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a book I prize next to the Bible; Man of the World; Sterne, especially his Sentimental Journet/ ; Macpher- S071S Ossian, 8j-c. These are the glorious mo- dels after which I endeavour to form my con- duct ; and 'tis incogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- timents lightened up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race — he " who can soar above this little scene of things," can he descend to minil the paltry concerns abcv.'' which the terrne- filiid race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! 1 forget that I am a poor insignificant devil, un- noticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- ing the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side as an idle encumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I liave by this time tired your patience ; so I shall conclude with bogging you to give Mrs, * The last sliift alluded to here, must be the condi iou of aa luncroiitb^gsar 53 250 BURNS' WORKS. Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story, but — my warmest, kindest wislies for her welfare ; and accept of the same for jourself, from, Dear Sir, Yours, &c. ^"o VI. [the following is taken froji the MS. PROSE PRESENTED BY OUR BARB TO MR. RIDDEL.] On rummaging over some old papers, I light- ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to write myself out, as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that, some time or other, even after I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of appreciating their value. It sets oiF thus : Observations, Hints, Sojirjis, Scraps of Poe- try, Sj'c, by R, S. — a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, and a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational. As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic way of life ; but as I believe they are really his oivn, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature, to see how a plough- man thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the species. " There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the same importance which they do to those which appear in print." — Shenstone. " Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of our youthful mind." Ibid. April, I7S3. Notwithstandiug all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest enco- miums that have been passed on it. If any thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in the company of the mis.tress of his heart, when she repays liim with an equal return of affc«^- tion. August. There is certainly some connection between love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I have always thought a fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love composition : " As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along, Her name was fretpient in his song." For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. September. I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- pher, I\Ir. Suiith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. Of all the numerous ills that hurt onr peace. That press the soul, or wring the mind with aB^- guish. Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self T" Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse j The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilts Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others , The young, the innoceiit, who fondly loved us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin I O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments. There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; And, after proper purpose of amendment. Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ! O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! O glorious magnanimity of soul. March, 1784. I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about him ; though very often nothing else than a happy CORRESPONDENCE. 2Si temperatnerit of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other person, be- sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us, examine im- partially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such temptation ; and, what often, if not always weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye. I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- ther than was consistent with the safety of my character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- lity or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes " stained with guilt, .... . . . . ," I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. April, As T am whit the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en joyment, which arc, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there su(^h other out- of-the-way per-son. Such is the peculiar plea- sure I take in the season of vrinter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast : but there is some- thing even in the " Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, sti'etch'd o'er the buried earth," — which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it plea- sure — but something which exnlts me, some- thing which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the jiompous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the ■wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following : The wintry west extends his blast, &c. See Songs. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing C)ppery, and con- ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was at the time, genuine from the heart. Behind yon hills, &c. See Songs. I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- lent — in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining compa- rison between his own situation and that of others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that Beina to whom we owe life, with evexy enjoyment that can render life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, v/liich reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave : I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of po- verty and obscurity, are in the least rao;e inimi- 258 BURNS' WORKS. eal to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours ; and I do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who ste;ils through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- ter all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who verv probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of he- roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very names (O how mortir.ing to a bald's vanity!) are now "buried among the %VTeck of things which were." O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the muses' train — one who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! Some of you tell \is, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortnnate in the •world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse : sihe taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could iie have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your boucs ! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have en- closed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I ha\e been very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among se- veral others, The Ordinaiinn, a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch Drink, a poem ; T/ie Cotter's Saturday Night; An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not shewn it to th.e world. ]My chief patron now is IMr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express gi-eat approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel," and I will re- mit you the money. I have no news to ac- quaint you with about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some very im- portant news with respect to myself, not the most agreeable, news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars an- other time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;f he is the only friend I have 7iow in IMauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regu- larly by Connel. If you would act your part as a luiENT), I am sure neither good nor bad for • tune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday. — I am, My dear Sir, Yours, ROBt. BURNESS-t This is all worth quoting in mj MSS., and more than all. R. B. LETTERS, 178G. No. VM. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EfliNnuKcii. MY PEAR Sin, Mosspiel, Feb. 17, 17?!). I HAVE not time at present to upbraid you No. VIII. TO aiR. M'WHINNIE, Writer, Arn. Mosspiel, \1th April, 1786. It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that cler/antly bear the imjiression of the good Crea- tor, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly oflices with respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify youn to assist me in it to the utmost of your power. I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your ))rayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment * ConnfZ— llie Mauchline carrier. t Mr. James Smith, then a shoi>kecper in Mauch- line. It was to tliis young man that Burns a(Ulrc«!«eeUed it. CORRESPONDENCE. 253 which stamps the die with — with — with, per- haps the eternal disgrace of, ]My dear Sir, You humbled, afflicted, tonnented robt. burns. No. IX. TO MONS. JAIMES SJIITH, Mauchmne. Monday 3Iorning, Mossgid, 1786. MY DEAR SIR, I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- solved to take the opportunity of Capt. Smith ; but T found the Doctor with a Mr. and INIrs. White, both Jamaicans, and tliey have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la iMar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides running tlie risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in conse- quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept. right for the place of my destination. The Cap- tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- ton's, and as good a fellow as heart cnuld wish : with him 1 am destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am pre- pared to meet it. — I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow. On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness fur me among them, — O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you To temper man ! we had been brutes witliout you ! No. X. TO MR. DAVID BRICE. DEAR BRICE, Mos'igicl, June 12, 17S0. I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson, and as I am not very throug at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a wortli- less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, ttill in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the p'ace of hope. 1 have no news to tell 5'ou that will give me any pleasure to mentiou or you to hear. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare- well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to com- mence Poet in print ; and to-morrow my works go to the i)ress. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages — it is just the last fooi- ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe me to be. Dear Brice, Your friend and well-wisher. No. XL TO JIR. AIKEN (the gentleman to whom the cotter's saturday night is addressed.) SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by -gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, tlie paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I \v\\\ advance for the paper ; but this you know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an epocha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- ment of the British national debt. There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edition, as not hav ng it in my power to show my grati- tude to IMr. Ballantyjie, by publishing my poem of The Sriys of Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable, in a very long life, of foigetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. 1 am sometimes pleased with my- self in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of re- Heetion, but sheeily the instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. There arc many things plead strongly against it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the conscijuences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; 254 BURNS' WORIiS. and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the pnng of disappoint- ment, the sting of piide, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society or the vaga- ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaietv is the madness of an intoxica- ted criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid iu the scale against it. gressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the bye, was rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these pas- sive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful com- peers C those misguided few excepted, who join- ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachorex of the human race), were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- ing idle in the market place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You may perhaps think it an extravagant fanc}', but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul ; though sceptical, in some points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me iu the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- fancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I have frequently wandered fionr that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of miscliief thick- ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my power in tliat way to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; but shoulil inimical cir- cumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail farther misery— To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last complaint, as the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- diix'Cted atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a creature destined for a pro- You see. Sir, that if to linow one's errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it.* No. XII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. jiADAM, Ayrshire, 17S6. I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my- copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, iMadam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. " Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." The first book I met with in my early years, whii-h I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal : the next was The History of Sir William Wallace .• for several of my ear- lier yeais I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being * Tliis letter was evidently written nnricr the dis- tress of mind oceasioocd hy our Poet's seiiavation from Mrs. Burns. CORRESPONDENCE. 255 struck with tliat part of Wallace's story where these lines occur — " S)'ne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat." I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only dav my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glow- ed with a wi^h to he able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. No. XIII. TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. jiADAjr, 1786, The hurry of my preparations for going a- broad has hindered me from performing my pro- mise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- tainment to you : but of that I am fer from be- ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick Hanks, you will easily see the impro- priety of exposing much even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a to- lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in- deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- ful young woman ;» but I have no common friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. I am quite aware. Madam, what task the world would assign me in this letter. The ob- scure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and godlike qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connections in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am a- fraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remember — the reception I got, when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness ; but I know a go id deal of be:icvoL'nce of tem- per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors by coade- fccnsion and affability, they would never stand so high, vieasuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend aa sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.* • Miss A- No. XIV, DR. BLACKLOCK THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE. IIEVKREND AND DEAR SIR, I OUGHT to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one of the most genuine entertainments, of which the humau mind is susceptible. A number of avocations re- tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finished that pleasing perusal* INIany instances have I seen of Nature's force and beneficence exerted under numerous and formid- able disadvantages ; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accomplish that agreeable intention. ]Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this Uni- versity, had formerly read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name inserted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done, or not, I never could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual friend. It has beea told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the performances, and who sought a copy with dili- gence and ardour, that the whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numerous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears cer- tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of the author's friends, might give it a more uni- versal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been published within my memorv.f * The song enclosed is tiiat given in the Life of out Poet ; beginning, 'Twas e'en — the dewy fields were green, itc. \ Tiie reader will perceive that this is the letter wliieh produced ihe determination of our Bard to give up his scheme of goii)g to the West Indies, and lo try the fiite of a new edition of his poems in Edinl)urgli. A eo]iy of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G. Hamilton, and by him communicated to Bums, amoug whose papers it was found. 256 BURNS' WORKS. No, XV. FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. SIR, Edinburgh, i-th 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 tliink, to the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. I have been told you wished to be made a gan- ger ; I 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 email farm. I am persuaded it would be a line of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and iu 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- ments 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 at any time send me a new production. No. XVI. FROM THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE. DEAR SIR, 22d Dectmher, 17S6. i. LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black- lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing you. I write this to you, that you may lose no time in waiting upon him, should you not yet have seen him. I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower still higher by the new publication. But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your share of detraction and envy — a train that al- ways accompany great men. For your comfort, I am in great hopes that the number of your friends and admii-crs will increase, and that you have some chance of ministerial, or even • • * • patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success is very uncommon : and do you think yourself in no danger of suffering by applause and a full purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he spoke from experience, '' stronger is he that con- quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- plicity and purity, like Telemachus, by IMentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. I hope you have :;'>"> Minerva with )'on. I need not tell you how much a modest diffidence and invincible temperaiK'e adorn the most shin- ing talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the imagination even of a poet. I hope you will not imagine I speak from suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak from love and good report, and good opinion, and a strong desire to see you shine as much in the sunshine as you have done ia 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 pros- perity. No. x^^I. TO GAVIN HAItflLTON, 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 reanh you, that Muir- kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S. but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Haugh 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, snd 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 could make it no sooner nor better. For my own affuir.-i, 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 the Black INIonday, and the battle of Bothwcll 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. — ]\Iy 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 yo\i, Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my ear- lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and JMiss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. CORRESPONDENCE. 257 May cauld ne'er catch you but • a hap, Nor hunger but in plenty's lap | Amen ! No. XVIII. TO DR. M'KENZIE, Mauchline. (enclosing HI3I THE EXTEMPORE VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAEK.) DEAK SIR, Wednesday Morning. I NEVER spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in com- pany with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the professor. f 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. Edinburgh, \3th Dec. 1786. 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.— I arrived here on Tuesday was ee'nnight, and have suffered ever 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 iu Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, 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 Caledonian 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 lot viilhout cUithing. j Professor Dugald Stewart. ' witlwut i" J e. Gordon — The Countess of Glencau-n, 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 Jlr. M'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 Cicrk ; and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; when I intend writing my first kind pation, 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 — 1 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, my direction is, care of JMr. Creech, bookseller. No. XX. t TO MR. WILLIAIM CHALMERS, Writer, Ayr. Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. MY DEAR FRIEND, I CONFESS I have sinned the siu for which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — iu not writing you sooner ; but of all men living, I had intended to send you an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, stupid |)owers, that in nodding, conceited ma- jesty, preside over the dull i-outine of business — A heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- vine, \vho was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, anil • I.aily Betty Cunningham. \ 'Ilie paper here ulhicli'il (o, was written by Mr. M'Kenzie, the cclcbiatcd auilior of tlic Miui of I'crl- ing. t TJiJ3 Icltci ii now pKscLlfd entiie. 53 258 BURNS' WORKS. raised tlie second or tliiid 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 thrci^ving him into a caldrou of boiling oil, from which, he was mi- raculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zehcdee, to a desert island in the Archipe- lago, wheie he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many w'M beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- stance not very imcommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragrajdi, you will have suffer- ed ; I enclose }'ou two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glcnbuck. One blank iu the address to Edinburgh — " Fair B ," is heavenly I\Iiss 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 Mi'ton's Eve on the first dsy 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\ 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 iu the case of this letter, tells lue 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 friend, Blr. Patrick IMil- ler, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dalswin- ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whis- per me that I will be haj)pier any where than in my old neighbourhood, but iMr. JNIiller is no iudge of laivd ; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- nion, an advantageous bargain, that may ruiu nie. I am to take a tour by Dumfries ns I re- turn, and have promised to meet JWr. Miller on his lauds some time in May. I went to a ]\Iason-l(jdge yesternight, wherff the most Worshipful- Grand Master Charters, and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotland visited.^ The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the different Lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The 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 multi|died honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunder-struck, and trembling in every nerve made the best re- turn in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very well indeed !" which set me something to rights I have to-day corrected my ]52d page. My best good wishes to IMr. Aiken. I am ever. Dear Sir, Your much indebted humble Servant ♦ This is one of .i preat number of oM saws tliat P.otrs, when a lad, l>,id iiicUed up from his niolhcr, ol which tlic good old v.oman liavl a vast collection. No. xxn. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. MY LORD, Edhiburgh, Jan. 17S7. As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a ci- tizen of the world ; but have all those national prejudices which, I believe, glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely any thing to which I am so feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare of my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but ne- ver did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be distinguished ; though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- tified with the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, wher» Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the part of your lordship. Your mimificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful ac- knowledgments ; but your patronage is a boun- ty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with ray thanks ; but my heart whispeied me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in . gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer cenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have SO much honest pride as to detest. CORRESPONDENCE. 259 ISo. XXIIL TO MRS. DUNLOP. ^jki. aM, Edinburgh, Ibfh Jan. 17S7. Yours of tlie 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib : I wished to have written to Dr. Jloore before T wrote to you ; but though, every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and charac- ter, and I am one of " the sons of little men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- tle character I have ; and to write the author of T/te View of Socieii/ and Planners a letter of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- sition in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas bv way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im- proper epithet. I distrnsted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print, and the enclosed, v.hich I will print in this edi- tion.* You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I oniposed my Vision, long ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the me- rits of the Saviotsr of his Country, which, sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! JMadam, 1 know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil- ling to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, iiifoi-nied 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 compan3' — to be drag- ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite obsei-vation, with all my imperfections of awk- • Stanzas in the Vision, beginnin:; tliird stanza, " By stately totver or palace fair," and ending wiili tiie ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you. Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessiry for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of ti'uth. Your patronizing me, and interesting your- self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my sub- scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- ed with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace ? No. XXIV. TO DR. MOORE. SIR, 1767. Mrs. Duki-op has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a manner by judges of the first character. Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence ; only, I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a peccant passage or two, that I \5'0uld certainly have al- tered, were gone to the press. The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic in- mates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan- guage and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have son^e poetical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are inti- mately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men und manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned aiid polite notice I have lately had ; and in a 1 inguage where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drav.'u the tear— where Thomson and Deattio have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins desdib. d the heart, I am' not vain e- nough to hope for distinguished poetic fime. 260 BQRNS' WORKS. No. XXV. FROM DR. MOORE. SIR, Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1787. I HAVE just received your letter, by which I find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts from my letters to her, by much too freely and too carelessly written for your perusal. I must forgive her, however, in consideration of her good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom I use with certain expressions, in consideration of my admiration of the )K)eras in general. If I may judge of the author's dis- position from his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- per ascribed to that race of men by one of their own number, whom you have the happiness to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expi-es- sion. Indeed the poetical beauties, however original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire in your works ; the love of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the independent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the poet, and have made me often regret tliat I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which would have been my seeing the author last summer, when I was longer in Scotland than I have been for many years. I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you pe- culiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, who, I am informed, interests himself very much for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- man than I have, which, independent of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by the memory of our common friend, the late fllr. George B e. Before I received your letter, I sent enclosed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil- liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote on reading your Mountain-Daisy ; perhaps it may not displease you. • 1 have been trying to add to the number of your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- quaintance are already among them. I have only to add, that with every sentiment of es- teem, and most cordial good wishes, I am, Your obedient humble servant, J. BIOORE. " The sonnet is as follows : — While soon the garden's flaunting flowers de- cay, And scattered on the earth ueg'ected lie, Tlie " Mountain-Daisy," cherished by the ray A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. Ab, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 'iSIid penury's bare soil ;in(i hither gile ; He felt each storm that on the mountaia blows, Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. By genius in her native vigour nurst. On nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst Indignant, and in light unburrow'd blazed. Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard, His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will guard. No. XX VL TO DR. MOORE. SIR, Edinburgh, 1 5th Feb. 1787. Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago, I knew no other em- ployment than following the plough, nor could boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint- ance with a country clergyman. Mere great- ness never embarrasses me : I have nothing to aj^k from the great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affec- tation 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 ray character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour IMiss W. has done me, please. Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- ing her in kind, init have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be- fore heard of her ; but the other day I got her poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- ing to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore : there are, I think, two characteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time- settled sorrow." I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why. No. XXVII. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Atr. Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. MY HONOURED FRIEND, I WILL soon be with you now in guid black prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest — 1 am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- CORRESPONDENCE. 261 ecvibers' names, so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, thoy must be sent in to Creech directly. — I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver ; and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in ray book looking like other fools, to my title page.* I have the honour to be, Ever your grateful, &c. land too early in life for recollection, is not without it. I remain, with greatest sincerity, Your obedient servant, J. MOORE. No. XXVIII. FROM DR. MOORE. Clifford Street, 2S(h Feb. 17S7. DEAR SIR, Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal of pleasure. It is not surprising that you im- prove in correctness and taste, considering where you have been for some time past. And I dare swear there is no danger of )-ouv admitting any polish which might weaken the vigour of your native powers. I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit as a poet — an affectation which is displayed with most ostentation by those who have the greatest share of self-conceit, and which only adds unde- ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you to deny the merit of your poems would be ar- raigning the fixed opinion of the public. As the new editi.in of my View of Society is not )et ready, I have sent you the former edition, which, I beg you will accept as a small mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the care of Jlr. Creech ; and, along with these four volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Medi- cal Sketches, in one volume, for my friend ]\Irs. Dunlop of Dunlup : this you will l;e so obliging as to transmit, or if you chauce to pass soon by Dunlop, to give to her. I am happy to hear that your subscription is 80 ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good fortune that befalls you : for you are a very great favourite in my family ; and this is a higher compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It includes almost all the professions, and of course is a proof tliat your writings are adapt- ed to various tastes and situations. JMy young- est son who is at WinchestiT school, writes to nie that he is translating some stanzas of your Hallowe'en into Latin verse, for the benefit of Lis comrades. This union of taste partly pro- ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scottish partiality, with which they are all somewhat tinctured. Even your translator, who left Scot- • This portrait is engraved by Mr. Beugo, an artist who well merits the epithet bestowed on him by the poet, after a picture of Mr. Nasinyth, whicli he p':iint- ed con ainure, anil liberally presented to Bums. This picture it of the cibiuet sue. i No. XXIX. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. JIT LORD, Edinhurgh, 1787. I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord- ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled a " human face divine.' The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could I have been so happy as to procure one with any thing of a likeness. As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, There is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lordship by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your lordship; and what has not in some other in- stances always been the case with me, the weigh of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust, ■ have a heart as independent as your lordship's^ than which I can say nothing more : and would not be beholden to favours that woull crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, and manner of supporting that character are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jear» lous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patroniige of one of the much favoured sons of fjrtune. Ahiiost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I have the honour to be Your lordship's highly indebted. And ever grateful humble servant * It docs not appear that the Earl granted this re- quest, nor have the verses alluded to been found among the MSS. 262 BURNS' WORKS. No. XXX. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. MT LORD, The honour your lordsliip has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : " Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, They best can give it who deserve it most." Your lordsliip touches the darling chord of my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- grimage through my native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard- contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides across my imagi- nation, and pronounces these emphatic words, " I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguisht'il sons, who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through niv humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times draw forth the swelling tear. No. XXXI. JExt, Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect and keep vp a Headstone in memory of Poet Fergusson, 1787. Session-house, ivithin the Kirk of Ca- nongate, the twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hun- dred and eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- yard Funds of Canongate. Which day, the treasuier to the said funds produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the sixth current, which was read, and .appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- book, and of which letter the tenor follows . i " To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, j Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. " Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovei-s of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the " narrow house," of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer- gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the honour of payiug. " I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his death- less fame. I have the honour to be. Gentlemen, your very humble servant, {sic suhscribitur), " ROBERT BURNS." ' Thereafter the said managers, in considera- tion of the laudable and disinterested motioa of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Ex- tracted forth of the records of the managers, by William Sprott, Clerk. MT DEAR SIR, You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say — thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to me so unaccountable as that thing called cnnscicrice. Had the troublesome ycljjing cur powers effi- cient to prevent a raischiif, he might be of use : but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efi'orts are to the workings of passion as the infmt frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouileil fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wii_'ked deed ovei', thiin, amidst the bitter native con- sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelin^fs of the d . I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally aa .Mr. Sprott sent it me. CORRESPONDENCE. 263 Tilt Inscription on the Stone is as follows : HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Som September 5th, 1751 — Died, ICtlt October 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, " No storiid urn nor animated bust ;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. On the other side of the Stone is as follows : " By special grant of the Managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fcrsusson. " No. XXXIII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM Sth March, 1787. I AM truly happy to know you have found a friend in ; his patronage of you does him great honour. He is truly a good man ; by far the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in this world. But I must not speak all I think of him, lest I should be thought partial. So you have obtained liberty from the magis- trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as Shakespeare says, " in the olden time :" " The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown. He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone." It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tnmb that this is written. But how many brothers of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fer- gusson, have asked for bread, and been served with the same sauce ! The magistrates gave you lihertij, did they ? O generous magistrates ! . . . . celebrated over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a j)oor poet's memory ! — most generous ! . . . once u|)ou a time gave that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. But then it must be considered that the poet was at tliis time absolutely starving, and besought his aid with all the earnestness of hunger j and, over and above, he received a worth, at least one-third of the value, in exchange, but which, I believe the poet afterwards very un- gratefully expunged. Next v/cek I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you iu Edinburgh ; and as my stay wih be for eight or ten days, I wish you or would take a snug, well-aired bed-room tor me, wliere I may have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. Hut by all accounts, it will be a matter of some dilKeulty to see you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week befoie-hand. There is a great rumour here con- cerning your great intimacy with the Duchess of , and other ladies of distinction. I am really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose there would also be " bribes to your old secre- tary." It seems you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fergusson, Qucerenda pecunia prinunn est, virtus post num- mos, is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it while in this country ; but proba- bly some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense. Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- ing i — Are you yet seized " With itch of picture in the front, With bays of wicked rhyme upon't !" But I must give up this trifling, and attend to matters that more concern myself : so, as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, wc sal drink phan we meet,* No. XXXIV. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, Student in Physic, College, Glasgow. Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, I WAS equally surprised and pleased at your letter ; though I dare say you will think by my delaying so long to" write to you, that I am so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to old and once dear connec- tions. The truth is, I was determined to write a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can- not : and lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit though, that the strength of your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have * The above extract is from a letter of one of the ablest of our jxjet's correspondents, which contains some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we should have been happy to have inserted, if they could have been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in suppos- ing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer- gusson by our bai-d ; this, it is evident, prissed between Uunis and the Kirk Session of the Canongate. Neither at Kdinburgli, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usu- ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is adoriied. 864 BURNS' WORKa Bbewn me one thing, wbich was to be demon- strated ; that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I, likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength, of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to a wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, " The old man with his deeds" as when we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall expect to hear from you — welcome sense, wel- come nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, My dear old friend. Yours. No. XXXV. TO THE SAME. MT DEAR FRIEND, If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, 1 promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present 1 have time for nothing. Dissipation and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest Scots enthusiast, * a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to music, of which the woids and music are done by Scots- men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number : the first is already pub- lished. I shall shew you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fort- night or less. Do be so kind as send me the song in a day or two : you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. Direct to me at Mr. W. Crulkshauk's, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. No. XXXVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. I READ your letter with watery eyes. A lit- tle, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pationlzed, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give 'Johnson, the publUIicrof tlie Scots Musical Museum. them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed I have the ad- vice of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencalrn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the hon- our of giving me his strictures : his hints with respect to impropriety or Indelicacy, I follow im- plicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects ; there I can give you uo light ; it is all " Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound." The appellation of a Scottish bard Is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- dolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half-sanctify a heedless character : but where God and nature have Intrusted the wel- fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sa- cred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone In selfishness, or strangely lost to reflec- tion, whom these connections will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with that sum I Intend, so far as I may be said to have any Intention, to return to my old acquain- tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not Intend to give up poetry : being bred to labour secures me independence ; and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my re- solution, I shall have principally at heart the se- rious business of life : but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country and the patronage of a Wallace. Thus, honoured madam, 1 have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are In his own bosom. CORRESPONDENCE. 26d No. XXXVIL TO THE SAME. MADAM, Edhihurc/h, \bth April, 1787. TiiEr.E is an atfcctiition of gratitude which I fii.'liV", Tiio periods of Johnson and the pauses 1 1 Sterne may hide .1 selfish heart. For my j),;rt, Madam, I trust 1 have too much pride for servility, and too little i)rudence for selfishness. i h;-.vc tlus moment broke open )'our letter, but '' Rune am I in fpeech. And therefore little can I grace my cause Jn speaking for myself — " so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my henrt, and say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. I come abroad iu print for certain on Wed- nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, 1 must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place; but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting on you. Dr. Smith* was just gone to Loudon the morning before I received your letter to him. No. XXXVIII. TO DR. MOORE. EJinhirgh, 23d April, 1797. I Rt;cEivED the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book, is what I have in common with the world ; but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- den- Knowes, Sanks of Yarrow, Tweed, S^c. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- hood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, J have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by nc means entitle nie to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and li- terature. » Adam Smith, My most respectful oompIiuTcnis to Miss \7. [f once this tangent flight of mine were over* and I were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I may probably endea- vour to return her poetic compliment in kind. No. XXXIX. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS DUNLOP- Edinburgh, 30th A/vil, 1787. ■ Your, criticisms, INIadam, I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered taose who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no cre- ated being either in prose or verse. I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the world by and by — illiberal abase, and per- haps contemptuous neglect. I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- ticular approbation. For my Dream, which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop ia its defence, in person. No. XL. TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIR. Lawn-Market, EdtJiburgh, 3d May, 1787. REVEUEND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIK, I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling yon with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of my singular si- tuation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- try, whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and literature, those wlio are truly benefactors of the immortal na- ture of man ; I knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I have made up my luiuJ, that abuse, or almost t^ BURNS' WORKS. even neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters. I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- go's work for me, clone on Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- warm gratitude I am, &c. No. XLI. FROM DR. BLAIR. Argyle- Square, Edbiburgh, ith May, 1787. SEAR SIR, I WAS favoured this forenoon with your very obliging letter, together with an impression of your portrait, for which I return you my best thanks. The success you have met with I do not think was beyond your merits ; and if I have had any small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in which literary persons, who are advanced iu years, can do more service to the world, than in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. I was the first person who brought out to the notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry, which I published, and afterwards, by my setting on foot the undertaking for collecting and publish- ing the Worhs of Osiian ; and I have always considered this as a meritorious action of my life. Your situation, as yon say, was indeed very singular ; and, in being bi'ought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your charac- ter and behaviour. You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of life ; and I trust, will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence, and ho- nour. You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the midst of those employ- ments, which your situation will render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- ing to such productions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a haste to come forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents ; for on any second production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. As you very properly hint yourself, you are not to be suiprised if, in your rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- rounded with that glare of notice and applause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a phi- losopher. He must lay his account, that 1117' one, who exposes himself to public observation, will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- beral censure, which it is always best to over- look and despise. He will be inchned some- times to court retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will not affect to shine al- ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth' with more advantage and enei-gy. He will not think himself neglected if he be not always praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old man, to give advice and make reflections which your own good sense will, I dare say, render unnecessary. As you mention your being just about to leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's farms. I heartily wish the offers to be mad«i you there may answer ; as I am persuaded you will not easily find a more generous and better hearted proprietor to live under than Mr. Mil- ler. When you return, if you come this way, I will be happy to see you, and to know con- cerning your future plans of life. You will find me, by the 22d of this month, not in my house in Argyle Square, but at a country-house at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all success and prosperity, I am, with real regard and esteem, Dear Sir, Yours sincerely, HUGH BLAIR. No. XLIL TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esqw (of JEdinburgh,) London. Selkirk, 13th May, 1787. MV HONOURED FRIEND, The enclosed* I have just wrote, nearly ex- tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirkshires ; and next week I begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Hariot, sister to my noble pa- tron, Quern Deus conservet ! I would write till I would tire you as much with dull prose as I dare say by this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death j so, with a grate- ful farewell, I have the honour to be. Good Sir, yours sincerely. • Elegy on W. Creech ; see the Poetry. CORRESPONDENCE. S67 . , w No. XLIII. FROM DR. MOORE. GUfford Street, Ma>/ 23, 1787. DEAR SIR, I HAD the pleasure of your letter by Mr. ■Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edi- tion of your poems. You seem to think it in- cumbent 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 send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green grow the Mashes, 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 OJcs than all his other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and Cutter's Saturday Night. In these are united line imagery, na- tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and thought. It is evident that you already possess a great variety of expression and command of the English language ; you ought, therefore, to deal more sparingly for tfie 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 iu your mind, without beginning to execute any part of it till you have studied most of the best English poets, and read a little more of history. The Greek and Roman stories you can read in some abridgment, and soon become master of the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- light a poetical mind. You shuuhl also, and very soon may, become master of the heathen mythologjs to which there are everlajjtiog allu- sions iu all the poets, and which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What will require to be studied with more attention, is modern history ; that is, the history of France and Great Britain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reinn. I know very well you have a mind capable of attaining knowledge by a shorter process than it 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 inconvenient, 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 i\Ir. 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 Somebody'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 fiu- a perusal of them. I understand you intend to take a farm, and make the useful and respectable 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 a^dd clay biggin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world that there 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 successful farmer. I fear it will not be in my power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If ever vour occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your payiug me a visit, and you may depend oh a very cordial welcome from this fa- mily. I am, dear Sir, Your friend and obedient servant, J. MOORE. • His subsequent compositions will bear tcitimonv to the accuracy of JDr. Moore's judgment. No. XLIV. TO MR. W. NICOLL, Master of the High-School, Edinburqh. Carlisle, June 1, 1787. KIND, HONFSTHEAllTKD WILLIE. I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin, e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a forfoiighten cock, to gie you some notion o' my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu* hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld Rcehic. i\Iy auld, ga'd gkyde o' a mcere 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 Gkd- DES, of whom 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 n.imed by him, alter the old woman, who in her zeal against religious innovation, threw a stool at the I>ean of Ediiibur^^h's head, when he attempted in lt".>7, to in troduce ihe Scottish Litu gij. " On Sunday. lh» Sod 868 BURNS' WORKS. and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle, but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and has a stomack like Willie Stalker's ineere that wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When anceher 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 day, 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 Dura- bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi' twa dink quioes in particlar, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonie ; the tither was a dean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lictwhite on a flswerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's a new blawn plumrose in a hazle sliaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beiik, and onie ane o' thera had as muckle snicdduin and rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith ken. They pliiy'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my liari- gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-vvhittle 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, espcciall Mr. and Mrs Cruik- ahank and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and tht, branks bide hale. Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen !— SIR, No. XLV, FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. Jamaica, St. Aim's, lith June, 1787. I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Ja- nuary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were engiiged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for of July, the I)«!>n of Edinburgh prepared to offieiale in St. Giles's. Tlie congregation continued (juict till the service began, when an old woman, impelled by sudden indignation, started up, and excl.iiming aloud, * Vill.iinl dost thou say the Mass at my lug !' threw the stool on which she had been sitting, at the D(~an's head. A wild uproar eominenced that instant. The icrvice was interrupted. The women invaded the desk with execralions and outcries, and the Dean dis- engaged himself from his surplloo to escape from their hands." — Laiiig's Hist of.'icot'aiid, vol. iii. p. 122. three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year; and am happy some unexpected accidents inter- vened that prevented your sailing with the ves- sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou- glas's employ would by no means have answer- ed your expectations. I received a copy of your publications, for which I return you my thanks, and it is my own opinion, as well as that of such of my friends as have seen them, they are most excellent in their kind ; although some could have wished they had been in the English style, as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and beauties of your poems are in a great measure lost to far the greater part of the community. Nevertheless there is no doubt you had sufficient reasons for your conduct — perhaps the wishes of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your patrons, who will always relish their own old country style ; and your own inclinations for the same. It is evident from several passages in your works, you are as capable of writing in the English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the specimen you have already given, will turn out both for profit and -honour to yourself and country. I can by no means advise you now i to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I assure you, there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius here ; and am very confident you can do far better in Great Bri- tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my friends are well, and shall always be happy to hear from you at all convenient opportunities, wishing you success in all your undertakings. I will esteem it a particular favour if you will send me a copy of the other edition you are now printing, I am, with respect. Dear Sir, yours, &c. JOHN HUTCHINSON. No. XL VI. TO MR. W. NICOLL, Mauchline, June 18, 1787. MY DEAR FRIEND, I AM now arrived safe in my native countr)', after a very agreeable jaimt, and have the plea- sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- cellent appearance and sterling good sense. I have been with ]\Ir. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him again in August. From my view of the lands and his reception of my hardship, my hopes in that business are rather mended ; but still they are bat slender. I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks- Mr. Buruside, the clergyman, in particular, ia CORRESPONDENCE. 269 a man whom I shall ever gratefully remcmlier ; and his wife, Guda forgie me, I had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart ; in short — but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of any thing generous ; but the stateli- ness of the Patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments — the dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- ing independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hith- erto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon Misfortune dodges the path of hum m life ; the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for the walks of business ; add to all, that, thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like 60 many igncs faint, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant tkis may be an unreal picture with re- spect to me ! but should it not, I have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and friend- ship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they are almost all of them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me " through good report and bad report" — the love which Solomon emphatically says " Is strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. NicoU, and all the circle of our common friends. P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July. No. XL VII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. MT DEAR SIR, Stirline;, 28th Aug. 1787. and Stirling, and ara delighted with their ap- pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, bailey, &c. but no harvest at all yet, except iu one or two places, an old Wife's Ridge. — Yesterday morning I rode from this town up the mean- dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Cau- dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston ; and after spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. They are a family. Sir, thou:;h I had not had aay prior tie ; though they had not been the brother and si--ters of a certain generous friend of mine, I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these several years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks are now. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than other- wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform yoa that he is getting the better of those consump- tive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatening him. His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. (I put in the word still, to please Sirs. IlamiUon.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same tia)e a just idea of that respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his tura to exact, are striking features iu his character j and, what with me is the Alpha and the Ome- ga, he has a heart might adorn the breast of a poet ! Grace has a good fi_gure and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else re- niarkalde in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot speak in common terms of admiration : she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- gant ; hei' 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 happily re- covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding to the Fill Is, 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 iu 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 Faikirk young folks? 1 hud a thousand questions to 27© BURNS' WORKS. answer about you all : I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told them that John* was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie f was going on still Tery pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting with Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady M'Kenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful compliments to Jlrs. Ha- sailton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I ■hall probably write him from some stage or •ther. I am ever, Sir, Yours most gratefully. able company, raises an honest glow In my bo- No. XL VIII. TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE. Inverness, 5th Sept. 1787, MY SEAR S(Il, I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, | and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as ]Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need, I shall never forget. The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- 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 Mis. G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, markedly kind, indeed 'Mr G. of F 's charms of conversation — Sir W. M 's friendship — in short, the recollection of all that polite, agree- • This is the " wee curlie Johnnie," mentioned in Bunis's dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. To this gentleman, and every branch of the family, the Editor js indebted for mnch information resjiecting the poet, and very Rratefully aciinowledges the kindness shewn to liimself. \ Now maiTied to the Rev. John Tod, Minister of Maufhline. J " The humble Tetition of Bruar-Water to the Dulie jDf Athole.' No. XLIX, TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, 17th Sept. 1787 MT DEAR BROTHER, I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of tvventy-two days, and travelling near six hundred miles, windings included. My farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- verness. I went through the heart of the Highlands, by Crieff, Tayraouth, the famous seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among cascades and druldical circles of stones to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- ing nearly two days with his Grace and family ; thence many miles through a wild country, a- mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed the country for Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeath ; there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- tion says, King Duncan was murdered: lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- res, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- hive, where James Burnes, from Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John Caird, though born the same year with our fa- ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have had several letters from his son in New York. William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow : but further particulars I delay till I see you, which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossiaa's coimtry, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fish- ing towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the fa- mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon Castle next day with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. Aly duty, and many compliments from the north, to my mother, and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a birth for Wil- liam, but am not likely to be successful.—. Farewell. CORRESPONDENCE. 271 ' No. L. FROM MR. R . eiB, Ochtertyre, 22d October, 17S7. *TwAS Only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- stoun's answer, that neither the words of Down the burn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (1 forgot which you mentioned), were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him, I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, as to your present plan, than he. Receive also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make such a deep impression on your imagination, that I am not without hopes it will beget sorae- * These Inscriptions, so much admired by Bums, are below : — WRITTEN IN 1768. FOR THE SALICTU.M AT OCHTERTYRE. Salubritatis voluptatisque causa. Hoc Salictum, Paludem olim infidam, Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. Hie, procui negotiis strepituque Iiinocuis deliciis Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, Apiuraque labores suspiciendi, Fruor, * Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. Prope hune fontem pellucidum. Cum quadam juventutis amico superstite, Sspe conquieseam, senex, Contentus modicis, meoque latus ! Sin aliter — ^vique paululum supersit, Vos silvulas, et amici, Caeteraque amcena, Valete, diuque laetamini 1 ENGLISHED. To improve both air and soil, 1 drain and decorate tliis plantation of willows. Which was lately an unprofitable morass. Here, far from noise and strife, I love to wander. Now fondly marking the progress of my trees. Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. Here, if it pleases Almighty God, May I often rest in the evening of life. Near that transparent fountain. With some surviving friend of my youthj Contented with a competency. And happy with ray lot. If vain these humble wishes, And life draws near a close. Ye trees and friends. And whatever else is dear. Farewell, and long may ye flourish. ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. WRITTEN IN 1775. MlHl meisqiie utinam contingat, Prope Taiyii marginein, Avito m Agello, Rene vivere fausteque mori I thing to delight the public in due time : and, no doubt, the circumstances of this little tale might be varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his countrymen were in the field. His stitioa may be somewhat varied, without losing his simplicity and kindness .... A group of characters, male and female, connected with the plot, might be formed from his family, or some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- dispensable that the guest should be a man of high station ; nor is the political quarrel ia which he is engaged, of much importance, un- less to call forth the exercise of generosity and faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To introduce state affairs, would raise the style above comedy ; though a small spice of them would season the converse of swains. Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- commend the study of the character of Eumaeus in the Odyssey, which, in IMr. Pope's transla- tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing from nature, that would suit some of our coun- try elders of the present d,iy. There must be love in the plot, and a happy discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the reward of hospitality, and honest attachment to misguided principles. When you have once thought of a plot, and brought the story into form, Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, may be useful in dividing it into acts and scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some attention to certain rules of the drama. These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me advise ^ou to study the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, * which is natural without being low, and, under the trammels of verse, is such as country people in their situations speak every day. You have only to bring doivn your own strain a very lit- tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. I approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, but not so great as to absorb better things. And if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- ment. Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, permit me to go a step farther. Let ENGLISHED. On the banks of the Teith, In the small but sweet inheritance Of my fathers. May I and mine live in peace. And die in joyful hope ! These inscriptions, and th; translations, ar* in the hand.writing of Mr. R ♦ Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. 272 BURNS' WORKS. tbose bright talents which the Almighty has bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of . truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always serious, which you have been to good purnose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they wou" " wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- duals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious ques- tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- cur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints. Well ! what think you of good lady C. ? It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- pitality and elevation of mind were conspicu- ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it were no more than to show that you take the effusions of an obscure man like me in good part. I beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock," And am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. LI. FROM MR. W Athole House, I3th September, 17S7. Your letter of the 5th reached me only on the 11 th; what awkward route it had taken I know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure of writing to you in the manner you proposed, as you must have left Dundee before a letter could possibly have got there. I hope your disappointment on being forced to leave us was as great as appeared from your expressions. This is the best consolation for the greatness of ours. I still think with vexation on that ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) possessed of those very dispositions and talents I most admire ; one • You know how anxious the Duke was to have anotlier day of you, and to let Mr. Dundas have the pleasure of your conversatioQ as the best dainty with which he could enter- tain an honoured guest. You know likewise the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; but perhaps you do not know the scheme which they devised, with their usual fertility in resources. One of the servants was sent to your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush * TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- tury), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the command of the royal army. They marched into Lochaber, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don. alds, commanded by Donald Balloch, and posted upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Hav- ing timely intelligence of their approach, the Insur- gents got off precipitately to the opposite shore in their curaghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's troops encamped in full security ; but theM'Donalds, returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole army. The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any attendants, and made for the more hilly part of the country. In the course of his flight he came to the house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Came- ron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut- most kindness; but, as there was no meat in the house, he told his wife he would directly kill 3Iool Odbar, f to feed the stranger. " Kill our only cow !" said she, "our own and our little children's principal support !" More attentive, however, to the present call fur hospi- tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. 'ITie l)est and tendcrest parts weie immediately roasted ♦ Mool Odhar, i. t. the brown humble cow. before the fire, and plenty of innirich, or Highland soup, prepared to conclude their meal The whole fa- mily and their guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent as usual, in telling talcs and singing songs be. side a cheerful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron brushed the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The Earl wrapped his plaid about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the family betook themseh'es to rest in a comer of the same room. Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at his departure liis guest asked CamCron, if he knew whom he had entertained? " Vou rriay probably," answered he, " be one of the king's officers ; but who- ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, you are most welcome." — " Your guest, then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mar: and if hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come to the castle of Kildrummie." — " My blessing be with you 1 noble stranger," said Omeron; " if I am ever in distress, you shall soon see me." The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife and children to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and required admittance with a confidence which hardly corresponded with his habit and appearance. The porter told him rudelv, his Lordship was at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He became noisy and impor- tunate : at last his name was announced. Upon hear- ing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his scat, and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of poe- tical stauM, " I was a night in his house, and fared most plentifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron from lircug.ich is an excellent fellow!" He was introduced into the great hall, and received with the welcome he deserved. ,LTpon hearing how he had been tn atcil, the Earl gave him a four merk land near the castle; and it is said there are still in the country a number of Camerons descended of this Highland Eumaeus. CORRESPONDENCE. 273 faileil. Proli minim ! The rr> Charlotte the first number of the sotigs ; I would not wait for the second num- ber ; I hate del lys in little marks of friend- ship, as I hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in number second.* • Of the Scuts Musical Museum. 278 BURNS' WORKS. You will see a small attempt on a shred of pa- per in the book ; but though Dr. Blacklock commendod 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 band, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Muuchline . . . — a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- rum, John of Badenyon, &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. Miller 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." What 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 vei-y 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 htart-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 mv heart h.is been so oft 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 dunt f at eu Vhonneur d'etre VII mherable esdave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- nent pleasure, '"' wliiih the work! 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 ia 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 her to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; so Char- lotte and you need not spend your precious time 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 song of " The JBanks of the Devon.") Without (late. I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- try.- I am rather h< pehss in it ; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sob n- nuin, ((I'.ialities which are only a younger bi'othcr'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. I in- sist that you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, tritles, bag- atelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; though thank heaven I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, A LOVER. Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- ing places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this worlds God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought a wise man— I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afiaid I am a lost sulijuct. " Some folk hae a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Jtftcrnnon. — To close the melancholy reflec- tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a ! ])iece of devotion commonly known in Cai'rick^ ^by the title of the " Wabster's gi-ace." 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 1 Up and to your looms, lads." Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the tints of ray mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thund-er-storm. A drun- ken coachman was the cause of the first, and incompai-ably 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 beok. 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 nest 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 May frc^ leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of th* refreshed earth after the long-exi)ected shower ! banners of imagination, whim, caprice, end 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 not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. Edinburgh, 3f- ttautivee, verbs, and participles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, reraarkabfe 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, spuidiies, 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 loek-out in suspicious places ; and though no- bodj' 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 T7ie Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning. How are thy Servants hlest, O Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish ears — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave- — " I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my school-books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were. The Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish 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 pusEzle 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 social disposition, when not check- ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, like our chatechism-defiuition of infinitude, ivithout hounds or limits. I formed several con- nections with other youukers who possessed su- perior advantages, the younyling actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense distance between them and their I ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man that pro- per, decent, unnoticiug disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps boro in the sa-me village. My young superiors never CORRESPONDENCE. 283 tmulted the clouterly appearance of my plough- boy carcass, the two extremes of which were of- ten exposed to all the inclemencies of all the sea- Dons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart I am •ure not even the Mutiny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my j'oung friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; hut 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 ray Tale of Twa Dog&. My father was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, xvas unfit for labour. My father's spirit was •con irritated, bat not 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 nie to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my indignation y«t boils at the recol- lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa- tening letters, which used to set us all in tears. This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a 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. jMy 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 boniiie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious p^ssioii, which, in spite of acid disappoiiitinent, gin-hnrse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the cont.i^;iim, I can- not tell : you medical people talk nuich of in- fection from breathing the sarae :ilr, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly siiil I Invi'd her. Indeed, I did not know mvseli w!iy I liked so much to loiter l)ehind witu her, wh.n return- ing in the evening from our lahiuirs ; wliy the tones of her voic; made my heart-strings thrill like an ^Eolian harp ; and particularly why niv 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 tlie 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 till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain lie made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commence- ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- mencing between him and his landlord, as to terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail i)y a consump- tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease frmn trouhling, and tcltere ths weary are at rest. It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted 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 Spectati>r. These, with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agricidture, the Pan- theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Un- derstanding, Stackhotise's History of tht Bible, Justice's British Gardener's JJirectojy, Bayle's Lectures, Allan liamsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hcrvey's Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs was my vade mccum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or SLililime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced 1 owe to this practice much of my cri- tic craft, such as it is. In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, 1 went to a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable antipathy pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked lagainst these meetings; and my going was, 1 £ 1 — 1 lli-.I.. 1 ! *.. .-.I t.U.. ..^1..... .... ^1^' .. 1 _. .. _.. • _ ^. • and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I at- tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous us to imagine that I what to this moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to strong passions; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of di.slike to me, which I believe was one cause of the dis- sipation which marked my succeeding years I 284 BURNS' WORKS. Bay dissipation, comparatively with the strict- ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyte- rian country life ; for thouoh the Will-o'-Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great mis- fortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain- making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of ob- servation and remark ; a constitutional melan- choly or hypochondriasm that made me fly so- litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surprising that I was ge- nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, there was I among them. But, far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un penchant a Vadorahlc moitie du ge?tre hu- ntain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mor- tified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, 1 feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; aud as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad sel- dom carries on a love adventure witlmut an as- sisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in tlie se- cret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, £s ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe — The very goose- feather in my liand seems to know instinctively the well-worn patir of my imagination, the fa- vourite theme of my song ; aud is with difficul- ty restrained from giving you a couple of para- graphs on the love adventures of my conipeeis, tlie humble inmates of the farm-house aud cot- tage ; but the grave sons of seienci, ambition, or avarice, baptize tliese things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty, they arj matters of the mo^t seri- ous nature ; to them, the ardent hope, tlie sto- en interview, the tender farewell, are the great- est and mcot delicious parts of their enjoyments. Another circumstance in my life whlcb made some alteration in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a snmggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it some- times happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming _/?/c'f ac- tion. The addition of two rjore autliois to my library gave nie great pleasure ; Stenie and M'Keiizie — Tristram SImndy \xnA The Man rf T'eeliny — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind ^but it was only indulged in according to the ^unmur of tl'.e hour. I had usually half a dozen or mor* pieces on hand ; I tuok up one or other, as i* CORRESPONDENCE. 285 suited the momentary tone of the mind, and diiiniissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lijrhti'd up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent in ihyme ; ami then the conning over my verses, llkj a spoil, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except Winter, a D^rgf, the eldest of my printei! pieces ; The Death r. 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 appointment. He went to London, where he still lives, a private teacher of French. He has been a considerable time married, and keejis 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 established teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood. He early recognised my father as a fellow na- tive of the north of Scotland, and a certain de- gree of intimacy subsisted between them during Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted iu 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 mother to her house on Sundays, when she met them at church. Wlien 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 IVanslation of Humer, and several other books that were of use to us. IMount OHphant, the farm my father possessaJ 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 vahie of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- siderable sum laid out in improving it by the propiietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. IMy 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 la- bours of the faim. 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 noiv 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 measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which 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 his bed, in the night-time. By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he thought 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 falling in that attempt, he continued where he was for six years more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 1 30 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- rish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No writing had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- cision inv(dved 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, 1794. The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the seventeenth to the twenty- fourth of my brother's age), were not marked CORRESPONDENXE. 283 bv mucn literary improvement ; but during tnis time the foundation was laid of certain ha- bits in mv brotlier's character, which afterv.-ards 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 were often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew thj.t\^e fainted, sunk, and died atcay ; but the agitations of his mind and botly exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular jealousy of people who were richer than liim- self, or who had more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected anv cue, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attentic-n, she was instantly invested with a sutiicieut stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a gveat 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 aifections flowed out toward Aladame 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 »nd 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 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 our 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, notwithstanding these circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink (whicU seems to have misled his historians), 1 do not recollect, during these seven years, nor till to- wards the end of his commencing author (when his growing celebrity occasioned his being often in company), to have ever seen him into.ticated ; nor was he st all given to drinking. A strono-er ])roof of the general sobriety of his conduct need j not be required than what I am about to give. ' During the whole of the time we lived in the firm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a part of which, I every article of our clothing manufactured in the family was regularly accounted for. When my father's aif.iirs drew near a crisis, Robert and I t?)ok the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 1 IS acres, at the rent of .£90 per annum (the farm on which I live at present) from Mr. Ga- vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in j case of tlie woist. It was stocked by the pro- j perty and individual savings of the whole family, 1 and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- ber of tlve fimily was allowed ordinary wages j for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each. And during the whtJe time this family concern U'-ted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding period at Loch- lea, his expenses never in one year exceeded his slender income. As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- ble that tkere 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 firm of Mossgid lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- withstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our bar- gain, with the loss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert formed his connection with Jeaa Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connec- tion could no longer be concealed, about the time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage with a family in his poor unsettled state, but was 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 ths 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 rea situatitm. He was in the greatest distre.ss, and fainted away. The marriage did not appear to 57 290 BURNS' WORKS. him to make the matter any better. A hus- band in Jamaica appeared to him and to his wife little better than uone, and an effectual bar to gny 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 bvoGght 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 pi>wer. Even this offer they did not approve of ; for, humble as Miss Armour's station was, and great though her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might look to a better connexion than that with uiy friendless and un- happy 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 over:^c-er, 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 hiiu was not expected to sail for some time, Rlr. Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in the meantime by sul)- Bcription, 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 printed 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 tlie friends they procured him, made him change his reso- lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edinburgh to publisli a second edition. On his return, in happier circumstances, he re- newed his connexion with Jlrs. 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, 1 believe, his sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last days of his life. No. LXVir, FROM MR. MURDOCH TO DR. MOORE, AS TO THE poet's EARLY TUITIOK. I WAS lately favoured with a letter from our worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which he requested me to communicate to you what- ever particulars I could recollect 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 tlioughts on paper, that at this distance of time I can give but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the life of that extraordinary genius with which alone I am acquainted. William Burnes, the fither 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 IMr. Crawford of Doon- slde. He was afterwards employed as a gar- dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the parish of Alioway, which is now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece of land, consisting of about seven acres, part of which he laid out in garden grmmd, and part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con- tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. Upon this little farm was erected a humble dwelling, of which William Burnes was tilie ar- chitect. It was, with the exception of a little straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this mean cottage, of which I myself was at times an inhabitant, I leally believe tlwre dwelt a larger portion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cotter's Satunlay Night, will give sonie idea of the temper and manners that prevailetl there. In 1763, about the middle of March, Mr. W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writing under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would come and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book with me. This was immediately c-omplied with. Having examined ray writing, he was pleased with it — (you will readily allow he was not difficult), and told me that he had received very satisfactory informa- tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the Eng- lish school, concerning my improvement in English, and in his method of teaching. In the month of May following, I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, and accordingly began to teach the little school 3 Alioway, which was situated a few yards CORRESPONDENCE. 291 from tlie argillaceous faWric above mentioned. Mv five employers undi-rtook to board nie by turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the vear, provided my qiiarti'rly pay- ments from the dift'erent pupils did not amount to that sum. My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six and seven years of ns:c ; his preceptor about eighteen. Robert and liis younger i)rother Gil- hevt, had been grounded a little in English be- fore they were put under my care. They both made a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable progress m writing. In reading, dividing words •into syllables by rule, spelling without book, parsing sentences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of tlw ci.iss, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors. The books most co«imonly used in the school were, the Spellinff Book, the New Testament, the Bihlc, Masaii's Col/cctio}i of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's Eniilish Grammar. They committed to memoiy the hymns, and other poems of that collection, with uncommon facili- ty. This fiicility was partly owing to the me- thod pursued by their father and nic in instruct- ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly acquainted with the meaning of every word in each sentence that was to be committed to me- mory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is generally thought. As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order ; some- times to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, ai'o the means of knowing that the pu|»il understands his author. These are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sentences, as well as to a variety of expression. Gilbert always apjieared to me to possess a more livelv imagination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a little cluy.ch music. Here they were left far be- hind by all the rest of the school. Rol)ert's ear, in particular, was remarkably d«ll, and his voice untunable. It was hmg before I couM get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was generally grave, and expressive of a serious, contem])lative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirlh, iv/th thee I )nean to live ; and certainlv, if any person who knew the two boys, had been asked wliich of them was the most likelv to court the muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert Iiad a propensity of that kind. In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted his mud cditice, a;id took possession of a farm (Mount Oliphaut) of his own improving, while in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being at a ccmsiderable distance fiom the school, the boys could not attend regularly ; and some changes taking place among the other sup- porters of the school, I left it, having continued to conduct it for nearly two years ar^d a half. In the year 1772, I was a|)poLnted (being one flf five candidates who were eiamined} to teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the purpose of revising English grammar, &c. that he n\ight be better qualilied to instruct his bro- thers and sisters at home. lie was now with me day and night, in school, at meals, and in all my walks. At the eud of one weelc, I told him, that, as he was now jiretty much master of the parts of speech, &c., 1 should like to teach him something of French pronunciation, that when he should meet with the name of a Freuck town, ship, officer, or the like, in the newspapers, he might be able to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- posal, and immediately we attacked the French with great courage. Now there was little else to be heard but the declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, &c. When walking together, and even at meals, I was constantly telling him the names of differ- ent objects, as they presented themselves, in French ; «o that he was hourly laying in a stock of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teach- ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second week of our study of the French, we began to read a little of the Adven- tures of Tehninchiis, in Fenelon's own words. But now the plains of JMount Oliphant began to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin- quish the ])leas;ng scenes that surrounded the grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did ; fur although but about fil'teen, I was told that he performed the work of a man. Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which was spent en- tirely in the study of English, and the other two chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant at his father's house, when I had my half-holi- day, and very often went accompanied with one or two persons more intelligent than myself, that good Williani Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. — Then the labouring oar was shifted to some other hind. The father and the son sat down with OS, when wc enjoyed a conversation, where- in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo- derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blended as to render it palatable to all parties, Robert had a hundred questicms to ask me about the French, &c. ; aiul the Lther, who had al- ways rational information in view, lud still some question to ]ir(q)ose to my more learned friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnes too was of the party as much as possible ; "But still the house affa.irs would draw her thence. Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, Devour up their discour-^e. "— — 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 us 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 Lis failings lean'd to virtue's side." He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. He was a tender and affectionate father ; he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some patents ' and perpetuate the memory of those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are called heroic actions : then would the mausole- um of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- pass most of the monuments I see in Westmin- ster Abbey. Although I cannot do justice to the charac- ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what kind of person had the principal hand in the education of our poet. He spoke the English language with more propriety (both with respect to diction and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew, with no greater advantages. This had a very good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, much sooner than their neigh- bours. I do not recollect any of their cotempo- raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards made any great figure as literary characters, ex- cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn- ing ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous family upon it.^ After being there some years, he removed to do, to the performance of duties to which tht/y , Liichlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, 1 themselves are averse. He took care to find 1 believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. 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 stiipe 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- •ired ; 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 hooing and booing in the presence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a be- coming respect ; but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. Time would fall me. I shall ouly add, that he carefully practised every known duty, and avoid- ed every thing that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. Herein did he exercise him- sr(f, in living a life void of off. nee towards God and towards men But here. Sir, you will permit me to pause. I can tell you but little more relative to our poet. I sliall, however, in my next, send you a copy of one of his letters to me, about the year 1783. I received one since, but it is mis- laid. Please remember me, in the best man- ner, to my worthy friend jMr. Adair, when you see him or write to him. Hart Street, Bloorashury Square, London, Feb. 22, 1799. No. LXVKI. FROM PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART DR. MOORE, CONTAINING HIS SKETCHES OF THE POET. The first time I saw Robert Burns was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he ilined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend Rlr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- liiie, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of Ills acquaintance. I am enabled to nieiitiiin the date particularly, by some verses which Burns wiote after he returned home, and in which the day of our meeting is recorded. My exceHent O tor a world of men | and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord cf such dispositions ! We should then have no , Daer, hapjiened to arrive at Catrliie the same wars. I have often wished, for tlie good of day, and by the kindness and frar.kr.ess of his mankind, that it wero as customary to honour _ manners, left an impression on the mind uf the CORRESPONDENCE. 293 poet, wWch never was effaced. The verses I allude 10 are among the most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the character to which they relate, and of the light which they throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, before his name was known to the public* I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at the period of our first ac quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems had been just published, or was yet in the press I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my possession copies in his own hand writing, of some of his favourite performances ; particularly of his verses " on turning up Mouse with his ])lough ;" — " on the IMountain Daisy;" and " the Lament." On my return to £dinburgh, I showed the volume, and mention- ed what I knew of the author's history, to se- veral of my friends, and among others, to Jlr, Henry Mackenzie, who first reoonimendud him to public notice in the 97th number of T/ie XiOunger. At this time Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, however, without lamenting, that his want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or ganger iu his own country. His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth ; but without any thing that indica- ted forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him ; and listened with apparent attention and deference, on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would, I think, have been still more interest- ing ; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his manner somewhat de- cided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his various attainments, than the fluency, and precision, and originality of his language, when he spoke in company ; more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. He came to Edinburgh early in the winter following, and remained there for several months. By whose advice he took this step, I am unable; to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by hie ! own curiosity to see a little m.ore of the world ; \ but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from • See Songf, p. 219. the first, and aiways wished that his pursuits and habits should continue the same as in the former part of life ; with the addition of, what I considered as then completely within his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the country agreeable to his taste. The attentions he received during his stay in town from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- ners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- portance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to his station, plain and unpretending, with a suf- ficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right he always wore boots ; and, when on more than usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. The variety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so often ;is I could have wished. In the course of the spring he called on me once or twice, at my request, early in the morning, and walked with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed me still more by his private conversation, than he had ever done in compan)'. He was passionately fond of the beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his nund, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained. In his political principles he was then a Ja- cobite ; wiiich was perhaps owing partly to this, that his father was originally from the es- tate of Lord JlarcSL'hall. Indeed he did not appear to have thought much on such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at the levity with which he had heard it treated occasionally iu some convivial meetings which he frequented. I speak of him as he was ia the winter of 1736-7; for afterwards we met but i^e'dom, and our conversations turned chief- ly on his literary projects, or his private affairs. I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of your letters to me, that you had ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous for nie add, that the idea which his conversa tiou conveyed (if the powers of his mind, ex- ceeded, if possible, th it which is suggested by his writings. Among the prets whom I have happened to know, I have been struck, in more than one instance, witii the unaccountable dis- pjrity between their general talents, and the oc- casional inspirations of their more favoured mo- ments. But all the faculties of liuras's mind were, as fir as I cou'd judg', equally vigorous; •ind i;is prediiectiun for poetry was rather th« rt'snit of his own enthusiastic and imiiassioued 294 BURNS' WORKS. temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to 1 degree of true genius, the extreme facility and that species of composition. From his couver- ] good nature of his taste, in judging of the com- sation I should have pronounced him to be fit- positions of otheis, where there was any real ted to excel in w:hatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. Among the subjects on which he was accus- tomed to dwell, the characters of the individu- als with whom he happened to meet, was plain- ly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them were always shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- minate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the caprice and humour of the moment, than from the effects of attach- ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was ready, and always impressed with the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to- tally unworthy of his genius. In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think- that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- son to the Highlands, and that he also visited what Seattle calls the Arcadian ground of Scot- land, upon the banks of the Teviot and the Tweed. I should have mentioned before, that not- withstanding various reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded in favour of his habits of so- briety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- perance. I was however somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively seden- tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's campaign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. In the course of the same season, I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a I\la- son-Lodge in IMauchlinc, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpre- meditated compliments to dilTerent individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was luxtiplly conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If I am not mistaken, he toUl me, that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, he had be- longed to a small cluli of such of the inhabi- tants as had a taste for books, when they used to converse and debate on any interesting ques- tions that occurred to them in the course of their reading. His manner of speaking in pub- lic had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution. I must not omit to mention, wh.it I have al- ways considered as ciuiracteristicaJ iw a. high ground for praise. 1 repeated to him many passages of English poetry with which he wa3 unacquainted, and have more than once wit- nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with which he heard them. The collection of songs by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his former efforts in that vei-y difficult species of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- sitions. In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- sage or two in Franklin's Works, which I thought very happily executed, upon the model of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with indifference, when compared with the point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. The influence of this taste is very peiceptible in his own prose compositions, although their great and various excellencies render some of them scarcely less objects of wonder thitu his poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson used to sav, that, considering his education, the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of the two. His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- quently long compositions with the most mi- nute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other |)ieces in our Scottish dialect; great part of them (he told me) he had learned in his childhood, from his mother, who delighted in such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her son's genius. Of the more polished verses which acciden- tally fell into his hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the recommendatory poems, by different authors, prefixed to Hr.rvcy's Bleditaiions ; a book which has always had a very wide circulation among such of the coun- tiy i)eople of Scotland, as affect to unite some degree of taste with tlieir religious studies. And these poems (although they are certainly below mcdiociity) he continued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much the tafte is liable to be influcuced by accidental cir- cumstances, Ilis father appeared to me, from the account he gave of him, to have been a res])ectable and worthy character, possessed of a mind superior to what might have been expected from his station in life. He ascribed much of his own principles and feelings to the early impressions he had received from his instructions and exam- ple. I recollect that he once applied to him (and he added, that the ))assage was a literal statement of fact,) the two last lines of the fol CORRESPONDENCE. 295 lowing passage in tlie 3Iinstrel ; the whole of which he repeated with great euthusiasiu : " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live ?" Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain ? No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; And man's majestic beauty bloom again. Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- phant reign. This truth sublime, his simple sire had taityht : In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot say any thing with certainty. He al- ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the school-master who hud taught him to read Eng- lish ; and who, finding in his scholar a mure than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had bfen at pains to instruct him in the grammatical principles of the language. He began tlie study of Latin, but dropped it before he had finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c., but they seemed to be such as he had caught from conversation, and which he re- peated by rote. I think he had a project, after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicoll, one of the masters of the grammar-school here ; but I do not know that he ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; and, if he had an affectation in any thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word or phrase from that language. It is possible that his knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but this you can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. It would be worth while to inquire, whether lie was able to read the French authors with Buch facility as to i-eceive from them any im- provement to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much — nor would I believe it, but on very strong and pointed evidence. If my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in arithmetic, and knew something of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. —All his other attainments were entirely his own. The last time I saw him was during the win- ter, 1788-89 ; when he passed an evening with me at Drumsheugh, in the neiglibuurhoud of Edinburgh, where I was then living. iMy friend Mr. Alison was the only other jierson in com- pany. I never saw him more agreeable or in- teresting. A present which Mi: Aliion sent him afterwards of his £!ssai/s on Taste, diew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, w hich I remember to have read with some di'irrce of surprise at the distinct conception he appeared from it to have formed, of the general princi- ples of the doctrine of association. When I saw IMr. Alistin in Shropshire last autumn, I forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- ence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of our friend Mr. Houlbrooke. No. LXIX. FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, GIVING THE HISTORY OF THE ORIGIN OF THE PUINCIPAL POEMS. It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- lars of the history of the preceding Poems, on which the celebrity of our Bard has been hitherto founded; and with this view the following extract is made from a letter of Gilburt Burns, the brother of our Poet, and his friend and confidant from his earliest years. DEAR, SIR, 3Ii>ss(/ieI, 2il April, 1793. Your letter of the 14th of iMarch I received in due course, but, from the hurry of the sea- son, have l-.een hitherto hindered from answer- ing it. I will now try to give you what satis- faction I can in regard to the particulars you mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, but none of them, except Winter, a Dirge, (which was a juvenile production), the Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, were composed before the year 1784. The cir- cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much as he has described them. He had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad- joining the house at Lochlie. He and I %vere going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a curious looking awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with umch anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and was ly- ing in the ditch. Robert was much tickled with Ilughoc's appearance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when we returned from the plough in the even- ing, he repeated to me her Death and Dying Words pretty much in the way they now stand. Among the earliest of his poems was the Epistle to Davie. Robert often composed with- out any regular plan. When any thing made a strong inipressiuu on his mind, so as to rouse it «98 BURNS' WORKS. to poetic exertion, ho 'w^ouM give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, lie would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and concluding stanzas; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer ITS-l-, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weed- ing iu the garden (kailyard) 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 people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles, ttnd that the merit of these, and mucli 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 ap])eared 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 es this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter following, as wc were going together with carts for eoal to the family fire (and 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 suggested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have, from va- rious quarters, of this august personage. Death and Dr. Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in the year 1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence 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 attached to the study of medi- cine, he had added the sale of a few medicines 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 display of bis 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 apparition, he mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he relat- ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- ttraoon, as I was holding the plough, and he was letting the water oflf the field beside me The Epistle to John Lapralk was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in thit poem. On fasten e'en he had a rockin. I believe he has omitted 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 tiie rock, or_distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one, and well fitted to the so- cial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the pJirase of going a-rocking or ivitli. the rock. As the connection the phrase had with tiie implement was forgotten when the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be useil by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rocktngs at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning— " When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we are informed who was the author. Upon this Ro!>e;t wrote his first epistle to Lap- raik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Afoiintain-Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; I could point out tlie particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- sitions, and some of his best verses were pro- duced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that be could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- ture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy 3Ian was made to Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was Si>i^:thing 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 the world is indebted for the Cotter's Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure 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 af- ternoons, (those precious breatliing-times to the labouring part of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pltMsure of hearing the author re])eat the Cotter's Sotiirdoy Night. I do not recollect to have xead or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul. I mention this to you, that you m ly see what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. 1 should CORRESPONDENX'E. 297 be giad to Icnow, if tlie enllgliteiieJ mind ami refined taste of Mr. Ifoscoe, wlio his borne sui'li honourable testimony to tKis poem, agrees witli me in the selection. Fergusson, in his Hallow . JPatT of Edinburgh, I belitve, likewise furnish- ed a hint of the title and ulan of the Huhj Fair. The farcical scene the poet there describes was often a favourite field of his observation, and the most of the incidents he mentions had actually passed before his eyes. It is scarce- ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was composed on that unfortunate passage in his ma- trimonial history, which I have mentioned in my letter to IVIrs. Dunlop, after the first distrac- tion of his ftclings had a little subsided. T/ic Tale of Twa Dogs was composed after the re- solution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert Lad had a dog, which he called Luath, 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 bis old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book under the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a qvadruped Friend ; h\A 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 purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. 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 uj) the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters ; one of them played ; the father and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guest, mixed in it. It was a delightful 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 where he slept. It was to Dr. Law- rie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr. IMoore, mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. When my father feued his little property near AUoway Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of ])as- turing in it. INIy father, with two or three other neighbours, joined in an application to the town council of Ayr, who were superiors of the ad- joining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that reverence for it, people generally have for the burial-place of their ancestors. Aly brother was living in EUisland, when Captain Grose, on his peregrinations through Scotland, s.aid some time at Carse-house, in the neighbourhood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddell, a parti- cular friend of ray brother's. The Antiquarian and the Poet were " Unco pack and thick the- jither.'' Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should come to Ayrahjrt:, chat he would make a drawing of AIlov.My Kir\-, as it was the burial-ijlace of his f aher, and where he himself liadascrt of claim to lay down his bones when they should be no longer serviceable to hira ; and added, by way of encourag 'meat, that it was the scene of ni;iny a good story of witches and apparitions, of which he knew the Captain was very fond. The Ciiptain agrcijd to the re- quest, provided the Poet would furnish a witch- story, to be printed along with it. Tarn o' Shunter was produced on this occasion, and was first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- land. This poem is founded on a traditional story. The leading circumstances of a man riding home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing alight in Ailoway Kirk, his having the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the scanty covering of one of the witches, which made him so far forget liimself as to cry — " Weel loupen, short sark !" — with the melancholy ca- tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that can be well attested by iriany respectable old people in that neighbourhood. I do not at present recollect any circumstances respectig the other poems, that could be at all interesting ; even some of those I have mention- ed, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but you will only make use of what appears to you of consequence. The following Poems in the first Edinburgh edition, were not in that published in Kilmar- nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The Srigs of Ayr ; The Calf; (the poet had been with Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said jocularly to him when he was going to church, in allusion to the injunction of some parents to their children, that he must be sure to bring him a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this ad- dress to the Reverend Gentleman on his text was accordingly produced). The Ordination ; The Address to the Unco Guid ; Tani Sam- S07i's Elegy ; A Winter Night ; Stanzas on the same occasion as the preceding prayer ; Verses left at a Reverend Friend's house ; The Jirsl Psalm ; Prayer tinder the pressure of vio- lent anguish ; The first six verses of the nine- teenth Psalm ; Verses to Miss Logan, with JJeattie's Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to Edinburgh ; John Barleycorn ; When Gtdl- ford Guid ; Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows ; Green grow the Bashes ; Again re- joicing Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; No Churchman am L No. LXX. FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct. IBOO. DEAR SIB, Youas of the I7th instant came to my hand sds BURNS* WORKS. yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to write you in return ; but when I shall be able to finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I am sorry your conviction is not complete re- specting feck. There is no doubt that if you take two English words which appear synouy- raous to mony feek, and judge by the rules of English construction, it will appear a barbarism. I believe if you take this mode of translating from any language, the effect will frequently be the same. But if yon take the expression mony feck to have, as I have stated it, the same mean- ing with the English expression very many, (and such license every translator must be al- lowed, especially when he translates from a simple dialect which has never been subjected to rule, and where the precise meaning of words is of consequence not minutely attended to), it will be well enough. One thing I am certain of, that ours is the sense universally understood in this country ; and I believe no Scotsman who has lived contented at home, pleased with the simple manners, the simple melodies, and the simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated by foreign intercom'se, " whose soul proud science never taught to stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song of Etrick Banks. The story you have heard of the gable of my father's house falling down, is simply as fol- lows: — When my father built his " clay big- gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in his clay-gable. The consequence was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy morning, when my brother was nine or ten days old, a little before day-light, a part of the gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- ed, that my mother, with the young poet, had to be carried through the storm to a neighbour's house, where they remained a week till tlieir own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not think too meanly of this house, or of my fa- ther's taste in building, by supposing the poet's description in the Vision (which is entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take notice to you, that the house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and a room ia the other, with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- terials with the house, and, when altogether cast over, outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, comfortable appearance, such as no family of the same rank, in the present improved style of living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I wish likewise to take notice in passing, that al- though the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in his manners, his family devotion, and exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us were ever " at service out araang the neebors roun." Instead of our depositing our " sair won penny-fee" with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be abfo to keep his children at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching the progress of our young minds, and forming in them early habits of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone did he engage in farming, the source of all his difficulties and distresses. When I threatened you in my last with a long letter on the subject of the books I recom- mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects of refinement of taste on the labouring classes of men, I meant merely that I wished to write you on that subject, with the view that, in some future cammunication to the public, you might take up the subject more at large, that, by means of your happy manner of writing, the attention of people of power and influence might be fixed on it. I had little expectation, however, that I should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put my threat in execution, till some time ago, be- fore I had finished my harvest, having a call from Mr. Ewart, with a message from yon, pressing rae to the performance of this task, I thought myself no longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set about it with my first leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay before you what has occurred to my mind on a subject where people capable cf observation, and of placing their remarks in a proper point of view, have seldom an opportunity of making their remarks on real life. In doing this I may perhaps be led sometimes to write more in the manner of a person communicating information to you which you did not know before, and at other times more in the style of egotism than I would choose to do to any person in whose can- dour, and even pei-sonal good-will, I had less confidence. There are two several lines of study that open to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge- neral science of life, of duty, and of happiness ; the other, the particular arts of his employment or situation in society, and the several branches of knowledge- therewith connected. This last is certainly indispensable, as nothing can be more disgraceful than ignorance in the way of one's own profession ; and whatever a man's specula- tive knowledge may be, if he is ill informed there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- able member of society. It is nevertheless true, that " the proper study of mankind is man ;" to consider what duties are encumbent on him as a rational creature, and a member of society ; how he may increase or secure his happiness ; and how he may prevent or soften the many miseries incident to human life. 1 think the pursuit of happiness is too frequently confined to the endeavour after the acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be considered as an idle de- claimer against riches, which, after all that can be said against them, will still be considered by men of common sense as objects of importance ; ! and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, after all , the fine things that can be said of its advan CORRESPONDENCE. 299 tnges ', on the contrary I am of opinion, that a great proportion of the miseries of life arise from tiie want of economy, and a prudent attention to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur- suit of it. But however valuable riches may be as the means of comfort, Independence, and the pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of opinion, that they may be, and frequently are, purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices are made in the pursuit which the acquisition cannot compensate. I remember hearmg my worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, rotate an anec- dote to ray father, wiiich I thinii sets this mat- ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- gin, or at least tended to promote this way of thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left AI- loway, he went te teach and reside in tlie fiimily of an opulent farmer who had a number of sous. A ntighboor coming on a visit, in the course of conversation asked the father how he meant to dispose of his sous. The father replied, that he Lad not determined. The visitor said, that were h« in his place he would give them all good education and send them abroad, without (per- haps) having a precise idea where. The father objected, that many young men lost their health in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as you have a number of sons, it will be strange if some one of them does not live and make a fortune. Let any pereon who has the feelings of a fa- ther comment on this story : but though few will avow, even to themselves, that such views govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see people shipping off their sons, (and who would do so by their daughters also, if there were any demand for them), that they may be rich or perish ? The education of the lower classes is seldom considered in any other point of view than as the means of raising them from that station to which they were born, and of making a fortune. I am ignorant of the mysteries of the art of ac- quiring a fortune without anything to begin with, and cannot calculate, with any degree of exact- ness, the difficulties to be surmounted, the mor- tifications to be suffered, and the degradation of character to be submitted to, in lending 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 the wished for end is attained, it may 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, i assuming a character, which, from the early ha- bits of life, 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 unwilling to al- low ; inly pining at the precedence of the here- ditary gentry ; maddened by the polished inso- lence of some of the unw^orthj' part of them ; ' seeking pleasure in the society of men who caa condescend to flatter him, and listen to his ab- surdity for the sake of a good dinner and good wine ; I 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 casdidatcs striving for a few pi izes, and whatever addition the successful may make to their pleasure or happiness, the disappointed will always have more to suffer, I am afraid, than those who abide contented in the station to which they were 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 peojjle object to the education of the lower clas- ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by abstracting them from their proper business ; others, as teuding to make them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their condition, and tur- bulent subjects ; while you, with more huma- nity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of education and reading I recommend, should render the evils of their situation in^upportable to them. I wish to examine the validity of each of these objec- tions, beginning with the one you have men- tioned. I do not mean to controvert your criticism of my favourite 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. I would say with the poet, " How empty learning, and how vain is art, 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 the*e books by rae| nm BURNS' WORKS. that I might point out some instances. I re- 1 and natural relief In devotion and religioBS re- member two ; one, the beautiful story of La signation. He knows that those people who are Roche, where, beside the pleasure one derives to appearance at ease, are not without their from a beautiful simple story told in M'Kenzie's ! share of evils, and that even toil itself is not happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with I destitute of advantages. He listens to the words heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and trust in Almighty God. The other, the story of General W , where the reader is led to Have a high relish for that firmness of mind which disregards appearances, 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 i-emark, 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, ReSne at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, 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 worlil, and we must balance the pleasure and the pain which we derive from taste, before we can pro perly appreciate it in the case before us. I ap- prehend that on a minute examination it will appear, 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. Tt 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 " cus- tom makes thinys familiar and easy," (a copy Mr. 31urdoch 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 his 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 make him an atheist, a dema- gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him to feel, his feelings can only find their proper 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 fiirm 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, ouglit 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 than the pains he took to impress my mind with the sentiment, that nothing was more unworthy the character of a man, than that his happiness should in the least depend on what he should eat or drink. So early did he impress my mind with this, that alth.ough 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 tliem ; and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed was accompanied with shame and re- morse ; and to this hour I never indulge iu 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 consequence, 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 imprest 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 indejien- dent, and tlie virtues most becoming their situ- ation, and necessary to theiriiappiness ; men iu the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea- CORRESPONDENCE. 301 STires to be derived from tlie perusal of books calculated to improve t!ie mind and refine the taste, without any danger of becoming more un- happy in their situation, or discontented with it. Nor do I think there is any dani^er of their be- coming less useful. There are sonic 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 reading were cul- tivated, I do not suppose tluit 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 juoper husiness, as the attachment to books ; while the one dissipates the mind, 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 experience and observation. Of what de- scription of people are mobs and insurrections composed ? Are they not universally owinye 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. 78.) March 1784. Religious Sentiment. — Wliat 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 fanatic, 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 maker, that giveth songs in the night : who teacheth ua 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 friend ; 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 approving 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 through, as Young finely says, " the dark post- ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful pros- pect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- ness, and folly ! My life reminded me of a ruin- ed temple. Wh;it strength, what proportion in some parts ! MHiat unsightly gaps, what pros- trate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of Mercies, and said, " Father I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no morj worthy to be called thy son." I rose, eased, and strengthened. 304, BURNS' WORKS. TTERS, 1788. No. Lxxn. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinbyrgh, 2\st Jan. 1788. After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- nings to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commis- sion ; for I would not take in any poor, igno- rant wretch, by seUing out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable Boldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal nay 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 1 shall pay ray grateful duty at Dunlop-house. No. LXXIII. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO THE SAME, Edinburgh, I2th Feb. 1788. Some things, in your late letters, hui-t me : not that 7/ou say them, but that you mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool than knave." A mathematician without religion, is a proba- ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. No. LXXIV. TO A LADY. MADAM, Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least is MTiton describes him ; and though 1 may be tascai^iy enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- self, 1 cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured frieod, who cannot appear in any light, but you are sure of being respeciaole — you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense ; or if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem of all ; but God help us who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported ! I am highly fluttered by the news you tell me of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet, of his IMuse Scotia, from wliich, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, which perhaps you have never seen. ) " Ye shak your head, but o* my fegs, Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs : Lang had she lien wi' buffe and flegs, Bombaz'd and dizzie. Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, Waes me, poor hizzie." No. LXXV. TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. MauMine, 31 s« March, 1788. Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my head, I tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated.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 picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming ; at 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. Smighfnn Mills, 2~ih April, 1788. MV DEAR BliOTlIER FAIOIEII, I WAS favoured witli your very kind letter of * A laily was making a picture from the Ucscription of Coila in the fision, I Here ihf biird gives the firot stanza of the Chn* Iter's Lament. CORRESPONDENCE. 305 tlie Slst ult. and consider myself greatly obliged to you, for your attention in sending me the song to my favourite air, Captam O'Kean. The words delight me much ; they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse or two more ; and if you have no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- den by the unfortunate Charles : Tenducci per- sonates the lovely IMary Stuart in the song Queen Marys Lamentation. — Why may not I sing in the person of her great-great-great grandson ?* Any skill I liave in country business you may truly command. Situation, soil, customs of countries may vary from each other, but Far- mer Attention is a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear from you soon. Mrs. Cleghoru joins me in best compliments. I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, your very sincere friend, ROBERT CLEGHORN. them twenty-four dutiful children to their pa- rents, twenty-four useful nicnibei's of society, and twenty-four approvm servants of their God ! " Light's heartsouie," quo* the wife when she was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you arc idle enough to explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain as a pike-statf, why a t\venty-four gun battery was a metaphor 1 could readily employ. Now for business. — I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which 1 dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- sent to her since I have irrevocahly called her mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the said first present from an old and much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship 1 count myself possessed of a life-rent lease. No. LXXVII. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, AVON FRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. Mauchline, April 28, 1788. Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the opening of a correspondence like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery ! There is no understanding a man properly, without knowing something of his previous ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I know many who in the animal-muster, pass for men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the great- est ■:Att of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some such fractional matter), so to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately and privately given a ma- trimonial title to my corpus. •' Bode a robe and wear it," Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- sage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- lar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding day ; these twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossippings, twenty-four christen- ings, (I mean one equal to two), and I hope by the blessing of the God of ray fathers, to make • Our Poet took this advice. See poetry for the vhole of that beautiful song— the Chevalier's Lamest. Look on*lhis letter as a " beginning of sor- rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with reading nonsense. Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa- tion), begs her best compliments to you. No. LXXVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Mauchline, 2&th April, 178S Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, j'ou will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the excise business without solicitation ; and as it costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; I thought five and thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune ia her jade tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed be- fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and rain was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In con- sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part ! of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with all I the miserable effects of a violent cold. 59 gcs BURNS' WORKS. You see, I\lifl^im, the trutn of the French iii;i\iiii, Xe vnii 7i' est pas tuvjimrs le vrai-sem- Ijliib/c ; youi- list w.is so full of expostulation, and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grateful plea- sure set dinvn as one of the greatest enjoyments of mv future life. Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- den, and Tasso, wei-e all equal strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. No. LXXIX. FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. DEAR SIR, Linshart, 28f/t April, 1788. I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre- sent you have favoured me with, aiMl would have made proper acknowledgments before now, but that 1 have been necessarily engaged in matters of a different complexion. And now that I have got a little respite, I make use of it to thank you for this valuable instance of your good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- cere heart of a tiue Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- mony of which I have herewith sent you for your amusement (and in a form which I hope you will excuse for saving postage) the two songs I wrote about to you already. Charming Nancy is the real production of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the time of its appearing, with no more education than what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacy, with some turns of humour, that will please one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of my owu sentiments, and you may make use of one or both as you shall see good.* You will oblige me t»y presenting my respecfi to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given such high approbation to my poor Latinity ; you may let him know, that as I have likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two things that I would, if he desires it, submit nob to his judgment, but to his amusement : the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, Batrachomyomachia Homeri Latinis versibus cum additamentis, given in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr. C. will know Se- ria non semper delectant, non joca semper. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. I have ji^t room to repeat compliments and good wishes from, Sir, yottr humble servant, JOHN SKINNER. No. LXXX. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWARl. SIR, Mauchline, 3d May, 1787. I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga ■ telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- tude have any influence with that great, un- known Being, who frames the chain of causes and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- tend your visit to the Contineat, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that, nest to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life * CHARMING NANCY. A SONO, BV A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. Tune — " Humours of Glen." Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain : Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy. And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, >]«[ pleasant bshaviour i» feec from all stiiin ; Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove crueT, Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain : Her carriage is comely, her language is homely. Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature. My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! , Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning, Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene. Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? The whole of her face is with maidenly graces Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen. She's well shaped and slender, true hearted and tender. My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert tliou my ain ^ I'll seek through the nation for some habitation, To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. I'll work at mv calling, to furnish thy dwelling. With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain j Thou shall not sit single, but by a clear ingle, I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my auu I'll make true affection the constant direction Of loving my Nancy while Ufe doth remain : Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting^ My charming, sweet Naucv, gin thou wert my ain. Dut what if mv Nancy should alter her fancy. To favour aiiother be forward and fain, I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, Besoue tliou falst Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. The OKI Mall's Song, (see p. 135)» CORRESPONDENCE. 307 more camlbrtable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your coun- tenance, your patronage, your friendly good of- fices, as the most valued consequence of my late auccesi iit life. No. LXXXT. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS. DUNLOP. MADAM, Mauchline, ith May, 1788. Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with jne, but the Georgits are to me by far the best of VirgiL It is indeed a species of writing en- tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas I when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- appointed in the ^neid. Faultless correct- ness may please, and does highly please the let- tered critic ; but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier / . i "/,'/:. I. SftW /Of///' IJoPL I//.1/ i\ iti i/.y." — ■ 1 } S) X.Yr^yia ^-^^ ^^^-^'^ ^^'J-^' iS (J moi^ 1 'A/ Oorn\ "7/ %4^^M^ ^^'% ^^^^ ''^) n 0U7L^f\(l' ^ oOAr(i tj(f A^ Kf^/^jf^^-^ c iAA' 1 310 BURNS' WORKS. house, even before it be plastered. I will inha- bit the one end until the otl-.er is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in a situation that a little kind- ness would have rescued you from many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being ; — get these matters of mine rea- dy. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. I ara, after all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours. No. LXXXVIII. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. ElUsland, June 30, 1788. MY DEAR SIR, I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but dare not enlarge on the subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be al- tered on your late master and friend's death. I am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- spect — for an old man's dying, except he have been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life, that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind benevolent animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- tion here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his cares for others, that he may look properly to himself. You have been imposed upon in pay- ing Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. II. I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. M any such order. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession. I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 15s. to him, I will rather in- close you a guinea-note. I have it not indeed to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or two I return to ]Mauchline, and there I have the bank- notes through the house, like salt permits. There is a great degree of folly in talking un- necessarily of one's private affairs. 1 have just DOW been iulcrrupted by one of my new neigh- bours, who has made himself absolutely con- temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters, is much more pardonable than imprudence respect- ing character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; but I appeal to your observation, if you have not met, and often met, with the same little dis- ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin- cerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackn«y'd victims of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter of fact — But in things belonging to and 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 respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the troj>ic 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 remorse — these are alter- natives of the last moment. You see how I preach. You used occasion- ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in charity, f:ivour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bo- lingbroke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy faults I 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, must have recourse to her primitive, simple, — farewell ! No. LXXXIX. TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, Merchant, Glasgow. MY DEAR SIR, MavcMlne, July 18, 1788. I AM just going for Nithsdale, else I would certainly have transcribed some of my rhyming thinijs for you. The Jliss Bailies I have seen in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I declare, one day 1 had the honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almost CORRESPONDENCE. 311 in tlie predicament of tlie cliildren 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 %vrite a poetic address from the falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athoie, when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. I return to Mauchline in about ten days. , My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in truth, but at present in haste, Yours sincerely. No. XC. foIlowiDg 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 ray excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fiutry ; 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, unan- ointed, unanell'd." TO MRS. DUNLOP. Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1788. HONOURED MADAM, Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luchpenny ; but vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdalc, 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 j 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. " 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 m a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are al- most the only favours the muse has conferred on me 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 Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life's stbrmy 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 will do wait upon I should ; We own they're prudent, but who feels they're Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 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, lOth August, 1788. MT MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful commons of 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 epistles for several months have cost me nothing, ex- S19 BURNS' WORKS. cept a swelling tlirob of gratitude, or a deep- felt sentiment of veneration. IMrs. Bui-ns, Madam, is the identical woman ^Vhen slie first found Iierself " 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 bouse, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal rela- tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my eclatint return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happluess or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- nion for my journey of life, but, upon my ho- 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 fivourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed boardiug-school acquire- ments, which (pardonnez moi, Madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the up- per ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be-gentry. I like your way in your church-yard lucu- brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and ahvays an originality, that would in vain be looked for In fancied circumstances and stu- died paragraphs. For mo, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now 1 talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kiud, is my pru- riency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial, nan-ow-minJed scale, that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a nioiulroua tux in a close corrcspoudeuce. No. xcn. TO THE SAME. Ellisland, \Qth 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 cares in this, as yet, strange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children :— 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 ahvays find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My sufirage as a professional man was expected : I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- don me, ye, my adored household gods, Inde- pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! la the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, " Raving winds around her blowing.** The air was much admired ; the lady of the house asked me whose were the words — " Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very best verses :" she took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says, well, " king's caflF is better than ither folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about " cast- ing pearls ;" but tliat would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- ed to gladness amid riches and honours, and pru- dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose daya are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I woold / CORRESPONDENCE. 313 transcribe for you n sfanza of an old Scottish ballad, called The Life and Ajje of Man, be- ginuing thus, " *Twas in the sixteenth hundor year Of God and fifty tliri-e, Frae Christ was horn, that liought us dear, As writings testitie. " I had an old g;rand-uncle, with whom my r.iother lived a while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was lung blind ere he died, during which time, his highest en- joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- ther would 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 rehgion so jnecious to the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- gination uf enthusiasm, " What truth on earth so precious as the lie!" 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 court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? No : to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of 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 be a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soou for my harvest. No. XCIII. TO R, GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he answers, " Because you have that in your face which I could like to call master." For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a supervidor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order for instructions. In this affiir, if I siiccted, I am afraid I shall but too much need a i>atronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention us an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacijuainted. I had intended to have closed mv late ap- pearauL-e on the stage of life, in the character of a couatry farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable man- ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescu- ed him. I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your patronage to forward me in this affiir, till I be appointed to a division, where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. When nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind. Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. She form'd of various jjarts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, aiul sober worth ; Thence peasants, farmers, nilive 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 mortuum of gross desires fllakes a material, for mere knights and squires . The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- signs, Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus 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 jierhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. Creature, 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 : gQ 5U 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 propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find ; And to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great. A title, and the only one T claim. To lay strong hold for help on bonnteous Gra- ham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, "Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuiF, 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 Xvho the godlike pleasure know. Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — . Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit, Soais 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 ; 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 I3s4 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 flight.* No. XCIV. TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinbuboh. MY DEAR SIR, ElUslaud, Sept. 9, 1788. There is not in Edinburgh above the num- ber of the graces whose letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternight. I am here on my farm, busy with my har- vest ; but for all that most pleasurable part of life called social cojimunication, 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 plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhino- ceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but good-natured hussy of a muse — By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Coila I thought on. In midst thereof I hung my harp The willow trees upon. I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning wheel. I well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd- ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, as I would not for any 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 gratificatioa of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your better functions would give you lei- sure to write me I should be extremely 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 second, but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author to ba suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural histo- ry or of chemistry was wanted to enab'c hijn to exe» cute the original conception correctly. CORRESPONDENCE. S15 tegular correspondence. I hate the idea of being ■ohliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a ■quarter. I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : *Twas a glorious idea. Could you conveniently do me one thing — "Whenever you finish any head I 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 sliall not say one syllable about it. No. XCV. TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh. JEIlisland, 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 where they hit in hostile collision. I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather ; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much a Vegard de moi, I sit dowu to beg the continuation of your goodness. — I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul — I will not say, more, but, so much tis Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you — hearts the best, minds theiioblest, of human kind — unfortunate, even in the shades of life — when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight days, than I can do with almost 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 ■esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. — I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls ; and a late, important step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of those un- grateful iniquities, which, however overlooked in fasliioaable license, or varnished in fashion- able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of villainy. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married " my Jean." This was not in conse- quence of the attachment of romance perhaps ; but I had a long and much-loved fsUow-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, modish manners, aod 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 ia the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete komme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David ia metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also from thi» last, a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly ; and all 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 I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share ia ycmr best -svishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am only preserved from being chill- ed to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find ray farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but 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 I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you ia common with the world, have for this business, I know you would approve of my iilea. I will make no apology, dear Madam, for thi» egotistic detail : I know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! Wiien fel- low partakers of the same nature fear the saire God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at every thing dishonest, and the same scorn at every thing unworthy — if they are not in the dependance of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they nut equals ? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why may they not be friends ? When I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven only k;iows. Shenstone says, " When one is confined i sential to Man, a book you sent me befos.,; and. The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first opportunity. The JBible you sent me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. No. xcvin. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. MADAM, Matwhline, \3th Nov. 178S. I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- • The pnem entitled An Address to Loch Lomond, is said to be wiitlen by a gentleman, now one