p lass. PRESENTED BY ; j. 4. %5*^% p. '6 5^ COMPLETE ^DJtllS 'D A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. To which are prefixed, SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. BY JAMES CURRIE, M.D. THE FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE, WITH AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. dFiity Btamoirtr 3Efctttcm. Embellished with FOURTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY MR STEWART. • 'LONDON': < * »,- ALLAN BELL fc CO., WAE\/I(.R feQUARE>. ' MDCCCXXXVI. CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE, OF THE ROYAL NAVY. When you were stationed on our coast about twelve years ago, you first re- commended to my particular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, published for the benefit of his widow and children, I now present to you. In a distant region of the world, whither the service of your country has carried you, you will, I know, receive with kindness this proof ot my regard; not perhaps without some surprise on finding that I have been engaged in editing this wrrk, not without some curiosity to know how I was qualified for such an undertaking. These points I will briefly explain. Having occasion to make an excursion to the county of Dumfries, in the sum- mer of 1792, I had there an opportunity of seeing and conversing with Burns. It has been my fortune to know some men of high reputation in literature, as well as in public life, but never to meet any one who, in the course of a single interview, communicated to me so strong an impression of the fcrce and versa- tility of his talents. After this I read the poems then published with greater in- terest and attention, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary as they are, they afford but an inadequate proof of the powers of their unfortunate author. Four years afterwards, Burns terminated his career. Among those whom the charms of genius had attached to him, was one with whom I have been i ind in the ties of friendship, from early life — Mr John Syme of Ryedale. gentleman, after the death of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a sub s- ption for the support of the widow and children, to which their relief from immediate distress is to be ascribed; and, in conjunction with other friends of this virtuous and destitute family, he projected the publication of this work for their benefit, by which the return of want might be prevented or prolonged. To this last undertaking, an editor and biographer was wanting, and Mr Syme's modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming an office for which he was, in other respects, peculiarly qualified. On this subject he consulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting his objections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. Endeavours were used to procure an editor in other quarters, but without effect, 'i'he task was beset with considerable difficulties ; and men of established reputa- tion naturally declined an undertaking, to the performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approbation could be obtained, by any exertion of judgment or temper. iv DEDICATION. To sucn an office, my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality of Mr Syme thought me in other respects not unqualified; and his solicitations, joined to those of our excellent friend and relation Mrs Dunlop, and of other friends of the family o< the poet, I have not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which would otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr Syme and Mr Gilbert Burns made i, journey to Liverpool, where thev explained and arranged the manuscripts, anc 1 arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my labour. I had the satis faction of renewing my personal intercourse with a much valued friend, anci of forming an acquaintance with a man closely allied to Burns, in talents as well as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, 1 trust, be uninterested. The publication of this work has been delayed by obstacles which these gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which it would be tedious to enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part which I have taken shall serve the interest of the family, and receive the approbation of good men. I shall have my recompense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I hope, very important: and they will be easily accounted for by those who know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been performed. Generous minds will receive the posthumous works of Burns with candour, ana even partiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man of genius, published for the benefit of his family, as the stay of the widow, and the hope of the fatherless. To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in the writings, and avoided in the life of Burns, that have a tendency to awaken the animosity of party. In perusing the following work, no offence will be received, ex- cept by those to whom the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters that will scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession of arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in the paths of glory. They will not be found in your service, which in our own days, emulates on another element, the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or of the Roman legion, and which has lately made the shores of Europe and of Africa, resound with the shouts of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from the Tagus to the Nile ! The works of Burns will be received favourably by one who stands in the fore- • most rank of this noble service, and who deserves his station. On the land or on the sea, I know no man more capable of judging of the character or of the writings of this original genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot always occupy your leisure. This work may sometimes engage your atten- tion, while the steady breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and in another quarter of the earth, charm you with the strains of nature, or awake in your memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer me to hope that they may some- times recall to your mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids jou most affectionately— adieu I J. CURRIK. Liverpool, 1st May, 1800. CONTENTS. PREFATORY REMARKS. :r >'- Page Effects of the legal estab- lishment of Parochial schools — of the chnrch es- tablishment — of the ab- sence of poor laws— of the Scottish mnsic and nation- al songs — of the laws re- specting marriage and in- continence — Observations on the domestic and na- tional attachment of the Scots - LIFE OF BURNS. Narrative of his infancy and youth, by himself— Narra- tive on the same subject by his brother, and by Mr i, Murdoch of London, his teacher — Other particu- I lars of Burns while resi- l dent in Ayrshire — History of Burns while resident in Edinburgh, including let- ters to the Editor from Mr Stewart, and Dr Adair — History of Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in Dumfriesshire — History of Burns while resident in Dnmfries — his last illness — death — and character — with general reflections Memoir respecting Burns, by a lady ... 5 Criticism on the Works of Burns, including observa- tions on poetry in the Scottish dialect. and some remarks on Scottish literature ... 6 Tributary Verses on the Death of Burns, by Mr Roscoe 7 1. To a Female Friend. "Written about the year 1780 . f 2. To the same £ 3. To the same - - £ 4. To the same - « 5 To Mr John Murdoch, 15th Jan. 1783, ton- ic her : --? ? - of his present studies and temper of mind 83 6. Extracts from MSS. Ob- servations on various sub- jects --- - 83 7. To Mr Aiken, 1786. Written under distress of liud 8. To Mrs Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Praise of her ancestor, Sir William Wallace ... 8 9. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, enclosing a poem on Miss A ... 8 10. Dr Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie, encouraging the Bard to visit Edin- burgh, and print a new edition of his poems there 8 1 1 . From Sir John White- foord ... 8 12. From the Rev. Mr Low- rie, 22d December, 1786. Advice to the Bard how to conduct himself in Edin- burgh ... 8 13. To Mr Chalmers, 27th December, 1786. Praise of Miss Burnet of Mon- boddo ... 8 14. To the Earl of Eg lin ton, Jan. 1787. Thanks for his patronage - - 8 15. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th Jan. 1787. Account of his situation in Edinburgh 8 16. To Dr Moore, 1787. Grateful acknowledgments of Dr M.'s notice of him in his letters to Mrs Dun- lop - - - - 8 17. From Dr Moore, 23d Jan. 1787. In answer to the foregoing, and enclos- ing a sonnet on the Bard, by Miss Williams - 8 18. To Dr Moore, 15th Feb. 1787 - - - - 9 19. From Dr Moore, 28th February, 1787. Sends the Bard a present of his "View of Society and Man- ners," &c. - - 9 20. To the Earl of Glen- cairn, 1787. Grateful ac- knowledgments of kind- ness .... 9 21. To the Earl of Buchan, 85. the foregoing 24. Extract from , 8th March, 1787. Good ad- vice .... 9 15. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d J March, 1787. Respecting I his prospects on leaving I | Edinburgh - - 9 '26. To the same, 15th j April, 1787. On the same subject 9 17. To Dr Moore, 23d April, 1787. On the same iubjec 29. To the Rev. Dr Blair, 3d May. Written on leav- ing Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness - 9 30. From Dr Biair, 4th May, in reply to the preceding 9 31. From Dr Moore, 23d May. 1787. Criticism and good advice - - 9 32. From Mr John Hutchi- son - - - - 9 33. To Mr Walker, at Blair of Athole, enclosing the '• Humble petition of Brnar Water to the Duke of Athole" ... 9 34. To Mr G. Burns, 17th Sept. Account of his tour through the Highlands 9 35. From Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 22d October, enclosing Latin inscrip- and the tale of Omeron Cameron - - - 9 i 36. From Mr Walker - 9 . From Mr A M .10 38. Mr Ramsay to the Rev. W.Young, 22dOct. intro- ducing our poet - 10 39. Mr Ramsay to Dr Black- lock. 27th Oct. Anecdotes of Scottish Songs for our Poet 10 40. From Mr John Mur- doch, in London, 23th Oct. in answer to No. 5 10 41. From Mr , Gordon nlop, 21si Castle, 31st Oct. 17S7, ac- knowledging a song sent to lady Charlotte Gordon 10 42. From the Rev. J. Skin- ner, 14th November, 178/. Some account of Scottish Poems 10: 43. From Mrs , 30th Nov. enclosing Erse songs, with the mnsic - 101 44. To Dalrymple, Esq. Congratulation ou his be- coming a poet. Praise of Lord Glencairn - lOi 4 5. To Mrs Jan. 1788. recovery from sickness ] 46. Extract to the same, 12th Feb. 17S8. Derence of himself - - 1 47. To the same, 7th Mar. 1788. Who had heard that he had ridiculed her 104 49. To Mr Cleghorn, 31st March, 1768, mentioning his having composed the first stanza of the Cheva- lier's Lament - - ] 49. From Mr Cleghorn, 27 rh April, in reply to the above. The Chevalier's Lament in full, in a note - - 1 50. To Mrs Dnnlop, 2Sth April, giving an account of his prospects - - 1 51. Fror*the Rev. J. Skin- ner, 28th April, 1788, en- closing' two songs, one by himself, the other by a Buchan ploughman, the songs printed at large 1 52. To Professor D." Stew- art, 3d May. Thanks for his friendship - - 1 53. Extract to Mrs Dnnlop, 4th May. Remarks on Drydeu's Virgil, and Pope's Odyssey I 54. To the same, 27th May. General Reflections - 1 55. To the same, at Mr Dun- lop's, Haddington, 13th June, 1738. Account of his marriage 1 56. To Mr P. Hill, with a present of a cheese - 1 57- To Mrs Dnniop. 2d Au- gust, 1788. With lines on a hermitage - - 1 53. To the same, 10th Aug. Farther account of his Marriage - - 1 59. To the same, 16th Aug. Reflec Life - 60. To R. Grahar Fintry. A petitii 110 CONTENTS. Page 62. To Mrs Dnnlop, at Moreham Maines, 13 th November - • 1 63. To ****, 8th Nov. De- fence of the family of the suiting fallen greatness 113 64. To" Mrs DunloR, 17th Dec. with the soldier's song — «« Go fetch to me a pint cf wine" - - ] 65. To Miss Davies. a young lady who had heard he had been making a ballad ou " enclosing that bal 115 II. To Mr P. Hill, 1st Oct. lad !6. To Sir John White- foord - - - 115 !~. From Mr G. Bnrns, 1st Jan. 1789. Reflections suggested by the dav 116 63. ^To Mrs Dunlo'p, 1st Jan. Reflectionssuggested by the day - ' - 116 69. To Dr Moore, 4th Jan. Account of his situation and prospects - - 116 70. To Bishop Geddes. 3d February. Account of his situation and orosuects 117 71. From the Rev. P. Car- frae, 2d January, 1789. Requesting advice as to the publishing Mr Mylne's poems - - - 117 72. To Mrs Dunlop, 4th March. Reflections after a visit to Edinburgh 113 '3. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, in answer to No. 71 . 119 '4. To Dr Moore. Enclos- ing a poem - - 119 '5. To Mr Hill. Apostrophe to Frugality - - 119 6. To Mrs Dunlop. With a sketch of an epistle iu verse to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox - - - 120 7. To Mr Cunningham. With the first draught of the poem on a Wounded Hare - - - 121 8. From Dr Gregory. Cri- ticism of the poem on a Wounded Hare - 121 9. To Mr M-Anlayof Dum- barton. Account of his situation 122 30. To Mrs Dnnlop. Re- flections on Religion 122 II. From Dr Moore. Good advice - - - 123 S2. From Miss J. Little. A poetess in humble life, with a poem in praise of our Bard - - - 123 83. From Mr . Some of Fergusson 124 34. To Mr . In answer 124 85. To Mrs Dunlop. Praise ofZeluco 125 86. From Dr Blacklock, An epistle in verse 126 Page ST. To Dr Blacklock. Poe- tical reply to the above 125 88. To R. Graham, Esq. En- closing some electioneer- ing ballads - - 126 39. To Mrs Dnnlop. Seri- ous and interesting reflec- tions ... 127 90. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book society among the farmers in Nithsdale - - 12S 91._ To Mr Gilbert Burns. With a prologue spoken in the Dumfries Theatre 129 92. To Mrs Dnnlop. Some account of Falconer, au- thor of the Shipwreck 129 3. From Mr Cunningham. Inquiries of our Bard 130 94. To Mr Cunningham. In :ply to the above - 131 95. To Mr Hill. Order for books - - - 131 •6. To Mrs Dunlop. Re- marks on the Lounger, and on the writings of Mr Mackenzie - - 132 97. From Mr Cunningham. Account of the death of Miss Burnet of Monboddol33 98. To Dr Moore. Thanks for a present of Zelnco 133 99. To Mrs Dunlop. Writ- ten under wounded pride 134 100. To Mr Cunningham, 8th August. Aspirations after independence - 134 101. From Dr Blacklock, 1st September, 1790. Poe- tical letter of Friendship 134 102. Extract from Mr Cun- ningham, 14th October. Suggesting subjects for onr poet's muse - 135 103. To Mrs Dunlop, Nov. 1790. Congratulations on the birth of "her grandson 135 104. To Mr Cunningham. 23d Jan. 1791. with an elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo - - 135 105. To Mr Hill, 17th Jan. Indignant Apostrophe to Poverty - - - 133 106. From A. F. Tvtler, Esq. 12tn March. Criti- cism on Tarn o' Shanter 135 107. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. in reply to the above 137 103. To Mrs Dunlop, 7th February, 1791. Enclos- ing his elegy on Miss Bur- net ... 137 109. To Lady W. M. Con- stable, acknowledging a present of a snuff-box 138 110. To Mrs Graham of Fin- try, enclosing "Queen Mary's Lament" - 13S 111. From the Rev. G. Baird, 8th February, 1781, requesting assistance in Page publishing the poems of Michael Bruce - 138 112. To the Rev. G. Baird, in reply to the above 139 113. To Dr Moore. 28th February, 1791, enclosing Tarn o' Shanter, &c. 139 114. From Dr Moore, 29th March, with remarks on Tamo' Shanter, Sec. 140 115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 14th Feb. acknowledging his present of the " Essays on the principles of Taste." with remarks on the book 140 116. To Mr Cunningham, 12th March, with a Jaco- bite song, &c. - - 141 117. To Mrs Dunlop, Uth April. Comparison be- tween female attractions in high and humble life 141 118. To Mr Cunningham, 11th June, requesting his interest for an oppressed friend 142 119. From the Earl of Buch- an, 17th June, 1791, invit- ing over our Bard to the coronation of the bust of Thomson on Ednam hill 142 120. To the Earl ofBuchan, in reply ... 142 121. From the Earl ofBuch- an, 16th Sept. 1671, pro- posing a subject for our Poet's muse - - 143 122. To Lady E. Cunning- ham, enclosing " The La- ment for James, Earl of Glencairn " 143 123. To Mr Ainslie. State of his mind after inebria- tion 143 124. From Sir John White- foord. 16th Oct. Thanks for " The lament on James, Earl of Glencairn" - 144 125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 27th November. 1791. Criticism on the Whistle and the Lament - 144 12*5. To Miss Davies. Apo- logy for neglecting her commands— moral reflec- tions 145 127. To Mrs Dunlop, 17th December, enclosing " The song of Death " - 145 128. To Mrs Dunlop, 5th January, 1792, acknow- ledging the present of a cup 146 129. To Mr William Smel- lie, 22d January, introduc- ing Mrs Riddel - 146 130. To Mr W. Nicol, 20th February. Ironical thanks tor advice - . 146 a seal— moral reflect CONTENTS. Pagi 132. To Mrs Dunlop, 22d August. Account of his 134. To Mrs Dunlop, 24th September. Account of his family - - 15 135. To Mrs Dunlop. Let- ter of condolence under affliction - - - 15 136. To Mrs Dunlop, 6th December, 1792, with a poem entitled, " The Rights of Woman " 15 137. To Miss B of York, 21st March, 1793. Letter of Friendship 15 138. To Miss C , Aug. 1793. Character and tem- perament of a poet - 15 — To John M'Murdo, Esq. December, 1793. Re- paying money - 15 140. ToMissB ,advising her what play to bespeak at the Dumfries Theatre 15 141. To a Lady in favour of a Player's Benefit - 15: 142. Extract to Mr , 1794. On his prospects in the Excise - - 15: 143. To Mrs R - 15: 144. To th( Vll . Puge January, 1796. Acconnt of the Death of his daugh- ter, and of his own ill health - - - 158 156. To Mrs R , 4th June, 1796. Apology for not going to the birth- night assembly - 158 157. To Mr Cunningham, 7th July, 1796. Account of his illness and of his poverty — ■ anticipation of his death - - - 159 158- To Mrs Burns. Sea- bithing affords little re- lief - - - - 159 \2? prayei the: :[ cry a ribes 145. To the Werter To the s same. De- melancholy - - 154 ame, lending 154 turn of interrupted friend- ship i: 147. To the same, on a temporary estrangement li 148. To John byme, Esq. Reflections on the happi- ness of Mr O 1! 149. To Miss , request- ing the return of MSS. lent to a deceased friend li 150. To Mr Cunningham, 25th February, 1794. Mel- ancholy reflections — cheer- ing prospects of a happier world - . - 1; 151. To Mrs " The dead to the living" 156 152. To Mrs Dunlop, 15th December, 1795. Reflec the Hoi The Holy Fair - Death and Dr Hoi I he Brigs of Ayr - 172 The Ordination - 174 The Calf . - - 175 Address to the Deil - 176 The death and dying words of Poor Mailie - 177 Poor Mailie's Elegy - 177 To J. S*** - - 178 A Dream - - - 179 The Vision - - 180 Address to the Unco Guid, the Rigidly Righteous 183 Tarn Samson's Elegy 184 Halloween - - 185 The Au Id Farmer's New- M01 .n«r Sai to his Auld Mare Maggie 188 To a Mouse - - 188 A Winter Night - 188 Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet - - • 190 The Lament Despondency : ; Winter: A Dire The Cotter's Night Vlan was made to Mourn : A Dirge 19 A Prayer in the Prospect of Death ... 19 Stanzas on the same occa- n Ode IS 1 - IS Saturday the 1 1 of left his family, if he should die — praise of the poem entitled -The Tax" 156 153. To the same, in Lon- don, 20th December, 1795 157 154. To Mrs R , 20th January, 1796. Thanks for the travels of Anachar- sis 158 155. To Mrs Dunlop, 31st The First Psalm - 1 A Prayer - - - 1 The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psali To a Moi 1 Dai si 197 198 To Ruin To Miss L , with Beat- Poems, for a New- Gift - - 198 Epistle to a Young Frienl 199 On a Scotch Card goi the West Indies - 19 To a Haggis - - 20 A Dedication to G H , Esq. - 20i To a Lonse. on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church --- 20 Address to Edinburgh 20! Eaistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard - 20; To the same - - 20- Epistle to W. S .Ochil- tree --.- 20- Epistle to J. R , enclos- ing some Poems - 20f John Barleycorn : A Bal- lad - - - - 20/ A Fragment. ' When Guild- ford good our pilot stood,'207 Song, • It was upon a Lam- mas Night' - - 20S Song, ' Now westlin winds, and slanght'ring gnns-,'" 20S Song, ' Behind yon hills where Lngar flows,' - 209 Green grows the Rashes : A Fragment - - 209 Song, ' Again rejoicing Na- ture sees ' - - 209 Song, 'The gloomy Night is gathering fast' - 210 Song, ■ From thee, Eliza, I Tarbolton Song, ' No Churchman am I for to rail aud to write' 21 Written on Friar's Carse Hermitage - - 21 Ode to the Memory of Mr3 CONTENTS. Page Page to ; On the death of John 199 j M'Leod, Esq. - - J '■*■" Humble Perition of Brnar Water ... 5 On Scaring some Water Fowl ... j Written a-t the Inn in Tay- M.rthev , of- Elegyon Captain Henderson Lament of Mary To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry ... 21 Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn - - 21 Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, with the fore- going Poem - • 21 Tarn o' Shanter: A Tale 21 On seeing a wounded Hare a fellow had Shot at 21 Address to the Shade of Thomson - - 21 Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder - - 21 on a noisy Polemic 21 on Wee Johnny 21 for the Author's Fa- ther 21 for R. A. Esq. 21 forG. H. Esq. 21 A Bard's Epitaph - 21 On Captain Grose's Pere- grinations - - 21 On Miss Cruikshanks 21 Song, 'Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,' ' - 21 221 Written at the Fail of Fyers - - - 221 On the Birth of a Posthu- mous Child - - 221 Second Eoisfle to Davie, a Brother Poet - - 223 On my Early Days - 223 Song, « In Mauchline there dwells six prooer young Belles' - - - 224 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair - - 224 Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the Poems presented to an old Sweet- heart then married - 224 The Jolly Beggars : A Can- tata - - - 2i5 The Kirk's Alarm: A Sa- tire 223 The Ewa Herds - - 229 The Heripecked Husband 230 Elegy on the year 1"8 230 Verses written on the Win- dow of the Inn at Carron 230 Lines delivered bv Burns on his Death-bed - - 230 Lines delivered by Bnrns at a Meeting of the Dumfries- shire Volunteers - 230 A Vision „- Address to W. Tytier, Esq. 242 To a Gentleman who had sent a Newspaper and of- fered to continne it - 243 On Pastoral p.etrv - 243 Sketch.— New-year's day 244 On Mr William Smellie 245 On the Death of Mr Riddel 245 W,-i ription for i a>3 Independence donody on a Lady famed for her caprice - 24 luswer to a Surveyors mandate 24 Impromptu on Mrs 's Birth-dav - - - 24 To Miss Jessy L 24 Extempore t( Dun .•o!.ii To Mr Mitchell To a Gentleman wh had offended )n Life, addressed t living a fiv Epitaph on a Friend Grace before Dinner In Sensibility, to Dnnlop - On taking leave at a ' the Highlands Hermitage, on Nitnside 109 Epistle to R. Graham, Esq.lll On seeing a Wounded Hare) 2'. To Dr Blacklock - 12 Prologue - - - 12 Elegy on the late Miss Bur- net of Alonbodd.i - 13% Tbe Rights of Woman 151 Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle - - 15' INDEX TO THE POETRY '.dieu! a heart-warm, fond adien ! - - . 2' Admiring Nature in her wildest grace - - 25 Adown winding Nith I did A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie - - - U Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door - - '-2( All hail! inexorable lord It Among the heathy hills and ragged woods - - 21 Ance mair I hail thee, thon gloomy December - 22 An" O for ane and twenty. Tarn 23 An honest man here lies at rest 25 Anna, thy charms my bo- som fire - - - 21 A rose-bud bv my earlv As down the burn their way • As I stood by yoi roofless As Mailie and her lambs thegither - - lj Awa wi' your witchcraft o' A' ye wha live by soups o' drink 1£ Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay 21 Behind yon hills where Lu- gar flows 21 Behold the hour, the boat Below thir stanc Blythe, blythe s lie Jamie's d merrv 23 Blythe hae I been on yon hill B.T.r.i e wee thir hing :ely seen in gladsome By Allan stream I chanced 9.7' castle wa', at the f the day - 14' janiywi'mair urs'd be the the poorest wretch in lite 2.1 Dear S , the sleest, pan- kie thief - - - 17 Deluded swain, ihe pleasure 2fc Does haughty Gaul invasion Threat 24 Duncan Gray came here to woo .... 26 Dweller in yon dungeon dark ... 21 Edina! Scotia's darlin? seat ... '20 Expect ni, Sir, in this nar- ration 2C Fairest maid on Devon banks ... 30 Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face - - - - 20 Farewell thou stream that winding flows - - 26 Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 5 Fate gave the word, the ar- row'sped 24 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 23 For h rds, or kings I dinna mourn 23 Forlorn, my love,, no com- fort near 30 Friend of the Poe', tried and leal ... 24' Froa thee, Eliza, I must go 21' miif is the day, and mirk's the night 23 Kail. Poesy ! thou Nymph reserved 2< Ha', whare ye gaun. ye crowlin ferlje - -' 2C Has auld K seen the Deil ... if Hear, Land o' Cikes, and brither Scots - - 21 lere awa, there awa, wan- dering Willie CONTENTS. Page How can my poor heart be glad ... 285 How cold is that bosom which folly once fired 245 How cruel are the parents 299 How long and dreary is the night 289 How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon 41 Husband, husband, cease yoi Bred in death 21 ang, lies 22 le who of R_k-r uirT and dead . lere is the glen the bower . . 2c ere's a health to ane I lo'e dear ... 3c Here, where the Scottish Muse immor»ai lives 25: I call no goddess to inspir my strains. - - j I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 1 I gat your letter, winsome Willie ... 5 I hae a wife o' mine ain I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend - ] I mind it weel, in early 233 1 three ti i doubly o'ei In Manchiine there dwells six proper young belles 224 [ n simmer when the hay was I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth - - - 222 Is there a whim-inspired fool - - . 21S Is there, for honest poverty 296 It was the charming month of May - - - 291 It was upon a Lammas night - - - 208 Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss - - - '249 John Anderson my jo. John 235 Keen blaws the 'wind o'er Donnocht head - 288 Ken you ought o' Captain Kind Sir, I've read your paper through - - 24 Know thou, "O stranger to the fame . - 21 f 'The Lass o' Pa- = Mir 25G 4. Mr B. to Mr T. With 'The Lee Rig,' and 'Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary' 2c 5. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' My wife's a winsome wee thing,' and ' O saw ye bonny Lesley' - 2c 6. Mr B. to MrT. With « Highland Mary' - 25 7. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and critical observations 25 8. Mr B. to Mr T. With an additional stanza 'The leeR.g' ... 25 9. Mr B. to Mr T. With 'Ai:ld Rob Morris' and Duncan Grav' - 26 10. Mr B. to MrT. With 'O Poortith Canld.' &c. and 'Gal I a Water' - 2G 11. MrT. to Mr B. Jan. 1793. Desiring anecdotes on the origin of particular songs. Tyller of Wood- houselee— Plevel — sends P. Pindar's 'Lord Gre- gory.' Postscript from the "Hon. A. Erskine . 26 12. Mr B. to Mr T. Has Mr Tytler's anecdotes, and J 20. Mr T. to Mr B. . 267 3 21. Mr B. to Mr T. Sim- | plicity requisite in a song 2; — one poet should not 3 ! mangle the works of ano- ! ther - - - 267 =1 22. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Fare- 5 - well, thou stream that wiuding flows' — Wishes that the national music features ... 268 23. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks and observations - 268 24. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Blythe hae I been on yon hill' --- 268 25. MrB. to MrT. With ' O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide' — 'O gin my love,' &c. - - 269 26. Mr T. to Mr B. En- closing a note— Thanks 270 27. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' There was a lass and she was fair' - - 270 28. Mr B. to Mr T. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense — Remarks on songs ... 271 29. Mr T. to Mr B. Musi- 30* M^B^to'Mr T. For" Mr Clarke - - 272 31. Mr B. to MrT. With ' Phitlis the fair- - 272 32. Mr T. to Mr B. Mr Allan — Drawing from ' John Anderson my jo' 272 33. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Had I a cave,' &c. Some airs common to Scotland and Ireland - - 272 34. Mr B. to Mr T. With mds his ' Lord Gre- K"ry* - . . 262 13. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Mary Morrison' - 263 14 MrB to MrT. With • Wandering Willie' 263 15. Mr B. to MrT. With ' Open the door to me, Oh' 263 16. MrB. to MrT. With ' Jessie' - 264 17. MrT. to MrB. With a list of songs, and « Wan- derii-g Willie' altered 264 18. MrB. to MrT. 'When wild war's.' &c. and ' Meg o' the Mill' - . 265 Alia! I 15. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,' and ' Awa wi' your belles and your beauties' - - 27 86. Mr B. to MrT. With e take thee to Page marks on s^ngs in MrT.'s list— His own method of forming a song — ' Thor. 279 44. MrT. to MrB. Thanks and observations - 279 45. Mr B. to Mr T. ' On Bannockburn' — sends •Fair Jenny' - - 280 46. Mr B. to' Mr T. With 1 Deluded swain, the plea- sure—Remarks - 281 47. Mr B. to MrT. With ' Thine am 1, my faithful fair' — ' O condescend, dear charming maid' — 'The nightingale' — ' Laura' — (the three last by G. Turn- bull) - - - 2SI 48. Mr T. to Mr B. Ap- prehensions — Thanks 283 49. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Husband, husband, cease your strife,' and 'Wilt thou be my dearie' - 283 50. MrT. to Mr B. 1794. .Melancholy comparison between Burns and Car- iini— Mr Allan has begun a sketch from the Cottar's Saturday Night - 2 C 3 51. MrB. to MrT. Praise of Mr Allan— 'Banks of Cree' - - - 2°4 52. MrB. to MrT. Pleyel in France — ' Here where the Scottish Muse immor- tal lives,' presented to Mis? Graham of Fintrv - 284 53. Mr T. to MrB. Does Pleyel soon, but desires to be prepared with the poe- 37.' Mr B, "e Davie to MrT. 'Dain- 38. Mr T. to Mr B. De- lighted with the produc- tions of Burns' muse 27 9. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' Bruce to his troops at Bannockburn' - 27 40. Mr B to Mr T. With Behold the hour, the boat _try of a 284 .' &c- 1 to Dr Maxwell 58. Mr T. to Mr B. Ad- vising him to write a Mu- si calDrama - - 28 59. Mr T. to Mr B. Has lining Scottish :u!t > obtain -Hi:s -Diffi- nves' 41. Mr T. 1 Mr Ob- 60. Mr B. to Mr T. Re- cipe for producing a love- song — ' Saw ye my Phely' Pagt —Remarks and a — ' How lona and dreary is the night?— « Let lover's morning salute to his mistress' — • The Auid Mar.' — ' Keen blaws the ivind o'er Donocht-head,' in a note - - 288 61. Mr T. to Mr B. Wishes he liiiew the inspiring Fair Oue — Ritson's historical Msay not interesting — .-Vl- Ian— Maggie Lauder 290 62. Mr B. to Mr T. Has begun his Anecdotes, ice. —•My Chloris mirk how green i.he groves' — Love — •It was the charming month of May 5 — ' Lassie \vi' the lint-white locks' — History of the Air ' Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon' — James Miller — Crke— The black keys- Instances of the difficulty of tracing the origin of ancient airs - - 290 63. Mr T. to Mr B. With three copies of the Scot- tish airs - - - 232 64. Mr B. to Mr T. With ' O Philly, happy be that . day' — starting note — 'Con- tented wi' little, and can- tie wi' mair" — ' Canst thou leave me thus, my Katv'— (Thereplv, • Stay my Wil- lie, yet believe me,' in a note) — Stock and horn 293 65. MrT. to Mr B. Praise — Desires more songs of the humorous cast — Means Page | ' The Soldier's Return' 295 65. Mr B. to Mr T. With 1 My Nannie's awa' 295 67 Mr B. to MrT. 1735. With • For a' that an' a' • that,' and ' Sweet fa's the j eve on Craigiebnrn' 296 6S. MrT. to MrB. Thanks 297 69. Mr B. to Mr T. « O Lassie, art thon sleeping vet,' and the Answer 297 70. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Dis- praise of Ecciefech.au' 297 71. MrT. to Mr B. Thanks 297 72. Mr B. to Mr T. 'Ad- dress to the Woodlark' — 'On Chloris being ill'— ' Their groves o' sweet myrtle,' 6cc. — « Twas na her bonny blue ee,' &cc. 29S 73. Mr T. 'to Mr B. With Allan's design from ' The Cottar's Saturday Night' 2S9 74. Mr B. to Mr T. Witfi ' How cruel are the pa- rents.' and « Mark vonder pomp of costly fashion' 299 75. MrB. to MrT. Thanks for Allan's designs 299 76. MrT. to MrB. Com- pliment - - - 299 77. Mr B. to Mr T. With an improvement in 'Whis- tle and I'll come to yon, my lad' — ' O this is no my ain lassie' — « Now Spring has clad onr groves in greeu' — ' O bonny was yon rosie brier' — ''Tis friend- ship's pledge, my young, fair friend - - 300 7?. Mr T. to Mr B. Intr.- dncing Dr Brianton 3 79. MrB. to Mr T. « F r- loru my love, uo conir- r: 80. Mr B.to MrT. ' L. .-. May a braw,' &c— • WI why teil thy lover,' a in 81. MrT. to Mr B. - 82. Mr T. to Mr B. 179 After an awful pause 3 J S3. MrB. to MrT. Thank* for P. Pindar. Ssc.— « H: for a lass wi' a tocher' M 84. MrT. to Mr B. Altai has designed some plates for an Svo edition 85. Mr B. to Mr T. .- rlicted by sickness, b I pleased with Mr A. .a: - etchings * 85. Mr T. to Mr B. Syr, - patby — encouragement 30 87. Mr B. to MrT. Wi(fl • Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear" - - SO 38. Mr B. to Mr T. Intro- ducing Mr Lewars — H;_ taken a fancy to review his son^s — hopes to recover ■ ?9. MrB. to MrT. Dread- ing the horrors of a jai., solicits the advance t five pounds, and enclose, ' Fairest maid on Devo.. banks' K>. Mr T. to Mr B. Sym- pathy—Advises a volume of poetry to be published by subscription: Pope put Kshed the Liad so - p LIFE ROBERT BURNS. PREFATORY REMARKS. THOUGH the dialect in winch many of the happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- posed, be peculiar to Scotland, jet his reputa- tion lias extended itself beyond the limits of that country, and his poetry nas been admired us the offspring of original gen. us, by persons of taste in every p^rt f the sister islands. Tne interest excited by his early death, and the dis- tress of his infant family, "have been felt in a remarkable manner wherever his writings hava been known : and these posthumous volumes, ■which give to the world his works complete, Hud which, it is hoped, may rai = e hi* widow and children from penury, are printed and pub- lished in England. It seems -roper, therefore, to write ihe .Memoirs of his life, not with the -view of their being rend by Scotchmen only. But also by natives of Eog and, and of other countries where the English language is spoken or understood. Kobtrl Curii9 was in reality what he has been represented to be, a Scottish pea ant. To render the incidents of his humble story generally intelligible, it seems, ther -fore, ad- visable 10 prefix some observations on the char- acter and situation of the order to which he belonged,— a class of men distinguished by many peculiarities: by this means we shall form a more correct notion of the advantages with which be started, and of tbe obstacles which he tish peasantry will not, perhaps, be found unworthy of attention in other respects; and the subject is in a great measure new. Scot- land has produced persons of high distinction in every branch of philosophy and literature; and her history, while a separate and indepen- dent nation, 'lias been successfully explored. Hut the present character ol the people was not then formed ; the nation then presented features similar to ihose which the feudal system and the catholic religion had diffused over Europe, modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of ber territory and climate. The Reformation, by which such important changes were produced mi lite national character, was speedily folio wed by the Accession of the Scottish nionarchs to thrpoe; and the period which elapsed from that accession to the Union, has becu rendered memorable, chiefly by those bloody convulsions in which both divisions of the island were involve!, a' d which, in a con- I degree, conceded from the eye cf t!;e the gradual the the teat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore the House of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed a comparative tranquility ; and it is sir.ee this period 'hat the present character of her peasan- try has been in a great measure formed, though the political causes affecting it are to be (raced to the previous acts of her separate legislature. A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of Scotland, will serve to convince an unpreju- diced ol server, that they possess a degree of i: teiligeuce not generally found among the s una Class of men in the other countries of Europe. In the very humblest condition of the Scottish p^isants, every one ear. re:. J, r.nd an.! ic"- n* me more or less skilled in wrifii- r.: .:' ; ri-ii- rnelic ; and under ihe disguise .if their uncouth appearance, and of : . :rs and dialect, a stranger wil disc ier that Chej Bess a curiosity, and have obta These advantages they owe to the legal pro- vision made by the parliament of Scotland iu 1646, for the establishment cf a school in every parish throughout the kingdom, for tho express purpose of educating the poor; a law which may challenge comparison with at.-J act of legislation to be found iu the records of his- tory, whether we cons der the wisdom cf the ends in view, the simplicity of the m-aus em- ployed, or the provisions made to render these means effectual to their purpose. This excel- lent statute was repealed on the accession of Ch tries II. in lofjO, together with all tho other laws {.issed during the commonwealth, as not being sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles and James, by the Scott sh parliament. "r.ti.:r the Revolution subject, its effects on the national character may be considered to have commenced about the period of the Union; and doubtless it co- operated with the peace and security aris vj from that happy event, in producing the ex- traordinary change in favour of industry R3d DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. good morals, which the character of the com- mon people of Scotland has since undergone. * * The importance of the national establish- ment of parish schools in Scotland will justify a short account of the legislative provisions res- pecting it, especially as the subject has escaped the notice of all the historians. By an act of the king (James TI.) and privy council, of the 10th of December, 1616, it was recommended to the bishops to dealt and travel with the heritors (land proprietors), and the inhabitants of the respective parishes in their respective dioceses, towards the fixing upon •'some certain, solid, and sure course" for settling and entertaining a school in each parish. This was ratirieu by a statute of Char. I. (the act, ld33, chap. 5. ) which empowered the bishop, with the consent of the heritors of a parish, or of a majority of the inhabitants, if the heritors refused to attend the meeting, to -assess every plough of laud (that is, every farm, in proportion to the number of ploughs upon it) with a certain sum for establishing a 6chool. This was an ineffectual provision, as depending on the consent and pleasure of the heritors and inhabitants. Therefore a new order of things was introduced by Stat. 1646, chap. 17, which obliges the heritors and minis- ter of fetch parish to meet and assess the several heritors with the requisite sum for building a school-house, and to elect a school-master, and modify a salary for him in all time to covne. The salary is ordered not to be under one hi_ndred, nor above two hundred merks, that L. 5, lis. l|d- nor aboye L. U,'L. 3d. and the assessment is to be laid on the land in the same proportion as it is rated for the support of the clergy, and as it regulates the payment of the land-tax. But in case the heritors of any Scotland is S77 ; and if we allow the salary ot a schoolmaster in each to be, on an average, seven pounds Sterling, the amount of the legal provision will be L. 6139 Sterling. If we sup- pose the wagej paid by the scholars to amount to twice this'sum, which is probably beyond the truth, the total of the expences among 1.526,-192 persons (the whole population of Scotland) of this most important establishment will be L. 18,417. But on this, as well as on other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate in- formation may soon be expected from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, which will complete the immortal monument he has rear- ed to his patriotism. The benefit arising in Scotland from the in- struction of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is enacted, " that of the moneys arising from the sale of the Scottish estates, forfeited in the rebellion of 1715, L. 2, 000 sterling shall be converted into a capital stock, the interest of which shall be laid out in erecting and main- taining schools in the Highlands. The Society for propagating Christian Knowledge, incor- porated in 1709, have applied a large part of their fond for the same purpose. By their re- port, l=t May, 1795, the annual sum employed by them, in" supporting their schools in the Highlands and Islands, was L.3,913, 19s. lOd. in which are taught the English language, reading and writing, and the principles of re- ligion. The schools of the society are addi- tional to the legal schools, which, from the great extent of many of the Highland parishes, were found insufficient. Besides these estab- lished schools, the lower classes of people in Scotland, where the parishes are large, often combine together, and establish private schools of their o is that Burns parish, or the majority of them, should fail discharge this duty, then the persons forming _. •what is called the" Comm \ttee of Supply of the i received the principal part of his education. So county, (consisting of the principal landholders) convinced indeed are the poor people of Scot- or any fivt of them, are authorised bv the statute ; land, Ly experience, of the benefit of instruction to impose the assessment instead of them, on | to their children, that though they may often the representation of the presbytery in which | find it dimcult to feed and clothe them, some the parish is situated. To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the right of election by the heritors, by a statute passed in 1693, chap. 22, is made subject to the review and control of the presbytery of the district, who have the ex- amination of the person proposed committed to them, both as to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to his proper deportment in the office =when settled in it. The election of the heritors is therefore only a presentment of a person for the approbation of the presbytery ; who, if they find him unfit, may declare his incapacity, and thus oblige them to elect anew. So far is stated on unquestionable authority.* The legal salary of the schoolmaster was not inconsiderable at the time it was fixed ; but by the decrease in the value of money, it is i.ow certainly inadequate to its object; and it is painful to observe, that the landholdt Scotland rented the humble appli schoolmasters to the legislature for its incrta: a few years ago. The number of parishes kind of school-instruction they almost always procure them. The influence of the school establishment of Scotland on the peasantry of that country, seems to have decided by experience a question of legislation of the utmost importance: whether a system of national instruction for the poor be* favourable to morals and good government ? In the year 169S, Fletcher of Saitouu declared as follows: "There are at this day in Scotland, two hundred thousand people beszing from door to door. And though the number ot them be perhaps double to what it was formerly, bv reason of this present great distress (a famine then prevailed) yet in all times there have been about one huudred thou- sand of those vagabonds who have lived without any regard or subjection either to the laws of the land, or even those of God and Natuie; fathers incestuously accompanying with their own daughter.-, the son with the mother, ano the broth-r with the sister. " He goes on to say, that no magistrate ever could discover tnat Tvtler, and ; they had ever been baptized, or in what way 1 ouein a hundred went out ol '.he world, lie n of the BURNS PREFATORY REMARKS. ed, which may be called its school-establish- ment. The clergyman, being every where resident in his particular parish, becomes the natural patron and superiutendant of the parish accuses them as frequently guilty of robbery, and sometimes of murder : " In years of plen- ty," says he v «• many thousands of them meet together in the mountains, where they feast and riot for many days ; and at country weddings, markets, burials, and other public occasions, they are to be seen, both men and women, per- petually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and lighting together. "* This high-minded states- man, of whom it is said by a contemporary, *« that he would lose his life readily to save his country, and would not do abase thing to serve it, " thought the evil so great that he proposed as a remedy, the revival of domestic slavery, according to the practice of his adored republics in the classic ages ! A better remedy has been found, which in the siieni lapse of a century has proved effectual. The statute of 1696, tiie noble legacy of the Scottish Parliament to their country, began soon after this to operate ; and happily, as the minds of the poor received instruction, the Union opened new channels of industry, and new iields of action to their view. At the present day there is perhaps no coun- try in Europe, in which, in proportion to its population, so small a number of crimes fall under the chastisement of the criminal law, as Scotland. We have the best authority for preceding the year 1797, the executions in that ili\ision of the island did not ainouut to six annually ; and one quarter -sessions for the town of .Manchester only, has sent, according to Mr Hume, more felo'ns to the plantations, than all the judges of Scotland usually do in the space of a year.-j- It might appear invi- dious to attempt a calculation of the many thousand individuals in Manchester and its vicinity who can neither read nor write. A majority of those who suffer the punishment of death for their crimes in every part of Eng- land are, it is believed, in this miserable state There is now a legal provision for parochial schools, or rather for a school in each of the different townships into which the country is divided, in several of the northern states of North America. They are, however, of recent origin there, excepting in New England, where they were established in the last century, pro- bably about the same time as in Scotland, and by the same religious sect. In the Protestant Cantons of Switzerland, the peasantry have the advantage of similar schools, though estab- lished and endowed in a different manner. This is also the case in certain districts in England, particularly, in the northern parts of Yorkshire and of Lancashire, and in the coun- ties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. A law, providing for the instruction cf the poor, was passed by the Parliament of lie- land j but the fund was diverted from its pur- * Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo, London, 1737, p. 144. + Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland; Introduction p. 50. school, and is enabled in various ways to pro- mote the comfort of the teacher, and the profi- ciency of the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candidate for holy orders, who, during the long couise <,f study and probation required in the Scottish church, renders the time which can be spared from his professional studies, useful to others as well as to himself, by assum- ing the respectable character of a schoolmaster. It is common for the established schools, even in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, and some even of the cottagers, submit to much privation, that they may obtain, for one of their sons at least, the precarious advantage of a learned education. The difficulty to be surmounted, arises, indeed, not from the expense of instructing their children, Lut from the charge of supporting them. In the country parish schools, the English language, writing, and accounts, are generally taught at the rate of six shillings, and Latin at the rale of ten or twelve shillings per annum. In the towns, the prices are somewhat higher. It would be improper in this place to inquire minutely into the degiee of instruction received at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise estimate of its effects, either en the individuals who are the subjects of this instruction, or on the community to which they belong. That it is on the whole favourable to industry and morals, though doubtless with some individual exceptions, seems to be proved by the most striking and decisive experience ; and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit of emigration and of adventure so prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Verulau), been denominated power ; by others it has, with less propriety, been denominated virtue or happiness: we may with confidence consider it as motion. A human being, in pro- pose, and the measure was entirely frustrated. Prok Pudor 1 The similarity of character between the Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch and the people of New England, can scarcely be overlooked. That it arises in a great meas- ure from the similarity of their institutions for instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no doubt increased by physical causes. AVith a superior degree of instruction, each of these nations possesses a country that may be said to be sterile, in the neighbourhood of countries comparatively rich. Hence emigrations and the other effects on conduct and character which such circumstances naturally produce. This subject is in a high degree curious. The points of dissimilarity between these nations might be traced to their causes also, and the whole investigation would perhaps admit of an approach to certainty in our conclusions, to which such ..nquiries seldom lead. How much superior in morals, in intellect, and in happi- ness, the peasantry of those parts of England are who have opportunities of instruction, to the same class in other situations, those who inquire into the subject will speedily discover. The peasantry of Westmoreland, and of tha other districts mentioned above, if their physi- cal and moral qualities be taken together, nre, in the opinion of the Editor, superior tv> the P'.a.-p.n'n of any part of the island. DIAMOND CABINET LIES-MI Y. portion as he is informed, has his wishes en- larged, as well as the means of gratifying those wishes. He may be considered as taking with- in the sphere of his vision a larger portion of the globe on which we tread, and discovering ad- vantages at a greater distanceon its surface. His desires or ambition, once excited, are stimulated by his imagination ; and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the operation of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the youthful adventurer, an attraction from their very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a great degree of instruction be given to the peasan'ry of a country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other countries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; and if the barriers be removed that kept them separate ; emigration from the former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself among surrounding bcaus, or water finds its level when left to its natural course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was broken down which divided '.he two British nations, and knowledge a.'id poverty poured the ad' turous natives of the north over the fertile p! of England, and more especially, over the colo- nies which she had settled in the East and in the "West. The stream of population < to flow from the north to the south ; for the causes that originally impelled it, continue to operate ; and the richer country is constantly invigorated by the accession of an informed and hardy race of men, educated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger, patien of labour, and prodigal of life. * * It has been supposed, that Scotland is populous ar.d less improved on account of this emigration ; but such conclusions are doubtful if not wholly fallacious. The principle ( of its power ; marriage is every where retarded beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the difficulty of supporting a family; and this ob- stacle is greatest in long settled communities. The emigration of a part of a people facilitates the marriage of the rest, by producing a rela- tive increase in the means of subsistence. The arguments of Adam Smith, for a free export of corn, are perhaps applicable with less exception to the free export of people. The more certain the vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil. This subject has been well investigated by Sir James Stewart, whose principles have "been expanded and farther illustrated in a late truly philosophical Essay on Population. In fact", Scoland has increased in the number of its inhabitants in the last forty years, as the Statis tics of Sir John Sinclair ck-ar'.v prove, but net in the ratio that some had supposed. The ex- tent of the emigration of the Scots may be cal- culated with some degree of confidence from the proportionate number of the two sexes in Scot- land ; a point that may be established pretty exactly by an examination of the invaluabte Statistics already mentioned. If we suppose that there is an equal number of male and female natives of Scotland, alive somewhere or other, the excess by which the females exceed the males in their own country, may be consid- ered to be equal to the unrobe] l The preachers of the Reformation in Scot- nd were disciples of Calvin, and brought ith tuEm the temper as well as the tenets' of ..jat celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian ! form of worship and of church government was ■ endeared to the people, from its being establish- ! ed by themselves. It was endeared to them, I also, by the struggle it had to maintain with the Catholic and the Protestant episcopal churches, over both of which, after a hundred | years of fierce, end sometimes bloody conten- j tion, it finally triumphed, receiving the coun- i tenance of government, and the sanction of law. ; During this long period of contention and of suffering, the temper of the people became more and mere cL.-tinate and biirotted ; and the nation 1 received that deen tinre of fanaticism, which ; coloured their public' transactions as well as their private virtues, and of which evident traces may be found in our own times. When the pub!ie"schoois v, ere established, the instruc- tion communicated in them partook of the re- - character of the people. Ihe Catechum I of the Westminster Divines was the universal scho 1-book, and was put into the hands of the young p-asant as soon as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first exer- cises in the art of reading introduced him to the ...... - j ._._;..„. „t .i.„ i i„:,.;»n r.iii, n faith. of theCb This practice is continued in our own times. After 'the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and the New and Cld Testament, follow in regular succession ; and the scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines according to the interpretation of the "West- minster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the national church ; and liei ce the first and most constant er.ercise of inj-ei.uity among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in religious disputation. "With a strong attachment to the national creed, is con- joined a bigoted preference of certain forms of worship ; the source of which would be altoge- ther obscure, if we did not recollect that the ceremonies of the Scottish church were formed in direct opposition, in every point, to those of the church of Rome. The eccentricities of conduct, and singulari- ties of opinion and manners, which character- ized the English sectaries in the last century, afforded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their interest, since their archetypes are lost. Some of the peculiarities common among the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler's ; and whose draw- livinsr out of Scotland. But though the males born in Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, and though some of the females emigrate as well as the males, this mode of calculating would probably make the number of expatriated Scotchmen, at any one time alive, greater than the. truth. The unhealthy climates in which they emigrate, the hazardous services in which so many of them engage, render the mean life of these who leave Scotland (to speak in the language of calculators), not perhaps of half the viivic of the mean life c! those who remain. BL.EN3.— FREiATOR\ RE.MAILK.S. s correspond with id heuce some of c productions are of his taste did not ah the strength of his genius ; rendered until for the light. The information and the religious education of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedateuess of conduct, and habits of thought and rellection. — These good qualities are net counteracted by the establishment of poor laws ; which, while they reflect credit on the benevolence, detract from the wisdom of the English legislature. To make a legal provision for the inevitable distress of the poor, who by age or disease are rendered incapable of labour, may indeed seem an indispensable duty of society ; and if, in the execution of a plan for this purpose, a distinction could be introduced, so as to exclude from its benefits those whose sufferings are pro- duced by idleness or profligacy, such an insti- tution would perhaps be as rational a= humane. But to lay a general tax on property, for the support of poverty, from whatever cause pro- ceeding, is a measure full of danger. It must operate in a considerable degree as an incite- ment to idleness, and a discouragement to indus- try. It takes away from vice and indolence the prospect of their most dreaded consequences, and from virtue and industry their peculiar sanctions. In many cases it must render the rise in the price of labour, not a blessing, but a curse to the labourer ; who, if there be an ex- cess in what he earns beyond his immediate necessities, may be expected to devote this ex- cess to his present gratification ; trusting to the provision made by law for his own and his family's support, should disease suspend, or death terminate his labours. Happily, in Scot- land, the same legislature «hi.:h established a system of instruction for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provision for the support of poverty ; the establishment of the first, and the rejection of the last, were equally favourable to industry and good morals ; and hence it will not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and reflection, if they approach nearer than persons of their order usually do, to t!ie definition of a man, that of "a being that looks before and after." These observations must indeed be taken with many exceptions. The favourable operation of thf causes just mentioned, is coun- teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and he subject, if fully examined, would lead to di-, > ofg •nt. When the reformation was established ... Scotland, instrumental music was banished from the churches, as savouring too much of " profane minstrelsy. " Instead" of being regu- lated by an instrument, the voices of the con- gregation are led and directed by a person under the name of a precentor ; and the people are all expected to join in the tune which he chooses for ihe psaim which is to be sung. Church-music is therefore a part of the educa- tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they are usually instructed ia the long winter nights * Holy Willie's Prayer— Rob the Turner's Welcome t., his Basin d Child— r.-)i--iie to J. Gowdie -the Holy Tuizie, ^ c . by the parish schoolmaster, who is generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers more celebrated for their powers of voice. This branch of education had, in the last reign, fallen into some neglect, but was revived about thirty or forty years ago, when the music itself was reformed and improved. The Scottish system of psalmody is however radically bad. Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a strik- ing contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. Our poet, if will be found, was taught church-music, in which, however, he made little proiiciency. That dancing should also be very generally a part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, will surprise those who have only seen this de- scription of men ; and still more those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism with which the nation is so deeply affected, and tu which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the season when they acquire dancing, and indeed almost all their other in- struction. They are taught to dance by persons generally of their own number, many of whom work at daily labour during the summer mouths. The school is usually a barn, and the arena for the performers is generally a clay floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strath- speys, country-dances, and hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, so much in favour among the English peasantry, has no place among them. The attachment of the people of Scot- land, of every rank, and particularly of the peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. After the labours of the day are over, young men and women walk many miles, in the cold and dreary nights of winter, to these country dancing-schools ; and the instant that the vio- lin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his brighten i > thri Vith s to vibrate with life. These rustic performers are indeed less to be admired for grace, than for agility and animation, and their accurate observance of time. Their modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In our own day they have penetrated into England, and have "established themselves even iu the circle of Royalty. In another generation they will be naturalized in every part of the island. The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured with the spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one of those contradictious which the philosophic observer so often linds in national character and manners. It is probably to be ascribed to the Scottish music, which," throughout all its va- rieties, is so full of sensibilny, ajid which in its livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions that find ia dancing their natural solace and relief. This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the established religion, has not, however, been obtained without long continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sec- taries who dissent from the establishment on account of the relaxation which they perceive, or think they perceive, in the Church, from original doctrines and discipline, universally DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY conJemn the practice of dancing, and the schools -where it is taught: and the more elderly and serious part of the people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather than approve these meetings of the young of both sexes, where dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgot- ten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, proba- bly impeded, but could not obstruct, the pro- gress of its music ; a circumstance that will convince the impartial inquirer, that this music not only existed previous to that era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus afford- ing a proof of its antiquity, stronger than any produced by the researches of our antiquaries. The impression which the Scottish music has made on the people, is deepened by its union with the national songs, of which various collections of unequal merit are before the public. These songs, like those of other nations, are many of them humorous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love is the subject of the greater proportion. With- out displaying the higher powers of the ima- gination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affec- tion, and sometimes of delicate and romantic tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern poetry, and which the more polished strains of antiquity have seldom possessed. The origin of this amatory character in the lustic muse of Scotland, or of the greatest number of those love-songs themselves, it would be difficult to trace ; they have accumu- lated in the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of them in the order of their date, valuable as such a record of taste and manners would be. Their present influence on the character of the nation is, however, great and striking. To them we must attribute, in a great measure, the romantic passion which so ofcen character- izes the attachments of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a degree, that if wc mistake net, is seldom found in f he san.e rank of society in other countries. The pictures of love aud happiness exhibited in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of the peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the music with which they are united. They associate themselves with his own youthful emotions ; they elevate the object as well as the nature of his attachment ; and give to the im- pressions of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. Hence in the course of his pas- sion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not be ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he sets out for the habitation of his mistress, perhaps at many miles distance, re- gardless of the length or the dreariness of the way. He approaches her in secrecy, under the disguise of night. A signal at the doer or win- dow, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none but her, gives information of his arrival; and sometimes it is repeated again and again, before the capricious fair oiie will obey the summons. But if she favours his addresses, 6he escapes unobserved, and receives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, cr the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish songs, some of the most beautiful of which Burns has imitated or improved. In the art which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; he knew and had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal, even in the humblest condition of man, in every re- gion of the earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose, that it may exist in a gseater degree, and in a more romantic form, among the peasantry of a country who are supposed to be more than commonly instructed ; who find in their rural songs expressions for their youthful emotions ; and in whom the embers of passion are continually fanned by the breathings of a music full of tenderness and sensibility. The direct influence of physical causes on the at. tachment between the sexes is comparatively small, but it is modified by moral causes beyond any other affection of the mind. Cf these, music and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and every where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with poeiry and song.* In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a community, there is perhaps no single cri- terion on which so much dependence may be placed, as the state of the intercourse between the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, the character aud the influence of women rise in society, our imperfect nature mounts on the scale of moral excellence, and from the souroa of this single affection, a stream of felicity de- scends, which branches into a thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the field of life. Where the attachment between the sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is compar- atively poor, and man approaches the condition of the brides that perish. "If we could with safety indulge the pleasing supposition that Fing-'al lived and that Ossicn sung.f" Scot- land, judging from this criterion, might be considered as ranking high in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her situation by the same criterion in our own times, wculdbe a delicate and difficult undertaking. After considering the probable influence of her popular songs and her national music, and ex- amining how far the effects to be expected from these are supported by facts, the inquirer would also have to examine the influence of other causes, and particularly of her civil and eccle- siastical institutions, by which the character, and even the manners of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully con- trolled. In the point of view in which we are considering the subject, the ecclesiastical esta- blishments of Scotland may be supposed pecu- liarly favourable to purity of conduct. The dissoluteness of manners among the Catholic clergy, which preceded, and in some measure produced the Reformation, led to an extraor- * The North-American Indians, among whom the attachment between the sexes is said to be weak, and love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, seem nearly unacquainted with the charms cf poetry and music. Ss« Weld' s Tcur. f GiUxn. BU RNS — PREFATORY REMARKS. denary strictness on the part of the reformers, and especially in that particular in which the licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to its greatest height— the intercourse between the sexes. On this point, as on all others connect- ed with austerity of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater severity than those of the Protestant episcopal church. The punish- ment of illicit connexion between the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy assumed to themselves ; and the church of Scotland, which at the Reformatioc renoun- ced so many powers and privileges, at that period took this crime under her more especial jurisdiction.*— Where pregnancy takes place without marriage, the condition of the female causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, in the first instance, that the clergy and elders of the church exercise their zeal. After exam- ination before the kirk-session touching the circumstances of her guilt, she must endure a public penance, and sustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, in the face of the congregation to which she belongs, and thus have her weakness exposed, and her shame blazoned. The sentence is the same with respect to the male; but how mueh lighter the punishment ! It is well known that this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- quences, at the very mention of which human While the punishment of incontinence pre- scribed by the institutions of Scotland, is severe, the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding it, afforded them by the law respecting mar- riage, the validity of which requires neither the ceremonies of the church, nor any other cere- monies, but simply the deliberate acknowledg- ment of each other as husband and wife, made by the parlies before witnesses, or in any other •way that gives legal evidence of such an ac- knowledgment having taken place. And as * In the punishment of this offence the Church employed formerly the arm of the civil power. During the reign of James the Vlth (James the First of England), criminal con- nexion between unmarried persons was made the subject of a particular statute. (See Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. p. 332.) which, from its rigour, was never much enforced, and which has long fallen into disuse. When, in tl>3 middle of the last century, the Puritans succeeded in the overthrow of the monarchy in both divisions of the island, forni- eation was a crime against which they directed their utmost zeal. It was made punishable with death in the second instance (See Black- stone, b. iv. chap. 4. No. II.). Happily this sanguinary statute was swept away along with the other acts of the Commonwealth, on the restoration of Charles II. to whose temper and manners it must have been peculiarly abhorrent. And after the Revolution, when several salutary acts passed during the suspension of the mon- archy, were re-enacted by the Scottish Parlia- ment, particularly that for the establishment of parish schools, the statute punishing fornica- tion with death, was suffered to sleep in the grave of the blern fanatics who had given it birth. the parties themselves fix the date of their mar- riage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid tae punishment, and repair the consequences of illicit gratification. Such a degree of laxity respecting so serious a contract might produce much confusion in the descent of property, without a still farther indulgence ; but the law of Scotland legitimating all children born be- fore wedlock, on the subsequent marriage of 1 their parents, renders the actual date of the marriage itself of little consequence. + Mar- riages contracted in Scotland without the ceremonies of the church are considered as irregular, and the parties usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face of their respective congregations, which is not, how- ever, necessary to render the marriage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was irregular, does not seem to have undergone this part of the discipline of the church. Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in many particulars favourable to a conduct amona: the peasantry founded on foresight and reflection, on the subject of marriage the reverse of this is true. Irregular marriages, it may be naturally supposed, are often improvident ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. The children of such marriages, poorly endow- ed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruction of easy acquisition ; but the com- forts of life, and the gratifications of ambition, they find of more difficult attainment in their native soil ; and thus the marriage laws of Scotland conspire, with other circumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so re . markable. The manners and appearance of the Scottish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the de- gree of their cultivation. In their own country, their industry is inferior to that of the same description of men in the southern division of the island. Industry and the useful arts reached Scotland later than England ; and though their advance has been rapid th^re. the effects produced are as yet far inferior, both in reality and in appearance. The Scottish far- mers have in general neither the opulence nor the comforts of those of England— neither vest the same capital in the soil,"nor receive from it the same return. Their clothing, their food, and their habitation;, are almost everywhere inie- ■f The legitimation of children, by subsequent marriage, became the Roman law under the Christian emperors. It was the canon law of modern Europe, and has been established in Scotland from a very remote period. Thus a child born a bastard, if his parents afterwards marry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority over his brothers afterwards born in weulock. In the Parli_raent of Merton, in the reign of Henry III. the English clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce this article into the law of England, and it was on this occasion that the Barons made the noted answer, since so often appealed to ; Quod nolunt leges Anglite mufare ; q ice hue u.'que usitatce sunt approbate. With regard to what constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, as explained above, differs from the Roman law, which required the ceremony U> be performed infucie eccLsice. DIAMOND CABINET ULBRAEY. rior.* Tl eir appearance in these respects cor- responds with the appearance of their country ; and under the operation of patient industry, bolh are improving. Industry and the useful arts came later into Scotland than into Eng- land, because the security of property came later With enures of internal agitation and varfare similar to those which occurred to the more southern nation, the people of Scotland more extensive and destructive spoliation, from external war. Occupied in the maintenance of their independence against their mere power- urs, to this were necessarily saeri- liced the arts oi" peace, and at certain periods, the flower of their population. And when the union of the crowns produced a security from national wars with England for the century succeeding, the civil wars common to Loth the island, and the dependence, perhaps the necessary dependence of the Sect thos the erful kingdom, counteracted this ad the union oi the British nations was not, from obvir Us c us' s. immeciiately followed by all the bonefcis which it was ultimately destined to j-rouuee. At length, however, these benefits are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. Property is secure ; manufactures and com- merce increasing, and agriculture is rapidly hi proving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the farmers are not, in general, enabled to make improvements out cf their own capitals, as in England ; but the landholders, who have seen and felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute towards them with a liberal hand. the Scottish soil ; and great part of the Lless- uid retaining several of ,-i.t be consi- Heneepr cumu'utiiig rap; civ the !.a io;,. ings of English their cv... cereu, i: . their way. To the cultivation of the soil are opposed the extent and the strictness of the entails: to the improvement of the people, the rapttily increasing use of spirituous liquors, a detestable practice, which includes in its con- sequences almost every evil, physical and mo- ral. + The peculiarly social disposition of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this prac- tice. This disposition, which is fostered by characteristic of the nation at large Though the source of many p!< by its consequences "the effects of their pati * These remarks are confined to the class of farmers ; the same corresponding inferiority ■will not be found in the condition of the cot- tagers and labourers, at least in the article of food, as those who examine this subject impar- tially will soon discover. f The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in Scotland is now upwards of £.250,000 an- nually. In 1777, it did nel reach L. S, 000. The rate of the duty has indeed been raised, but, making every allowance, the increase of consumption must be enormous. This is in- dependent of the duty on malt, ic. ui< liquor, imported spirits, anil wine. industry, and frugality lolh Gt hoir.e and abroad, cf which these especially who have witnessed the pi ogress of Scotsmen in other countries, must have known many striking in- Since the Union, the manners and language of the people of Scotland have no longer a stan- dard among themselves, Lut are liied by the standard of the nation to which they are united. — Though their habits are far from being iieii- Lle, ;. et it is evident that their manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. Even the farmers of the present day appeal to have less of the peculiarities of the ir com. try in their speech, than the men of letters of the Last gene- ration. Burn.-, who never left the island, nor penetrated farther into England than Car- lisle on the one hand, or Newea=t:e on the other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived for many years in the best society of England auu France ; or perhaps than KoLcrtson, -who wrote the English lan- guage in a style of such purity ; and if he bad been in other respects fitted to take a lead in the British House of Commons, his pronunciation would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. A striking particular in the character of the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped will not Le lost— the strength of their domestic attachments. The privations to which many parents submit for the good of their children, and particularly to obt in for them instruction, ■which they consider as the chief good, has already been noticed. If their children live and prosper, they have their certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their prosperity. Even in the hu:::blest ranks of the peasantry, the earnings of the cb generally be considered as at the disposal of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the support and comfort of those whose days cf labour are past. A similar strength of attach- ment extends through all the c onestic relations. Cur Doet pa; took hirjelv cf this amia! le cha- racterise cf bis humble compters; he was also ituied with another striking feature which belongs to them, — a partiality for his native country, of which many preefs may be found in his writing*;. Thi.-, it must Le con- fessed, is a very strong and general sentiment among the natives of Scotland, differing how- ever in its character, according to the character of the different minds in which it is found; in some appearing a selhsh prejudice, in others a I C An attachment to the land of their birth is, I indeed, common to all men. It is found among • the inhabitants of every region of the earth, from the arctic to the antaietic circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of surface, of civiliza- tion. To analyze this general sentiment, to trace it through the mazes of association up to the primary afteciion :n which it has its source, would neither be a difficult nor unpleasing la- i hour. On the first consideration of the subject, we should perhaps expect to find this attach- ment strong in proportion to the physical advantage of the soil ; but inquiry, far" from conllrmiug this supposition, seems rather to lead to an opposite conclusion In those fertile ! regions where beneficent nature yields almost spontaneously whatever is necessary to human eu:;.ns.— riizi'AToi.Y .^^uus, ■wants, patriotism, as well as every other gene- rous seutinient, seems weak and languid. In countries less richly endowed, where the com- forts, and even necessaries of life, must be pur- chased by patient toil, the afiections of the mind, as the faculties of the understanding, imptove under exertion, and patriotism ilour ishes amidst its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to combine for mutual defence as well as for the supply of common wants, mutual good-will springs from mutual difficulties and labours, the social affections unfold themselves, and extend from the men with whom we live, to the soil in which we tread. It will perhaps be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be originally called forth, but by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and of returning them ; but when once excited th..-y are strengthened by exercise — they are ex- panded by the powers of imagination, and seize wore especially on those inanimate puts cf creation, whicuform the theatre on which we have first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first tasted ihe sweets of sympathy and regard. If this reasoning be just, the love of our country, although modified, and even ex- tinguished* in individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be presumed, in our gen- eral reasonings, to be strong among a people, in proportion to their social, and mere especi- ally to their domestic affections. In free governments it is found more active than iu despotic ones, because, as the individual be- comes of more consequence in the community, the community becomes of more consequence to him ; in small states it is generally more active than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because ihe independence of a small com- munity being maintained with difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriot- ism are more frequently excited. In mountain- ous countries h is generally found more active than in plains, because there the necessities of life often require a closer union of the inhabi- tants ; and more especially because iu such countries, though less populous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scattered equally- over the whole, are usually divided into small communities on the sides of their separate val- leys, and on the banks of their respective streams: situations well calculated to call forth and to concentrate the social affections amidst scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting impression on the memory. It may also be remarked, that mountainous . countries are often peculiaily calculated to ! nourish sentiments of national pride and inde- I pendence, from the influence of history on the affections of the mind. In such countries, eliort against oppression, present the field, of battle, v invasion was rolled back, and of those rest, who have died i: Cicitl, J Oi I permanent, where the scenery of a country, I the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, arid J the martial achievements of their ancestors are I embodied in national songs, and united to na- | tional music. By this combination, the tie* tach men to the land of their birth aie to the latest per with the pleasi hope die away. and thei vith ihe - lrv\ among he natives of Seoti nd, ev tl of att-d mii ind a p rtiaJ atlae iment to the land o tln-ir Ln th, and why this i gly uiscov erable in the wri of Bu the highe r puwt the u Let n lderstanding tiie n think it a super! IK. Us labour to trace the rise a acter like his Born n the co idition of a pea- a ,t, he re se by the 1 orce of h into I inliucnce and in his we has ex!: a ted n 1 > rarely found, the s of ori jinai gem is. With a deep in- sight •art, his xhi- bus i and a Jlt'v^re ers of ima embalms, th'.'^ecuT ar m m ays, of his m-"t ' m t to Lis ON ay be con 'nly, b T\o the e> aent'nM on.' lure ai'hi ,U t= of his' In e, caimo ir will pre vent usfr ings which justice forbids us to conceal; we will tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, and respect the laurels that shelter his untimely grave. LIFE ROBERT BURNS. ROBERT BURNS was, as is -well known, the ■on of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwaids himself a farmer there ; but, having been unsuc- cessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He had previously, however, attracted some notice .by his poetical talents in the vicinity where he lived; and having published a small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this «' jpon him more general attention. In cc ^uence of the encouragement he received, he repaired to Edinburgh., and there published, by subscription, an improved and enlarged edition of his poems, which met with extraordinary- success. By the profits arising from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a person to whom he had been long attached, he retired to devote the remainder of his life to agriculture. He was again, however, unsuc- cessful ; and, abandoning his form, he removed into the town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office in the excise, and where lie ter- minated his life in July, 1796, in his thirty- eighth year. The strength and originality of his genius procured him the notice of many persons dis- tinguished in the republic of letters, and, among others, that of Dr Moore, well known for his Vietcs of Society arid Manners on the Continent of Europe, for his Zcluco, and various other works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giv- ing a history of his life, up to the period of his writing. In a composition never intended to see the light, elegance or perfect correctness of composition will not be expected. These, how- ever, will be compensated by the opportunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his Jife, unfold the peculiarities of bis character with all the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind. " Sir, Mauchline, 2d Augvsi, 1787 " For some months past I have been ram- bling over the country ; but I am now confined with some lingering" complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made "some little noise in this country ; you have done me the honour lo interest yourself very warmly in my behalf ; ; and 1 think a faithful account of what charac* j ter of a man I am, and how I came by that j character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle i moment. I will give vou an honest narrative ; ! though I know it wi'll be often at mv own expense;— for I assure you, sir, I have, like | Solomon, whose character, except in the trifling affair of wt'sdo/n, I sometimes think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. . . . After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitch- ing qualms of conscience, arising from a suspi. cion that he was doing what he ought net to do ; a predicament he has more than once been in before. " I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which the pye coated guardians of escutcheous call a Gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, 1 got ac- quainted in the Herald's Office; and, lcoking through that granary of honours, 1 there found almost every name in the kingdom, but for me, " IMy ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood. " Gules, purpure, srgent,.&c. quite disowned me. "Mv father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many gears' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- vation and experience, to which I am indebted fur most of my little pretensions to wisdom — I have met with few who understood men, their manners, arid their icays, equal to him ; but ul Lorn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, n.gov nable ii • the first very s of my 1; worthy gentleman of small estate in the neigh- bourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own 12 LLAXGXD CABINET LIBRARY eve till they could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous ma=ter, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusi- astic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but* a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I substantives, verbs, and participles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an c'.d woman who reside! ;•: the family, remarka- ble for h r ignorance, credulity, and supersti- tion. She had, I suppose, the largest collection iu the country of tales aud songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candies, dead- lights, wraiths, apparitions, cautraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trum- pery. This cultivated the Jateut seeds of poetry ; I lit had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal r_ er, I sometimes keep a sharp look- be id though nobody ca lore sceptical thau I am in" such matter It often . philosophy 1 met with these pieces in Mi Collection, one of my school-books. T he two first books I ever read iu private, and which :e, were, The Life and Toe History of Sir WOi Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and Lag-pipe, and wish myself tail enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- judice into ray veins, which will boil along there till the llood-gates of life shut iu eternal *• Polemical divinity about this time was ■ putting the country half mad ; and 1, ambitious of shining in conversation parties ou Sundays, t ins, at funerals, .vc. used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so .":■ ition, th-t I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has not " >Jy vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage tome. My social disposition, when not checked by some niociriction of spirited pride, u •_-, like our catechism definition of infinitude, aids or limits. 1 formed sever-* 1 con. nections with other yonnkers who possessed superior advantages, ths youngling actors, who were bu..v in the rehearsal of parts in which they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas I I was destined to drudge behind L is not commonly at this green age that our \ s-."? gentry ha- e .. the immense distance between them and their ragged p!ay r feliows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young zreat man that proper, decent, uuuoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps born in the same village. My young superiors never insulted the clouierly appearance of my plough-Icy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of Looks : among them, even then, I could pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Simmy Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but 1 was scon called to more serious evils. My father's generous master aied ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture 1 have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. Sty father was advanced in life when he mar- ried ; 1 was the eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for iatour. My father's spirit was socn irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease iu two years more ; aud to weather these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly ; I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent threatening letters which used to set us all in " This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasin? moil of a gallev- . me to in; sixteenth year ; a Utile before which period I first committed tin - at of coupling a man and woman together as part- ners in the labours of harvest. Iu my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. My scarcity of "English denies me tue power of doing her justice ia that language; but you know the Scottish idiom —she was a bon.-.ie. sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid dis- appointment, gin-horse prudence, and book- worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below I How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why 1 liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an . ; Ek»lian harp : and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan w hen I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her : ..-.z qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 1 by inc. BURNS.— LIFE. 13 I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be composed by a small countiy laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love! and 1 saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself.* * It may interest some persons to peruse the first poetical production of our Bard, and it is therefore extracted from a kind of common - Slace bock, which he seems to have begun in is twentieth year ; and which he entitled, «■ Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry. <$-c. byRoia-.t Burness, a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational or irra- tional. As he was but little indebted to a 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 reaily his own, it may be some Dature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, in all the species. " •* Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to The forms our pencil or our pen design 'd, Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft iaiage of our youthful mind. " This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed this account of himself, and of his intention in preparing it, contains several cf his earlier "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 reacned the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles far- ther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease: otherwise theariair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived com- fortably here; but a difference commencing ' and his landlord, t aiW ; ye: nng i the s ju=t saved Time, - a unmarried. " C, once I loved a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still. And whilst that virtue warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell. Tal ial de ral, ejc. As bennie lasses I liae seen, And mony lull as braw, But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the e'e, But without some better qualities She 's no a lass for me. But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is Lest of a", Her reputation was complete, And fair without a Haw. ortex of liti from the horrors of a jai which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where tits tricked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest " It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my Little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — 1:0 sotiiaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was sobered from Salmon 's and Guthrie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of literature, and criticism, 1 got from the Spectator. These, ■ with Pope's Works, somepIa\s of Shakspurre, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lec- tures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scrip- ture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Seltd Collec- tion of English Soius, i.r.d Hervty's Meoiiation-, had formed the whoie of my reading. The collection of songs was my vaae mecum. I pored over thein driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the true tenaer, or sublime, from affec- tation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as " In my seventeenth year, to give my man- ners a brush, I went to a country dancing- school My father had an unaccountable anti- pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment 1 repent, in eppcti- She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel ; And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel. A gaudy dress and gentle air Ma;, slightly touch the heart. But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul ; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. Tal lal de ral, <$-c It n <=ed that thes Hi- • H DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. tion to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to strong passions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a smt of dislike to me. which I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked niy suc- ceeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for tl.ou^h the Will o' Wisp meteors" of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several ■years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambi- tion, but they were the blind gropings of Homers Cyc'ops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me per- petual 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 abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of observation and remark: a constitutional melancholy or hypo- chondriasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bokish 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 generally a wel- come guest where I visited, or any great yvonder that, always where two or three met together, there was 1 among them. But far beyond all osher impulses of my heart, was im penchant a Vadorahle moitie du genre humaau My heart was completely tinder", and was eternally "lighted up by some goddess or other; and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scUhe, or reap hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at deliance ; and as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A couniry lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dex- terity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. — The very goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the well- worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song; and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of para- graphs on the lose adventures of mv compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cot- tage : but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty, they are matters of the most serious nature; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoy rn ■ was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn mensuration, survey, ing, dialling, ice. 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 lime very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till (his 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 (he sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charm- ing jiUlte who lived next door to the school, orerses my trigonometry, and sent me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co- sines, for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charaiing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my" angel, " It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid. I did nolhing but craze the faculties of my soal about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the last two nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this" modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. ** I returned home very considerably improv- ed. My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shen- stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis: and I engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up a literary correspon- dence with me. This improved me in composi- tion. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Aune's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- parison between them and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many let(ers as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and ledger. «« Mj life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Five V amour, et rife la bagatelle, were my sole principles of ac- tion. The addition cf two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; Strrne and M'Kenzie— Tristram Shandy and The Man of Feeling — were my bosom favour tes. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hanj ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so many de»ils, till (hey got vent in ihy and then the conning over my verses, li spell, soothed ail into quiet ! None of the rhyme; of those days are in print, except Win- ter, a Dirse, the oldest of my printed pieces ; The Death, of Poor Mailie", John Bailey- corn, and Songs, first, second, and third. Son? second was tlie ebullition of that passii BURNS LIFE. )5 which ended the forementioned school busi- «« My twenty-third year was to _ me an impor- tant era. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an un- lucky affair. My ; and, to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcoming carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, end burnt to ashes; and I was left like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. " I was obliged to give up this scheme: the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consump- tion ; and to crown" my distresses, a beVe file whom I adored, and wbo had pledged her soul I to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melan- choly being increased to such a degree, that for three mouths I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye accursed I " From this adventure, I learned something of a town life; but the principal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his patron- age, gave him a genteel education, wiih a view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out iuto the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where after a variety of good and ill for- tune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American priva- teer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this time master of a large West Indiamau belonging to the Thames. " His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree or enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure. I succeeded ; 1 had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw, who was a greater fool than myself, wh;re woman was the pre- siding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here hij friendship did me a mischief; and the consequence was that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Welcome.* My reading only increased, while is this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela and one of Ferdinand Count "Fathom, wbicfa gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up; but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When, my father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that growl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every sober qualification, he was fax my superior. " I entered on this farm with a full resolu- tion, Come, go io, I will be tcise 1 I read farm- ing books ; I calculated crops ; I attended mar- kets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and tlie world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man, but the first year from unfor- tunately bu>ing bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in Ihe mt're.f • ^ * Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard The frank address, the soft en Are worse than poison 'd dar \ At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming wise, he procured a little book of blank paper, with the purpose (expressed in the first page) of making memorandums upon it. These farming memorandums are curious enough ; many of tbem have been written with a pencil, and are now obliterated, or at least illegible. A considerable number are however legible, and a specimen may gratify the reader. It must be premised, that the poet kept the book by him for several years — that he wrote upon it here and there, with the utmost irregularity, and that on the same page are notations very distant from each other as to time and plac- EXTEMPORE. April, 13S2. O why the deuce should I repine, And be an ill foreboder '{ I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine— 1 '11 go and be a sodger. I'll go and be a sodgi FRAGMENT. Tune—< Donald Blue.' O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching bouks are baited hooks For rakish rooks like Rob MossgieL Sing tal, lal, lay, 4" c « Your fine Tom Jores and Grandisons, They make yowr jouthful fancies reel, They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; That feeling heart but acts a part, ~~ 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 16 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. ■* I now te^an to be kno^n ir. • hookas a miker of rbyrces. Tbe first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bur- lesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reversed Calvinists. both of tbem dramatis per*- Mte in my Holg Far. I had a notion myself, tbat the piece had some merit; but to prevent the worst, [gave i copy of it to a friend who 1 of such things, and told him that I cou'd not guess who was the author of it. bat that I thought it pretty clever. W iu uciiutiw i of the :' ; : r" . us well as '. ::: . ; : -; with a roar of applause". Holy Wi next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-sessicu so mash, that they meeting:? to lock over their spiritual artillery, if baply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest metal, 'i his is the unfortunate ■ ■■ e rise to my pri ted poem. The was '. "oost melancholy affiir, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a pii^e among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of — r i aston these two ' M . " ■ ' - ■ ' — - hi Sir Peter H^lket of Pilferran. trie author. — Note, he married her — the heiress ::rd, the author of 2X.-!f.-: K'l apron € was made on fWalkiashaw.mea I lo'enm a laddie but z-.:, Mi . The tonnie vece t h beautiful. He tillt and she HU't— assez biea. Armstrong's FareieeU — £ne. Tfca author of tbe H\ M Iver, oars?r of the - F'Uanda: the land .:' - of The Bush aieon Traquair was ; - ! —To inquire if Mr Csckburn was the a-.. r of / ha'e 'seen the smiling, &c. I ease up my part of the farm to my brother ; ia truth it was or." . mine; and made what little preparation was in my naiive com. • ed to publish my poems. I weighed mj productions as ; was in ray powe i they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea thr.t I should be called a ii never reach try - — negro driver, — or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to tbe world of . truly say, that pz . as I thi=n was, I had pre'.ty nearlr as high aa idea of myself and my works as I have at this moment, when the public has decided ia their favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mis- takes and blanders, both in a rational and reli- gious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their themselves. To kuw myself, hsd been all along- my constant stud; alone ; I balaueed my-elf with others : I watch- ed every means of informaiion, to see how much ground I o-cup : ed as a nun and as a poet: I stodied assiduously oat niitioa — where :he lights and sha ■ ■• . confident mv poems would meet with some l[ at* the worst, the roar of tbe At a deafen the voice of censure, and I he West Indian scenes make nr.e forget neglect. I threw off bix fa ired ( s for about three I fifty. My vanity »ss fa » reception I met with from the publie ; a.;d be- sides 1 pocketed, all ex: - ably, a.- I was thinking of indenting myself, forwant of money to procure my ;_ is, the price I I .'ofe a steer- ship thai rj= !Q ia.l " Uurjgry ruin hid me in the wind." " I had beaa for some days skulking from covert to cover , rs of a jail ; as some ill-=.i meooplei the merciless pack of :he a-v zl my he- s, [ ..:.- i'ken the last farewell of my few friends; my chest was en the road to Greenock ; I had com- posed the last sons f should e.^r Caledonia, The zioomy nizht is g ; ■ . when a letter from IV B'.acklock, to a friend o- 5, by opening ■i m. The Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had n.-,t dared to hope. His opinion -:: with encouragement in Edin- burgh far a secoui edition, fired me so much, posted for thtt city, wi.hout a singie aev,t.aintance. or a duction. The baneful star that had so long shrd its blasting indue-.ce in my z':: th male a rev.?; r; n:d a ki:: . Providence pUcfd me ui BURNS.— LIFE. M cairn. Oublie mot, Grand Dieu, si jamais je I 'oublie I " I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to catch the characters and the manners Uvin ? as they rise. Whether I have profited, time will show. "My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- row. "* At the period of our poet's death, his bro- ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had himself written the foregoing narrative of his life while in Ayrshire ; and having been ap- plied to by Mrs Dunlop for some memoirs of his brother, he complied with her request in a letter, from which the following narrative is ehiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after- wards saw the letter of our poet to Dr Moore, he made some annotations upon it, wnich shall be noticed as we proceed. Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of January, 1759, in a small house about two miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few hundred yards of Alio way Church, which his poem of Tarn o' Sha7iter has rendered immor- tal, f The name which the poet and his bro- ther modernized into Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. Their father, William Buviies, was the son of a farmer in Kincardine- shire, and had received the education common in Scotland to persons in his condition of life : he could read and write, and had some know- ledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen into reduced circumstances, he was compelled turned his steps towards the south in quest of a livelihood. The same necessitv attended hi elder brother Robert. " I have often hear my father, " says Gilbert Burns, in his letter Jo .Mrs Dunlop, " describe the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on the top of a hill on the confines of their native place, "ich going oft' his several way in search of new adventures, and scarcely knowing whither he went. My - - a gardener, and shap- - - ight * There are various copies of this letter, in the author's hand-writing; and one of these, evidently corrected, is in the book in which he had cop'ied several of his letters. This has teen used for the press, with some omissions, and one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of difficulties. Still, however, he endeavoured to spare something for the support of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him mention his having sent a bank-note for this purpose when money of that kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew how to employ it when it arrived." From Edinburgh William Burnes passed westward in- to the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairley, with whom lie lived two years ; then changing his service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, being desirous of settling in life, he took a per- petual lease of seven acres of land from Dr Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of commencing nurseryman and public gardener; and having built a house upon it with his own hands, married in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who still sur- vives. The first fruit of this marriage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on the 29th of January, 1759, as has already been mentioned. Before William Bunnes had made much progress in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from that undertaking by Mr Ferguson, who purchased the estate of .Wcon- holtu, in. the immediate neighbourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; born. Though in the s he In in hi s her family and lit 5 Of t ; ho e of Mr Fergi tnd this Bui i This house is on the right hand side of the j the black road from Ayr to Mavbole, which forms a part | of the road from Glasgow to Port- Patrick. i M lien the poet's father afterwards removed to I Tarbolton parish, lie sold his leasehold right in this house, and a few acres of land adjoining, to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. It is Bow a country ale-house, les of three milch nambitious content continued till the year 176o. His son Robert was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a person of the name of Campbell ; but this teacher being in a few- months appointed mas- ter of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with some other heads of fami- lies, engaged John Murdoch in his stead. The education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in common ; and of their proficieucy under Mr Murdoch we have the following account : "With him we learnt to read English tolera- bly well, i and to write a little. He taught us, I too, the English grammar. I was too young : to profit much from his lessons in grammar; : but Robert mad? some proficiency in it— a cir- cumstance of considerable weight in the un- i folding of his genius and character ; as he soon j became remarkable for the fluency and correct- | atss of his expression, and read the few books ' that came in his wny with much pleasure and I improvement ; for even then he was a reader, i when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose 1 l!brr.:-v at that true had no great variety in it, lent him T!ie Life of Hannibal, which was the first bcok he read (the school books excepted) and almost the only one he had an opportunity of reading while he was at school; for Z'/k» | Life of \Vallac?, which he classes with it in one j of' his letters to you, he did not see for some years afterwards," when he borrowed it from 1 the blacksmith who shod our horses. " i.at William Burnes approved himself greatly in the service of Mr Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In £ Letter from Gilbert Bums to Mrs Dunlop.. 13 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. consequence of this, with a view of promoting his interest. .Mr rer^uuii leased him a farm, " The farm was up u aids of seventy acres* (between eighty and ninety, English statute measure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds annuaily for the first six years, and af- terwards forty-live pounds. My lather endea- voured to sell his leasehold property, for the purpjse of stocking- this farm, but at'that time was unable, and Mr Ferguson lent him a hun- dred pounds for that purpose. He removed to bis new situation at Whitsuntide, 17;i6. It v,a,, 1 thai';, not ahove two years after this, that Murdoch, our tutor and 'friend, left this part of the country ; and there oeing no school the farm, my father undertook to teach us iiidle- "liiwi, liij-iii ; and in this wavHiv twe ell the education they'received circa a;- tai.ee that happened at I Riid may serve to illustrate the early character of my brother. Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to take his leave, when he was about to go into Carriek. He brought us, as a present and memorial of him. a small English Grammar, and the pas ;\\ or Tit Ag the e all attention for aloud. We tili presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A female in the play (I have but a con- fused remembrance of it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, and then was in- j .sultingly desired to call for water to wash her | hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he wctudreadno more. I My father observed, that if we would not hear it out, it would be needless to leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if it was left he | would burn it. My father was going to chide hisn for this ungrateful return' to his tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; and he left The School for Lire, a comedy ^translated, I think, from tiie French), iu its "place, "f "Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be more retired than our general man- ner of living at Mount Gliphant ; we rarely saw any body hut the members of our own family. There were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed ihe greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that tire possessed by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in tne cuuntry, at the same time that they followed business in town. Mv father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He conversed familiarly on ail subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us in vir- tuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Giogra- t p/iical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a book society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derhjm's Physico aud Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been 'a subscriber to Slack-house's History of the Bible, then lately published by James Memos iu Kilmarnock: from this Robert collected a competent know- ledge of ancient history ; for no book was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so an- tiquated as to damp his researches. A brother of my mother, who had lived with us some time, and had learnt some arithmetic by our winter evening's caudle, went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to purchase Tlie Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's su, e Guide, and a book to tesch him to write letters. Luckily, in olace of The Complete Letter-Writer, he got, by mistake, a ; by the most eminent with a oris for at- * Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dunlop. The name of this farm is Mount Oliphaut, in Ayr parish. "t It is to be remembered that the poet was only nine years of age, and the relater of this incident under eight, at the time it happened. 'I he effect was very natural in children of scn- f at their age. laughter, than tears. The scene lo w Gilbert jJurus alludes, opens thus : Thus Andronicus, Act II. Scene 5. Enter Demetrius and Chiron, icith Lavinia ravished, her hands cul qjf, and her tongue j cu t ou t. I he intended to perform. That he never excited I in a British mind (for the French critics must Whv is this silly play still printed as Shat- ' be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he f- re'-, aa-uiust the opinion of all the best meant to have- awakened pay or horror, is critics y The bard of Avon was guilty of many what will not be imputed to that master of the . .es, but he always performed «hat ; • book was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished bim with models by some of the first writers in our lan- guage. " My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, regretting that be wrote so ill, sent us, Wfek about, during a summer quarter, to the parish school of Dairy mple, which, though between two and three miles distant, was the nearest to us, that we might have an opportunity of remedying this detect. About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- ardson's Pamela, which was the first novel we read, and the only part of Richardson's works m j- brother was acquainted with till towards the perk'd of his commencing author. Till that time too he remained unacquainted with Fielding, with Smollett, (two volumes of TURNS — LIFE. Ferdinand Cour.i Fathom, and two volumes cf Peregrine Pickle excepted), with Home, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the later times. I recollect indeed my father borrowed a volume of JZi.j-li-.il history from Mr Hamilton cf Bourtree- hill's gardener. It treated of the reign of James the First, and his unfortunate son, Charles, but I do not know who was the author; all that I remember of it is something cf Charles's conversation with hi; children. About this time Murdoch, our former Uaehf.r, after havi. s been in different places in the country, and having taught a school some time in Injuries, came to be the established teacher of the English lan- guage in Avr, a circumstance of considerable consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's former friend-hip, and his attachment to my brother, made him do every thing in his power for our improvement. He sent us Pope's works, and some other poetry, the first that we - v -'■'. is contained i'l The E;.'i± : . IV hc' : oi;, and iu the volume of T. . 1772; excepting also those excellent new tongs that are hawked" about the country in baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets. " The summer after we had been at Dalrym- ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, with his former teacher. He had been there only one week, when he was obliged to return, to assist at the harvest. When the harvest was over, he went back to school, where he remained two weeks; and this completes the account of his school | education, excepting one summer quarter some ; time afterwards, that lie attended the pari.-h school of Kirk Oswald, (where he lived with a " Durhig the two lau weeks that ha was'with French, and he communicated the instructions he received to my I roller, v. ho, .. turned, brought with and grammar, a:;d t'.: cA«s in the original. In a little white by the knowledge of the language, as to read and understand any French author in prose. This was considered as a sort of prodigy, and through the medium of .Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance of sereral lads in Ayr, who were a't that time gabbling French, and the notice of some families, particularly that cf I)r Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a hlui «-.thou language by his own industry, having learned it al school, advised Robert to make the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased Th I its of i L:t:n Tongue, but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside, He frequently returned to Lis R .- : little chagrin or disappointment, particularly in his love affairs; but the T.u; n Observing hf lidiruic that would ;.tl-ch to this sort t,f e duct if it were known, he made two or tnrea humorous stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now recollect, but ihev all ended, « So I'll to uiy Latin again. * " Thus you see Mr 3:nrdoeh was a principal means of my brother's improvement. "Worthy man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his future history. He continued for some years a respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of Dr Dalryrnple, the parish minister, who had not paid h:m that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken blasphemy. lie found it proper to give up his appointment. He went to Lon- don, w here he still lives, a private teacher of French. He has been a considerable time The father of Dr Paterscn. now'physiciaa at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeen- shire, and was one of the established teachers in Ayr when m\ father settled in the neighbour- hood, lie eag-erly recognised my father as a fellow native of the north" cf Scotland, and a cer- tain degree ot intimacy subsisted between them during Mr Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, who is a very genteel woman, and cf great worth, delighted in doing what she thought her husband would have wished to have done, and assiduously kt-pt up her attec. tious to all his acquaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with our family, by frequently inviting my father ar.d mother to her house on Sundays, when she met them at church. " When she came to know my brother's r.as- sion for books, she kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from her we got the Spectator, Pep- 'a t; ai,.r, and now C1797) 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 thani : the subjects in dis- pute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved my father's affars 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, 1731. "The seven je.irs we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age), were not marked by much literary improvement; hut during this tints the foundation was laid of cer- tain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and eavv have taken delieht to enlarge on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to iheir society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms cf his passion were often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and d;cd aicay ; but the agita- tions of his mind and body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or who had more conse- quence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected a:iy one, out cf the sovereignty of bis good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imasina'ion ; end there was often a great dissimilitude between hi, fair ciptivator as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested with the at- tributes he gave her. One generally reigned paramount in his affections: but as Yoriek's affections flowed out toward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions, which formed so many under plots in the drama of his love. As tbeo;ir as he gave to other labourer I of t clothin lufactured in the family was regularly ac- counted for. When my father's affairs "drew near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent of L90 per annum (the farm on which I live at present) from .'.;r Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in case of the worst. It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My broth jr 's allowance and mine was seven pounds per an- num each. And during the whole time this family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender income. As I was in- trusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possible that there can be any fallacy temperance and frugality were every thing that could be wished. " Ihe farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet bottom, 'ihe first four years that we were on the farm were very '.rosty, and the sprinir was very late. Cur crops in consequence were very unprofitable; and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found f.:r-clves obliged to give up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert formed his con- BURNS — LIFE. 21 cexion with Jean Armonr, afterwards Mrs Bums. This connexion cou:tl no longer be concealed, about the time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage with a family in his poor unsettled state, but was anxious to shield his partner by every means in his power from the consequen- ces of their imprudence. It was agreed there- fore between them, that they should make a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, to push, his fortune ; and that she should remain with her father till it might please Providence to put the means of supporting a family in his power. "Mrs Burns was a great favourite of her father's. The intimation of a private marriage was the first suggestion he received of her real situation. He was in the greatest distress, and fainted away. The marriage did not appear to him tc make the matter any better. A hus- band in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife little better than none, and an effectual bar to any other prospects of a settlement in life that their daughter might have. They therefore expressed a wish to her, that the written papers •which respected the marriage should be can- celled, and thus the marriage rendered void. In her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at having brought such heavy affliction on parents that loved her so tenderly, and sub- mitted to their entreaties. Their wisli was mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home and provide for his wife and family in the best manner that his daily labours could provide for them ; that being the only means in his power. Even this offer they did not approve of; for humble as Miss Armour's station was, and great though her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might look to b better connexion than that with my friendless and unhappy brother, at that time without house or bkling-place. Robert at length consented to their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- tracting 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 produced, he wished to leave the country as soon as possible, and agreed with Dr Douirlas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not sufficient money to pay his passage, and the vessel in which Dr Douglas was to procure a passage for him was not expected to sail for some time, Mr Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in the meantime by subscription, as u likely way of getting a little money to provide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, subscription 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 the friends they procured him, made him change his resolution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- burgh to publish a second edition. On his Teturn, in happier circumstances, he renewed his connexion with Mrs Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union for life. •• Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured Jo give you a simple narrative of the leading circum- stances in my brother's early life. The le- maining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dum- friesshire, and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius having procured him your patronage and friendship, this gave which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last days of his life. ' ' This narrative of Cilbert Burns may serve as a commentary on the preceding sketch ot our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that the distraction of mind, which he mentions above, arose from the distress and sorrow in which he Lad involved his future wife. The whole circumstances attending this connexion The reader will perceive, from the foregoing narrative, how much the children of "William Burnes were indebted to their father, who was certainly a man of uncommon talents; though it does not appear that he possessed any portion of that vivid imagination for which the subject of these memoirs'was distinguished. In page 14. it is observed by our poet, that his father had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing- schools, and that his attending cue of these brought on him his displeasure, and even dis- like. On this observation Gilbert has made the following remark, which seems entitled to im- plicit credit :—" I wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that lasting resentment of his goinff to a dancing-school against his will, of which he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that he, about this time, began to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father ; and which he would naturally think a dancing- school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense in cultivating than on the rest of the family, in the instances of sending him to Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools; and he was greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, and his conversational powers. He had in- deed that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during Robert's first month of attendance, that he allowed all the rest of the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fund of it. " In the original letter to Dr Moore, our poet described his ancestors as "renting lands of the noble Keiths of Monachal, and as having had the honour of sharing their fate. " " I do it," continues he, "use the word honour ith any reference to political principles ; * In page 16. the poet mentions his ,G skulk- ing from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail. "—The "pack of the law were un- coupled at his heels," to oblige him to find security for the maintenance of his twin- children, whom he was not permitted to legi- timate by a marriage with their mother 2fl DIAMOND CALT.nET LIBRARY. loyal and disloyal I fate to be merely relative terras, ia that ancient and formidable court, known in this country by the name of Club- law, where the right is always with the strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin and shake hands with infamy, for what they sincercly believe to be the cause of their God, or their king, are, as Mark Antony says in Spakspeare, of Brutus and Cassius. honourable men. I mention this circumstance, because it threw my father en :he world at large. " This paragraph hss been omitted in printing »he letter, at the desLre of Gilbert Burns ; and it would have been unnecessary to have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several manuscript copies of that letter been in circula- tion. "I do not know," observes Gilbert Burns, "how my biother could be misled in the account he has given of the Jacobitism of bis ancestors. — I believe the EatI of Marischal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before my father was born ; and among a collection of parish-certificates in his possession, I have read one, stating that the bearer had no concern in the late wicked rebellion. " On the information of The father of our poet is described by one who knew him towards the latter end of his life, as above the common stature, thin, and bent with labour. His countenance w.as serious and expressive, and the scanty locks on bis head were grey, lie was cf a religious turn of mind, and as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, a good deal conversant in speculative theology. There is in Gilbert's hands a little manual of religious belief, in the form of a dialogue between a father and his son, composed by him for the use of his children, in which the bene- volence of his heart seems to have led him (o soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish church, into something approaching to Ar- minianism. He was a devout man, and in the practice of calling his family together to join in prayer. It is known that the following ex- quisite picture in the Colter's Stittncay Night, represents William Burnes and his family at ho I-.:-., - Will:: ived in the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a report did prevail, that he had taken the field with the young chevalier; a report which the certificate mentioned bv his son was, per- haps, intended to counteract*. Strangers from the North, settling in the low country of Scotland, ■were in those days liable to suspicions of having been, in the familiar phrase of the country, " Out in the forty-live," (1745,) espeeially wheu they had any star Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs Dunlop. The eldest, a verj worthy young man, went to the East Indies, where he had a commission in the army ; he it the person, whose heart my brother says the M unny Begum scenes could not corrupt. T' other," by the interest of Lady Wallace, got ensignej in a regiment raised by the duke of ing devotions. The cheerful supper done, w ith serious face, Ihey, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wiih patriarchal grace, The big.Ae/7-Bible, oncehis father's pride: His bonnet rev'rentiy is laid aside, His lyart hafiets wearing thin and bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, i portion with judicious care ; " ■ ■*' t, Perhaps Dundee's f wild warbling measures Or plaintive Martyrs \ worthy of the name ; Or noble Elgin j beets the heavenly ilaiue, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy" lays ; Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; No uuiscn have they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page,£ How Ai rem was the frit ;;< of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal La, "o did groaning lie. Beneath the stroke cf Heaven's avenging Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Hamilton, during the American war. I lelieve neither of them are now (1797) alive. We also knew the present Dr Pater.->on of Ayr, and a younger Irother of his now in Jamaica, who weie much younger than us. I bed almost forgot to mention Dr Charles of Ayr, who was a little olde.» thtn my brother, and with whom he had a longer and closer intimacy than with any of the others, which did not, however, con- tinue in after life. " i Names of tunes in Scottish psalmody. The tunes mentioned in this poem are the three which were used by \\ jiliani Burnes, who had no greater variety. ; lhe course of familv devotion among the Soots is, first to sing a psalm, then to read a portion of scripture, and lastly to kneel down -Lirn. S3 shed ; JTow he who bore in heaven thf second name. Had not on earth whereon f o lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a How he who lone in Palmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand : And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command! Then kneeling down toHeaven's eternalKing, The sai/i/,the/a//ie)-,and the husband prays; H..pe springs exulting on triumphant wing, That thus they all shall meet in future days; There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning iheir Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time in^es round in an eternal Then homeward all take off their several way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent pair their scene* homage pay. And offer up to Heaven the warm request, That he whos;iils the raven's clam 'rou> nest. And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for 'heir little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace diriue Of a family so interesting as that which in- habited the cottage of William Burnes, and particularly of the father of the family, the reader will perhaps be svilling to listen to some farther account. What follows is given b\ one already mentioned with so much honour, in (he narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr Murdoch, the preceptor of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoir <>/ tlie Italian Tragedy, lately published, thus expresses himself: SIR, " I was lately favoured with a letter from our worthy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in \vh eh lie requested me to communicate to you what- ever particulars I could recollect concerning Robert Burns, the A\rshire poet. Mj business ■nt multifarious and harassing, in, . m'd I „ o till ■-%''- j in the habit of expressing mj thoughts on paper, that at this distance of tune I can give but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the life of that extraordinary genius with which alone I am acquainted. "William Burnes, the father of the poet, was bom in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire teu or twelve years before I knew him, and had been in the service of Mr Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards emplo\ed as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonbolm, in the parish" of Allow av, which is no* united with that of Ayr. In "this p rish, on the rosd side, a Scotcb rui'e and a ha"f from the town of Ayr, and half a mile from tie bridge of Doon" William Burnes took a piece of land consisting of about seven acres, pert of which he laid out in garden ground, and part of which he kept to graze a cow, ic. still con- tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguso::. Upon this little farm was erected an humble dwelling, of which William Burnes was the architect. It was, with the exception of a littie straw, literally a laberuacle of c;ay. In this 1 mean cottage, of which I myself was at times aa inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a lr.'.ger portion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cotter s Saturday' Aight will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there. " In 1765, about the middle of March. Mr W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writing tind-r my good friend Mr Robison, desiring that I would come and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book with me. This was immediately complied with. Having ex- amined my wri;ii.g, he kj- pleased with it — (you will readily ailow he was not difficult), and told me that he had received very satisfac- tory information of Mr Tennant, the master of the English school, concerning nij improve- ment in English, and in Lis method of teach- ing. In the mouth of May following, I was engaged by Mr Burnes, and four of his neigh- bours to teach, and accordingly be?an to teach the little school at Alio way, which was situated a few yards from the argiiiacpous fabric above mentioned. My li\e employers undertook to board me by turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the year, provided my quarterly payments from the different pupils " My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six and seven years of age ; his preceptor aLo;it eighteen. Robert and his younger brother Gilbert, had been grounded a mile in Ei.s.isii before they were put under my eare. They both made a rapid prosres- in reading, and a tolerable progress in writing. In reading, di- viding words into syllables by r - without book, parsing sentences, &c. Piobert and Gilbert wer^generally a! the i the class, even when ranged with t their seniors. The book, most conin only used in the schools were the Spelling Book, the New Testament, the Bible. Mason's Co action f Prose and Verse, and Fishers English Gram- mar. They committed to memory the hymns, and other poems of that collection, with un- common facility. This facility was partly owing to the method pursued b\ their father and me in instructing them, which was, to make them thoroughly acquaiuled with the mean ng of every word in each sentence that was to be committed to memory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is generally thought. As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them to luro verse into its natural prose oroer ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are the means of knowing that the pupil under- stands his author. These are excellent helps to tha arrangement of words in sentences, as well '» Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a Si DIAMOND CA3IXET LIBRARY. more lively imagination, and to be more of the J wit, than "Robert. I alternated to teach thein a little church-music Here they were left fir j behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear. in particj'.ar, was remarkably dull, and his i voice untamable. It wa> lo:ig before I could ire; ihe u to distinguish one tune from another. muses, be would surely never ha-e guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind. " In tile year 1767, Mr Burnes quitted his and took possession of a farm (Mount OliphauO of his own improving, while in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being at a considerable distance from the school, the boys could not attend regularly ; and some changes had taken place among the other sup- porters of the school, I left it, having continued to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. " In the year 17 72, I svas appointed (being one of five candidates who were examined) to teach the English school at Ayr; and in 17 73, Robert Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the purpose of revising English gram- mar, &c that he might be better qualified to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. He was now with ma day and night, in school, at all meals, and in all my walks. At the end of one week, I told him, that,- as he was now pretty much master of the parts of speech, &c, I should like to teach him something of French pronunciation, that when he should meet with the name of a French town, ship, officer, or 'he like, in the newspapers, he might be able to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and im- mediately we attacked the French with great " Now there was little else to be heard but the declension of nouns, the conjugation of rerbs, &c When walking together, and even at meals, I was constant'./ telling him th? names of different objects, as they presented them- selves, in French ; so that he was hourly laying in a stock of words, and sometimes little phras- es. In short, he took such pleasure in learn- ing, an 1 I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two~was most zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second week of our study of the French, we bejan to read a little of the Adventures of TdsmacKas, in Fe- nelon's own words. "But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be- gan to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded I ilypso, and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields -and so he did ; for although nut about fifteen, I was told that he performed the work of a man. Thu<* was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which wis spent entirely in the study of English, and the other two chieily in that "of French. I did not, how- ever, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visiiant at his father's house, when I had my half-holiday, and very often went accompanied with one or two persons more intelligent than myself, that good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast Then the labouring oar was shifted to some other hand. The father and the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blended as to render it palatable to all parties. Robert had a hundred questions; to ask me about the French, &c. ; and the father, who had always rational information in view, had still some question to propose to my more learned friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. Mrs Burnes too was of the party as much as possible ; • But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, Devour up their discourse, ' and particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all companies, she listened to h::a with a more marked attention than to any body else. When under the necessity of being ab- sent 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 es- teemed him ; for I myself have always consi- dered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race that ever I had the pleasure of be- ing acquainted with — and many a worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), • And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side. " He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assid-mus attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from her alectio-.iate behaviour to him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties of a *' He was a tender and affectionate father; he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and there fore, when he did rebuke, he was listeued to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of dis- approbation was felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the tat.*, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart- felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears, *« He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were labourers und( him. I think I never saw him angry b. twice : the one time it was with the foreman t the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other dine, it was with an old man, for using smutty innuendoes and double erJenares. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive a seasonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the rising gener- ation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces sotn» BUa.«S LIFE. 25 people to keep booing and booing in the presence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a becoming respect ; but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocratieal arrogance. But I must not pretend to give you a description of a'.l the manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the vener- able William Burues. Time would fail me. I shall only add, that he carefully practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal; or, in the apostle's words, Herein did he exercise himself, in living a life void of offence towards God and towards men. for a world of men of such dispositions ! We should then have no wars. I have often w ' ' ed, for the good of mankind, that it wer customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of those -who excel in moral rectitude, as to extol what are called heroic actions : would the mausoleum of the friend of my youth overtop and surpass most of the monuments I see iu Westminster Abbey. •* Although I cannot do justice to the char- acter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what kind of person had the principal hand in the education of our poet- He spoke the English language with more propriety (both with respect to dk ' and pronunciation), than any man I ever k with no greater advantages. This had a very good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, much sooner than their neighbours. I do not recollect any of their con- temporaries, at my little seminary, who after- wards made any great figure as literary cha- racters, except Dr Tennant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. " Mr Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous family upon it. — After being there some years, he removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. " But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 1 can tell you but little more relative to our poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you a copy of one of his letters to me, about "the year 1783. I received one since, but it is mi laid. Please remember me, in the best mai ner, to my worthy friend Mr Adair, when yi see him or write to him. As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was v te:i at a time when he was ignorant of the existence of the preceding narrative of hi brother, so this letter of Mr Murdoch wa writteD without his having any knowledge that either of his pupils had been emploved on same subject. The three relations serve, t!i fore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenti- cate each other. Though the information they convey might have been presented within shorter compass, by reducing the whole int one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far more gratified by a sight of these original documents themselves. Under the humble roof of his parents, it appears indeed that our poet had jrreat advan- tiges ; but his opportunities of information at school were more limited as to time than they usually are among his countrymen, in his corA dition of life ; and the acquisitions which he made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, under the pressure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force and activity of his mind. In his frame of body ha rose nearly to rive feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate agiiity as well as strength. In the various labours of the farm he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that, in mowing, the exercise that tries all the muscles most severely, Robert was the only man that, at the end of a summer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though our poet gave the powers of his body to the labours of the farm, he re- fused to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sab- bath, on which man and beast rest from their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns could indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms of nature. It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But still greater was his pleasure, as he him- self informs us, in walking on the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave among the trees ; and more elevated still his delight, to ascend some eminence during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit, while the lightning flashed around him, and amidst the howlings of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable to devotion—" Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who traits on the wings of the wind .'" It other proofs were wanting of the character of His senius, this might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every impression of beauty and sublimity; but with the higher order of poets the beautiful is less attractive^than the sublime. The gaiety of many of Burns 's writings, and the lively, and even cheerful colouring with which he has portrayed his own character, may lead some persons to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him towards the end of his days, was not an original part of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the progress of his life ; but, independent of his own and of his brother's testimony, evidence is to be found among his papers, that he wa3 subject very early to those depressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, but which in him rose to an uncommon degree. The following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of this observation. It was written at the time when he was learning the business of a flax- dresser, and is dated Irvine, Dec. 27, 1731. " Honoured Sir, " I have purposely delayed writing, in the S6 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. hope that I shonld have the pleasure i f seeing ycu on New-year's day; but wotk eomts so Lard upon us, that I do cot choose to te absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons, which I shall tell ycu at meeting. » y health :s nearly the san;e "as when vcu were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, on the whole. I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review post wants, i>cr look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, 1 shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life : for I assure you 1 t.m heartily tired cf it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and giadly resiga it. Rests ' "It is for this reason I am more pleased with the loth, ICith, and 1 7th verses of the 7th as many verses in the whole Bible, "and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As fcr this world, I de-pair cf ever making a figure in it. I am not formed fcr the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed I am altogether uncon- cerned at ihe thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and 1 am in some measuie prepared, and daily preparing to meet them. 1 have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety ycu have given me, which were too much" neglected at the time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- sent mv dutiful respects to mv mother, and my compliments to Xv and Mrs'^iuir; and, with j you a merry New-year's-day, I shall humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow tili'he should obtain a supply. ^ et eveu in this situation, his rciive imagina- tion had formed to itself pictures of eminence .. Kis despair cf making a figure in the world, shows how ardently" he wished for honourable fame ; and his contempt Ed on this despair, is the genuiu* expression of a youthful generous mind. In such a state cf reflection, and of sufitvii c, the imagination of Burns natural!} passed the daik boundaries of cur earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a be;ter wcrid, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- ger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. Such a disposition is far from Leii.g at variance with social enjoyments. Those ^ of mind, description, after a while, ndearuients of society, and n with the tow the extravagance of studied tl melancholy of this seeks relief in the < that it has no distant of cheerfulness, or i mirth. It was a few days after the writing of this letter that cur poet, *" in giving a welcom- ing carousal to the new vear, with his gay companions," suffered his i!ax to catch tire, and his shop to be consumed to a=hes. Ihe energ\ of turns' n:::.u was not exhanst- •ily labours, the efiiisions if kia social pleasures, or his soi i.,iy medi- Some time previous to his tupp.ge- a Unx-e.re-tec, huMi-.g heard that a debating club had been established in Ayr, he ' ' - try how such a meeting would sue- le village of Tarboiton. About the year 17S0, our pott, his brother, ana r.ve other young peasants of the neighbour- hood, formed themselves into a society of this bared objects of which i ed by his t end of tl s. thei :: d fri< es aft. .-Lip, ana. o promote sociality lprove the mind 'iho e furnished by turns. et after ihe labours of ? a week, in a small i-e; where each should ■■"-' ■u.-.a.t ; to be conducted with conelut 1 la l, honoured sir, Your dut-Yul son, " ROBERT BURNS." This letter, written several years before the publication of his poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition -was humble, dis- plays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- cates a "mind conscious of its strength. At lr\'.ne. Burns at this time possessed a single room for his lodgings, rented perhaps at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days in constant labour as n flax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly cf oatmeal sent to him from his father's family. Ihe store of this pui. iie-house in ibe v offer his opinion on a supporting it by such proper The debate order and decorum ; a; id the members were to cb« cussion at the ensuing meeting. The sum expended by each, was not to exceed three pence ; and, with the humble potation that this could pocure, they were to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with each other. This society Continued its meet- ings regularly for some time; and in the autumn of ]7S2, wishing to preserve some acccur.ts of their proceedings, they purchased a book, into which their laws and" regulations were copied, with a presinole, containing a short history of their transactions uown to .hat period. This curious document, which is evidently the work of our poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his n.e- BURNS. LIF2. e mind, il h • ' As the great end of h become wiser and better, tl to be the principal view of e station of life. But as exp us, that such studies as in mend the heart, when long- to exhaust the faculties oi been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some employment or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at the same time not so serious as to exhaust them. But superadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind are under the necessity of earning tlw sustenance of human life by the labour of their bodies, whereby, not only the faculties of the mind, but the nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to some amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied man worn down with the necessary labours of life. dissip and ad t; madne l of r .:> i' ■ grand design of hum; with extravagance and folly guilt and wretchedness. Irar considerations, we, (he following lads in tht parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Rober! Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchel, Thomas Wright, and William M'Gavin, resolved, for our mutual entertain- ment, to unite ourselves into a club, or society, under such rules and regulations, that while we should forget our cares and labours in mirth bounds of innocence and decorum : and aftei e heldo other =gu!al irst meeting at Tarbolton. in the house of John Richard, upon the evening of tbe 11th of November, 1780, commonly called Ha lowe'en, und after choosing Robert Burns president for the night, we proceeded to debate on this question, — ' Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of I wo women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the hou-e.n! i affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and be- haviour, but without any fortune : which of them shall he choose ?* Finding ourselves very happy in our society, we resolved to mth in the s n the way and manner proposed, and shortly thereaf- ter we chose Robert Ritchie for another mem- ber. In May, 1781, we brought in David Sil- lar,* and in June, Adam Jamison as members. About the beginning of the year 1782, we ad- mitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and in June following we chose James Patterson as a proper brother for such a society. The club being thus increased, we resolved to meet at Tarbo'.ton on the race night, the July follow- good humour, that every brother will long remei.ber it with pleasure and delight." To this preamble are subjoined tbe rules and re- lst. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every fourth iMonday night, when a question on any bject shall be propo=ed, disputed points of ligion only excepted, in the manner hereafter reeled ; which question is to be debated iri the ub, each member taking whatever side bo thinks proper. 2d. When the club is met, the president, or, he failing, some one of the members, till he bers shall seat themselves ; those who are for l? side of the question, on the president's right haud ; and those who are for the other side,' on left; which of them shall have the right hand is to be determined by the president. The president and four of the members being present shall have power to transact any ordi- nary part of the society's business. 3d. The club met and seated, the president jail read the question out of the club's book of records, C which book is always to be kept by the president) then the two members nearest" the president shall cast lots who of them shall speak ""' ~nd according as the lot shall determine, member il driver . the on that side the other side shall reply to him ; then the second member of the side that spoke lirst ; hen the second member of the s de that spoke econd, and so on to the end of the company ; rnbers of the but if there be fewer i the other, when all the n least side have spoken according to their, places, my of them, as they please among themselves, may reply to the remaining members of the op- posite side; when bo:h sides have spoken, the resident shall give his opinion, after which ley may go ovt it a second or mora times, and 4h. The cluo shall then proceed to the too;,; of a question for the subject of next ighl 's meeting. The president shall tiist pro- pose one, and any o.her member who ch oosres may propose more questions ; and whatever ona of them is most agreeable to the majority of tile ibers, shall be the subject of debate next club-night. _ 5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new pre- sident for the next meeting ; the president shall first name one, then any of the club may name mother, and whe sver of them has the majority jf votes shall be duly elected; allowing the president the first vote, and the casting vote upon a par, but none other. Then after a general toast to mistresses of the club, they fhall dismiss. 6th. Ihere shall be no pr'vate conversation ;arried on during the time of debate, nor shall my member interrupt another while he is _ .peaking, under the penalty of a reprimand j from the president, for the first fault, doubling DIAMOND CABINET i-I2HARY. The pbilosophical mind will dwell with in- terest and pleasure on an institution that com bined so skilfully the means of instruction and of happiness ; and if grandeur look down with a smile on these simple annals, let us trust that it will be a smile of benevolence and approba- tion. It is with rezret thai the sequel of the history of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. It survived several years after our poet removed from Ayrshire, but, no longer sustained by his talents, or cemented by his social affections, its meetings lost much of their attraction ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissension arising amongst its members, the institution was given up, and the records committed to the flames. Happily the preamble and the regulations were spared ; and as mat- ter of instruction and of example, they are transmitted to posterity. After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, he and his brother were requested to assist in forming a simiu institution" there. The regu- lalions"of the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the club at Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was made. The fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so aris- ing, should be set apart for the purchase of books; and the first work procured in this manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers of which were at that time recently collected and published in volumes. After it followed a number of ether works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. The society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in the list of subscribers to the first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. The members of these two societies were originally all young men from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of per- sons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in their con- his share of the reckoning for the second ; tre- bling it for the third, and so on in proportion for every other fault; provided always, how- ever, that any member may speak at any time after leave asked and given by the president. All swearing and profane language, and par- ticularly all obscene and indecent conversat on, is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty as aforesaid in the first clause of this article. 7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, shall mention any of the club's affairs to any other person but a brother member, under the pain of being excluded ; and particularly, if any member shall reveal any of the speeches or affairs of the club, with a view to ridicule or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he shall be for ever excommunicated from the society ; and the rest of the members are de- sired,"as much as possible, to avoid, and have no communication with him as a friend or comrade. 8th. Every member shall attend at the meet- ing's, without he can give a proper excuse for not attending ; and it is desired that every one who cannot attend will send his excuse with some other member ; and he who shall be absent three meetings without sending such excuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, duct, and more susceptible of improvement, than the self-sufficient mechanic of country towns. With deference to the Conversation- society of Mauchline, it may be doubted, whe- ther the books which they purchased were of a kind best adapted to promote the interest and happiness of persons in this situation of life. The Mir, or and the Lounger, though works of great merit, may be said, on a general view of their contents, to be less calculated to increase the knowledge, than to refine the taste of those who read them ; and to this last object their morality itself, which is however always per- fectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. As works of taste they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners of the age or country in which tbey were produced. But delicacy of taste, though the source of many pleasures, is not without some disadvantages ; and to render it desirable, the possessor should perhaps in all cases be raised above the necessity of bodily labour, unless indeed we should include under this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over which taste immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a blessing to him who has the disposal of his own time, and who can choose what bock he shall read, of what diversion he shall partake, and what company he shall keep. To men so situated, the cultivation of taste af- fords a grateful occupation in itself, ani opens a path to many other gratifications. To men of genius, in the possession of opulence and leisure, the cultivation of the taste may be said to be essential ; since it affords employment to those faculties which, without employment, would destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use the expression of Mr Hume, that delicacy cf passion, which is the bane of the temperament of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, after he emerged from the condition of a pea- when, if he fail to appear, or send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 9th. The club shall not consist of more than sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to the parish of Tarbolton ; except a brother member marry, and in that case he may be continued, if'the majority of the club think proper. No person shall be admitted a mem- ber of this society, without the unanimous consent of the club ; and any member may withdraw from the club altogether, by giving notice to the president in writing of his depar- 10th. Every man proper for a member of this society, must have a frank, honest, open heart ; above any thing dirty or mean, and must be a professed lover of" one or more of the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited percon, who looks upon himself as superior to the rest of the club, and especially no mean- spirited, worldly mortal, whose only will is to heap up money, shall upon any pretence what- ever be admitted. In short, the proper person for this society, is a cheerful honest-hearted lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet — is just as happy as this world can make him. BURNS LIFE. Bi aant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibility of his passions, regulating all the effusions of his muse, and presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the thousands who share the original condition of Burns, and who are doomed to pass their lives iu the sta- tion in which they were burn, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting ; and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situation, it presents no means by which that situation may be im roved. Taste and literature, which diffuse so many charms throughout society, which sometimes secure to their votaries distinction while living, and pvhich still more frequently obtain for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or even independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- sued with advantage by the pi intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. Those who raise themselves from the condi- tion of daily labour, are usually men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or who join habits of industry and sobriety to an acquain- tance with some of the mere common branches of knowledge. The penmanship of Eutter- worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be studied by men in the humblest walks of fife ; and they will assist the peasant more in the pursuit of independence, than the study of Homer or of Shakspeare, though he could comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties of those immortal bards. These observations are not offered without some portion of doubt and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and would justify an ample discussion. It may be observed, on the other hand, that the lirst step to improve- ment is to awaken the desire of improvement, and that this will be most effectually done by such reading as interests the heart and excites the imagination. The greater part of the sacred writings themselves, which in Scotland are more especially the manual of the poor, come under this description. It mav be farther ob- served, that every human being is the proper w4~e K.ppin vithin t path of innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottisli peasantry to give a preference to works of taste and of fancy.* It may be presumed they find a superior gratification in the perusal of such works ; and it may be added, that it is of more consequence they should be made happy in their original condition, than furnished with the means, or with the desire, of rising above it. Such considerations are doubtless of much weight ; nevertheless, the previous reflections may deserve to be examined, and here we shall leave the subject. Though the records of the society at Tarbol- ton are lost, and those of the society at Mauch- line have not been transmitted, yet we may * In several lists of book-societi-s araon; th poorer classes in Scotland which the Editc has seen, works of this description form great part. These societies are by no mraii gchorul, and it is not supposed that they at increasing at present. safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished member of both these associations, which were well calculated to excite and to develope the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve persons constituted the society at Tarbolton, and such a number is best suited to the pur- poses of information. Where this is the object of these societies, the number should be such, that each person may have an opportunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiv- ing those of others ; and the powers of private conversation are to be employed, not those of public debate. A limited society of this kind, where the subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that each member may revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. Such an association requires indeed somewhat more of regulation than the rules of politeness esta- blished in common conversation ; or rather, per- haps, it requires the rules of politeness, which in animated conversation are liable to perpe- tual violation, should be vigorously enforced. The order of speech established in the club at Tarbolton, appears to have been more regular than was required in so small a society ; where all that is necessary seems to be, the fixing cu a member to whom every speaker shall address himself, and who shall in return secure the speaker from interruption. Conversation, which among men whom intimacy and friend- ship have relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to so many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so often diverges into separate and collateral branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, being kent within its channel by a simple limi- tation of this kind, which practice renders easy and familiar, Hows along in one full stream, and becomes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may also be observed, that in this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual improvement of the faculty employed to convey it. Though some attention has been paid 10 the eloquence of the senate and the bar. which in this, as in all other free governments, is pro- ductive of so much influence to a few who ex- cel in it. yet little regard has been paid to the humbler exercise of speech in private conversa- tion, an art that is of consequence to every description of persons under every form of government, at;d on which eloquence of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. The lirst requisite of every kind of elocution, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much time, and of long practice. Children are always defective in clea~r articulation, and so are young people, though in a less degree. YYhat is called slurring in speech, prevails with some persons through life, especially in those who reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men before the age of twenty, or upwards: in wo- men it reaches this point somewhat earlier.^ Female occupations require much use of speech, because they are duties in detail. Be- sides, their occupations being generally scden- larv, the respiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; the natural conse- quence of which is, a more frequent utterance DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a distinct articulation at an earlier age. But in j men who have not mingled eai with the worid, though rich perhaps in know- j ledge, and clear itTapprehension, it is often '■ painful to observe the difficulty with which their ideas are communicated by - I : ;e want of .hose habi:s, that connect ■ ..... sponta:.; . in truth, are the * and p unful practice, ai«d when the phenomena of m Meties then, such as we have been describ- . . •: 1 to put each meni- Ksession of the knowledge of all the . e , and by - : opinion, excite the faculties of it and reflection. To those who wish to ids iu such intervals of labour if a peasant allows, this aie- ...... .... - ; : •,.:._ r proper regulations, be highlj useful. To the student, whose opinions, springing out of soli- :.i and meditation, are seldom in the lirst instance correct, and which have not- withstanding, while cor.iined to himself, an ° -".^rations. And to men who, hav- ing cultivated letters or general science in the course of their education, are engaged in the active occupations of life, and no longer able to devote to stndy or to books the time requisite for improving or preserving their acquisitions, associations of this kind, where the mind may unbend from its usual cares in discussions of literature or science, aScrd the :. the most useful, and I . tificatieas- * Whether, in the humble societies of which be uber, Burns acquired much direct perhaps be questioned. It cannot ho wet er be doubted, th;: the faculties of his mind Id be excited, that n would be * 'When letters and philosophy were culti- vated in ancient Greece, the he tallets of learning and seience, produced the habit of s it were in common. Poets were found reciting their own verses in public asse-r. fc lie schools onlv philosophers delivered their ipeculations. The taste of the hearers, the : ?he scholar;, wen - L.!iJ examining the • aud of speculation submitted to their consider- ation, and the irreroezke tcords were not given to the worio . .., as well as the sentiments, were again and again retouched and improved. Death alone put the last seal on the labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, rnaj be in part explained the extraordinary art and skill with which the monum ciar. literature that remain to us - . acted. established, and thus we have seme exp'anation of that early command of words and of expres- sion which enabled him to pour forth his thoughts -in language not unworthy of his genius, and which, of all his endowments, seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary, r For associations of a literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable relish ; ajd happy had it been fcr him, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was capable, so as to have fortified his principles of virtue ty the purifica- tion of his taste, and given to the energies of his mind habits of exertion thct • eluded oilier associations, in which it must t acknowledged they were too oAc well as debased. The whole course of the Ayr is fine; bt the banks of that river, as it bends to ihe eas. ward above Mauehline, are singularly beautiful, and they were frequent^, as liny be" imagined, by our poet in his solitary i muse often visited him. In one of these wan- derings, he met among the woods a celebrated Beauty of the west of Scotland ; a lsdy, cf whom it is said, that the charms of her person correspond with the character cf her mind. This incident gave rise, as nneht be expected, to a poem, of which an account will be found in the following letter, iu which he inclosed it ". . the . I of his inspiration : TO XI53 Mossgiel, \Si-:Xcr. 1783. ' ' Madam, "Poets are si 90 much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence, I mention this as an a that a nameless stranger lias tak . • .. roein, which he I present you - n^s poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the br= can produce; and what to a good heart will ptrhaps be a superior grace, it is equally sin- cere as fervent. f It appears that cur Foet made more pre- paration than mi.cht be supposed, for the dis- cussions of the society at Tarboiton. — There were found some detached memoranda evidently preparedfor the^e meetings ; _:ii among others, 5 peech on the question mp-iilioaed :;eh, as might be expeciid, ho takes the imprudent side of the question. The following may inecimen of the questions debated :n the society at Tarbol- — ...r do we derive more happiness from love or friendship? — Whethc !.ave no reason to doubt each hip, there should be any re- serve ? —\\\_ _-; man, or the peasant of a civilized country, in the most happy situation ? — Whether is a young man of s vflife likeliest to be I has got a good education, and fa .- informed, or he who has just the information :. BURNS. -LIFE. " The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the pontic revew as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the favour- ite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Avr, to view nature iu all the gaiety of the venial year. The evening sun \vas"i~iaming over the distant western hills : not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden mo- ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the fea- thered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, "or frighten them to another station. Surely, said 1 10 myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive ilights to discover your secret recedes, and to rob you of all the property- nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Eveu tne hoary hawthoru- twig that shot across the way. what heart at such a time but must have been interred in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, a id such the hour, whea in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowaed a pontic landscape, or met a poet's eye, taose visionary bards excepted who h >ld commerce with aerial beings! H\d Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. "W.iata, j." inclosed sanj was the work of my re- lome; and perhaps it but poorly answers alight be expected from such a scene. " I have the honour to be, «■ Madam. •• Your mo t obedient, and very 'Twas even — the dewy field? were eret Oa every blade tne pearls hang ;* The Zephyr wanton 'd round the bean. And bore its fragrant sweets aia.ig ; Ll everv glen the mavis sang, All nature listening seerrnd the whii Except wnere green- wood echoes rang Anting the braes o' Ballochmyle. •aved, leu fair I chance e morn in flowery May, * Han?. Scotticism for hung. f Variation. The lily \ hue anil rose's dye Bespoke the lass o'B-illochar. le. Tliere all her charms she does compile Eveu there her other works are futl'd By the bonny lass o' Bailochmyle. O had she been a cc And I the happy untry - aid, jgh sheltered in the low™. „. That every rose on Scotland's plain. Thro'jjh weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I wouid toil, And nigutly to my bosom strain The bouuy lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine ; Aud thirst of gold might temot the deep. Or downward seek the Indian mine: Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day have joys divine, With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter ana pae.n are copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time little known, and where known at all, noted rather for the will strength of his humour, than for those strains of tendernc-ss. in which he after- wards so muca excelled. To th; lady herself his name had perhaps never been mentioned, ani of such a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Ker modesty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of i'ibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening s'rains destined to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that supposmg the verses duly appreciated, delicacy might iiud it difficult to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- sessed more of tenderness than of respect. In- stead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, aud to strain this high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, Burns might have found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, and in. deed of every country. And it is not to be denied, that lovely women have generally sub- mitted to this sort of profanation with patience, and even with goad humour. To what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the n •- cessary eon.-e raance of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a description of men who are incapable of control? It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them yvitii sUe.it ni i lesty and dignified reserve. 'iiie sensibility of our bards tempor, and lh- force of if.- DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. particular manner to the impressions of beauty; and these qualities united to his impassioned eloquence gave him in turn a powerful influ- ence over the female heart. 'Ihe banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in ' our power, and the traces of which will soon j be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility to which thc-y gave birth. I The song entitled Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. "It was written," says our bard, ** on one of the ; most interesting passages of niy youthful days, " The object of this passion died early in'life, end the impression left on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several Tears afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines : in the manuscript book from which we " The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our coming to it (Martinmas, 17S3\ was the pro. perty of the earl of Loudon, but was held ia tick by Mr Gavin Hamilton, writer in Mauch- hne, from whom we had our bargain ; who had thus an opportunity of knowing and showing a sincere regard for my brother, before he knew that he was a poet. The poet's estimation of ig outlines of his character, Mr H. entered very warmly i and promoted the subscripts Mr Robert Aiken, writer in worth and taste, of warm affections, and con- respectable circle of friends ' is gentleman The y extensively. Thou lingering star, with lessenin? ray, That levest to greet the early morn," Again thou usher 'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Marv '. dear departed shade ! Where is :hy blissful place of rest ? Seest thou thy" lover lowly laid ? Hear 'si thou the groans that rend his breast ? ITiat sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow 'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love '. Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! Utile thought we 'twas onr last ! Avr gargling kiss'd his pebbled shore, "O Whung with wild woods thick 'ning green : The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hear, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be press 'd, The birds sang love on every J7 . . Till too, too scon the glowing west " Proclaim 'd the speed of w nged day. Still o're, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention —engrossing attention, one day, to the only | blockhead at table (the whole company con- sisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and myself), that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance, but i he shook my hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God bless him ! though £ should never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of Ihe throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. » With I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in ray welfare, or still more when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of eleva- tion, I say to myself, with scarcely any emo- tion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either?" The intentions of the poet in procuring this book, so fully described by himself, were very imperfectly executed. lie has inserted in it few or no incidents, but several observations and reflections, of which the greater part tint are proper for the public eye, will be found in- terwoven in the volume of his letters. The most curious particulars in the book are the delineations of the characters he met with. These are not numerous ; but they are chiefly of persons of distinction in the republic of letters, and nothing but the delicacy and re- spect due to living characters prevents us from committing them to the press. Though it appears that in his conversation he was some- times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is discoverable in these more deliberate efforts of his understanding, which, while they exhibit great clearness o' discrimination, manifest also the wish, as well as the power, to bestow high and generous praise. By the new edition of his poems, Burns ac- quired a sum of money that enabled him not only to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of visiting those parts of his native country, most attractive by their beauty or their gran- deur ; a desire which the return of summer na- turally revived. The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, strongly interested his fancv ; and, accordingly, he left Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 17S7, on a tour through a country so much celebrated in tho rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on horseback, and was accompanied, during some part of his journey, by Mr Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of his friendship and of his confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, which, however, contains only occasional remarks on the seen- ery, and which is chiefly occupied with an ac- count of the author's different stages, and with his observations on the various characters to whom he was introduced. In the course of this rour he visited Mr Ainslie of Berrywell, the father of his companion ; Mr Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a let- ter or introduction from Mr Mackeuzie ; the Rev Dr Soraerviile of Jedburgh, the historian ; Mr and Mrs Scott of Wauchope ; Dr Elliot, phvsician, retired to a romantic spot ou the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir James Hall of Dunglass ; and a great variety of other respectable "characters. Every where the fame of the poet had spread before him, and every where he received the most hospi- table aud flattering attentions. At Jedburgh he continued several days, and was honoured BURNS — LIFE. .39 church at Duns by the magistrates with the freedom of their borough. The following may serve as a spe- cimen of this tour, which the .'perpetual re- ference to living characters prevents our giving at large. " Saturday, May G. Left Edinburgh— Lam- mermuir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Beach Berrywell. . . . The family- meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming : particularly the sister. • ' Sunday. Went ' Heard Dr Bowmaker. "Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic— fine bridge— dine at Coldstream with MrAinslie and Mr Foreman. Beat Mr Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel- House with Mr and Mrs Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flatter- ing. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso— charming situation of the town— fine bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace— fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre a" hotel of the Duke's!— Climate and soil of Berwick- shire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayr- shire— -bad roads— turnip and sheep husbandry their great improvements. . . . Low mar- kets, consequently low lands — magnificence of farmers and farm -houses. Come up the Tevi ot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. ».' Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr Fair. . . Charming romantic situation of Jed- burgh, with gardens and orchards, inter- mingled 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 Black- burn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr Poets, writer, and to Mr Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentle- man, but sadly addicted to punning. _ . a "Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the magistrates with the freedom of the town. "Took farewell of Jedburgh, with ^some melancholy sensations. "Monday, May 11, Kelso. Dine with thi farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter frc L30 to L50 value, and attends the fox-huutii club in the country. Go out with Mr Ker, o oftheciub, and a friend of Mr Ainslie's, sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr Ker astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — every thing in his house elegant. He otters to accompany me in my English tour. * 4 Tuesday. Diiie with Sir Alexander Don a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr Ker 'i Rg-iiu, 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. ' * , « Having spent three weeks in exploring this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into Northumberland. Mr Ker and Mr Hood, gentlemen with whom he had become ac- inted in the course of his tour, accompanied He visited Alnwick Castle ; the princely of the Duke of Northumberland ; the hermitage and old castle of Warksworth ; Morpeth, and Newcastle.— In this town he spent two days, and then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham and Wardrue, to Car- lisle. — After spending a few days at Carlisle with his friend Mr Mitchell, he returned into Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates abruptly. Of the various persons with whom he be- came acquainted in the course of th s journey, he has, in general, given some account ; and almost always a favourable one. That on the banks of the Tweed and of the Teviot, our bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, is what might be confidently presumed. Two of these are particularly described in his journal. But it does not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any effort of his muse, as it was to have been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns proceeded to D smfries, and thence, through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after an absence of six busy and eventful months. It will be easily conceived with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them poor, and com- paratively friendless ; he returned to them high in public estimation, and easy in his circum- stances. He returned to them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had bestowed. Having remained with them a few days, he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediate- ' ly set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have been found among his manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mr Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crocliairbas, by Lochleary, June 28, 1785, commences as fol- • • I write you this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with sav- age flocks, which starviugly support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary — to- morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins. " From this journey Burns returned to his friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the month of July, renewing his friendships, and extending his acquaintance throughout the county, where he was now very generally known and admired. In August he again visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey towards the middle of this month, in company with Mr M. Adair, now Dr Adair of Harrowgate, of which this DIAMOND CABIXET LIBRARY. sji»ntleman has favoured as with the following "Burns and I left Edinburgh together in August, 17S7. "We rode by Linlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- works at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly struck. The resemblance between that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, which must have occurred to every classical visitor, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling the prospects from the castle strongly inter- ested him ; in a former visit to which, his national feelings had been powerful. y excited by the ruinous and rootless state of the hail in ■which the Scottish Parliaments had frequent- ly been held. His indignation had vented it- self in some imprudent, but not unpoeucal lines, which had siven much off;nc?, and which he took this opportunity of erasing, by breaking the pane of tne window at the iua on which Ihey were written. 4 'At Stirling we met with a company of travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was a character in many respects congenial with that of Burns. This was Nico!, one of the teachers of the High Grammar- School at Edinburgh— the same wit and power of con- versation ; the same fondness for convivial •society, aid thoughtlessness of tomorrow, characterized both. Jaeobitical principles in politics were common to both of them ; and ihese have been suspected, since the revolution of France, to Lave given place in each, to opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I have preserved no memorabilia of their coaver- e'.tion, either on this or on other occasions, •when I happened to meet them together. Many songs were sung ; which I mention for the sake of observing, that when Burns was called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- btead of singing, to recite one or other of his own shorter poems, wi:h a tone and emphasis, •which, though not correct or harmonious, were impressive and pathetic. This he did on the present occasion. "• From Stirling we went next morning through the romantic and fertile vale of Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, then in- habited by Mrs Hamilton, with the younger part of whose family Uurns had been previous- ly acquainted. He introduced me to the family, and there was formed my first acquain- tance with Mrs Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have been married for nine years. Thus was I indebted to Burns for a connexion from which I have derived, and expect further to derive, much happiness. ••During a residence of about ten days at parts of the surrounding scenery, inferior to none in Scotland, in beauty, Bublimily, and romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- tell., theancieut seat of the family of Argyle ; and the famous cataract of the Devon, called \beCauldron Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to be believed, across the river, at rvboat the height of a hundred feet above its Led. I am surprised that none of these scenes should have called forth an exer.ion of Burns 's muse. But I doutu if he had much taste for the picturesque. 1 well remember, that the ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on this janot, espresso their di. appointment at his not expressing in more glowing and fervid language, his impressions of the Cauldron Linn scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. ** A visit to Mrs Bruce of Clackmannan, a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of the race which gave the Scottish throne its brightest ornament, interested his feelings more powerfully. This venerable dame, with charac- teristical dignity, informed me, on my observing that I believed she was descended from the fatn- ily of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung from her family. Though almost de- prived of speech by a paral>,lic"affection, she preserved her hospitality and urbanity. ' She was in posses -ion of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, with which she conferred on Burns and myself the honour of knight- hood, remarking, that she had a better right to confer that M-e than tome peonle. . . . You will of coarse conclude that the old .lady's political tenets were as Jaeobitical as "the poet's, a conformity which contributed r.ot a little to the cordiality of our reception and en- tertainment. — Sae gave as her tirst toast after dinner, Aica, Una*, or, Away with the Stran- gers. — Wuo these strangers were you will readily understand. Mrs A. corrects me by saying it should be Hoci, or Hcoki ur.cos, a sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to drive away tLe sheep. ■'We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the shore of Loehleven) and Queens ferry. I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, or had died there a short while before. A meeting between the bards, or a vi-it to the deserted cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, would have been highly interesting.* "At Dunfermline "we visited the ruined abbey, and the abbey-cburch now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assum- ing the character of a penitent for fornication ; while Burns from the pulp t addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied from that which had been delivered to hir^sslf in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shams together. " In the church-yard two broad flag-stones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than common venera- tion. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred fervour, and heartily (suits ut mos erat) execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of the hrst of Scottish heroes, "j The surprise expressed by Dr Adair, in his excellent letter, that the romantic sc?nery of the Devon should have failed to call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its natur9 singular; and the disappointment felt at his not expressing in more giowing language his emotions on the sight of the famous cataract of that river, is similar to what was felt by the friends of Burns on other occasions of the * Bmce died some years before. f Extracted from a letter of Dr Adair to thi Editor. BURNS.— LIFE. eame nature. Yet the inference that Dr Adair seems inclined to draw from it, that he had little taste for the picturesque, might be ques- tioned, even if it stood uncontroverted hy other evidence. The mu.se of Burns was in a high decree capricious ; she came uncalled, and often refused to attend at his bidding. Of all the numerous subjects suggested to him by his friends and correspondent's, there is scarcely one that he adopted. The very expectation that a particular occasion would excite the energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive of the effect expected. Hence perhaps it may be explained, why the banks of the Devon and the Tweed form no part of the subjects of his A similar train of reasoning may perhaps explain the want of emotion with which he viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there are no affections of the mind more deadened by the influence of previous expectation, than those arising from the sight of natural objects, and more especially of objects of gTandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, of a sublime nature, should never be given to those who are about to view them, particularly if they are persons of great strength and sensibility of imagination. Language seldom or never con- veys an adequate idea of such objects, but in the mind of a great poet it may excite a pic- ture that far transcends them. The indica- tion of Eurns might form a cataract in com- parison with which the Cauldron Linn should seem the purling cf a rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara a humble cascade. * Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining our Bard 's deficiency of impression on the occasion referred to, or whether it ought rather to be imputed to some pre-oceu- pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume not to decide ; but that he was in general feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- dence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly heightened in his mind, as might be expected, when combined with moral emotions of a kind with which it happily unites. That under this association Burns "contemplated the scen- ery ot the Derail with the eye uf a genuine poet, the following lines, written at this very- period, may bear witness. kind. To have formed before-hand picture in the mind, of tiny interesting person or thing, generally lessens the pleasure of the lirst meeting with them. Though tfis picture be not superior, or even equal to the reality, still it can never be expected to be an exact re- semblance ; and the disappointment felt at linding it something different from what was expected, interrupts and diminishes the emo- tion that would otherwise be produced. In such cases the second or third interview gives more pleasure than the first. See the Elements of the Philosophy ol the Human Mind, by Mr kteirart, p. 4S4. Such publications as" The Guide to the Lakes, where rib'd i the n ith considerable gua^e, lire in this point of view objec and s. of lar On a Young Lady, rending on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire. How pleasan: the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers But the bouniest flower on the banks cf the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the traes of the And far be thou distant, thou reptile that The verdure and pride of the garden and A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering The different journeys already mentioned did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the beginning of September, he again set out from Edinburgh, on a mere extended tour to the Highlands, in company with Mr Nicol, with whom he had contracted a particular iutimacv, which lasted during the remainder of his life. Mr Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally humble with our poet. Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, and fell bv the strenetb of his passions. He died in the summer of 1797. Having received the elements of a classical instruction at his parish school, y,T Nicol made a very rapid and singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking the office of an instructor hin-.self, he acquired the means of entering himself at the Univer- sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a stu- dent of theology, then a student of medicine, a> d was afterwards employed in the assistance and instruction of graduates in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which the La 1 in language is employed. In this situation lie was the contemporary and rival of the cele- brated Dr Hrewn, whorri he resembled in the particulars of his history, as well as in the leading features of his character. The office of assistant teach r in the High-school being vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- tion ; and in the face of some prejudices, and perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all the other candidates. This office he filled at the period of which we speak. It is to be lamented; that an acquaintance with the writers of Greece and Rome does not always supply an original want of taste and correctness in manners and conduct ; and where it fails of this effect, it sometimes intiauie* 42 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. the native pride of temper, which treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has not learned to excel. It was thus with the fellow- traveller of Burns. Formed by nature in a model of great strength, neither his person nor his manners had any tincture of taste or ele- gance ; and his coarseness was not compen- sated by that romantic sensibility, and those towering flights of imagination, which distin- guished the conversation of Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies of his manners were absorbed and disappeared. Mr Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- chaise, which they engaged for the journey, and passing through the heart of the Highlands, stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond Inverness. There they bent their course east- ward, across the island, and returned by the Ehore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. In the course of this tour, some particulars of which will be found in a letter of our bard, they visited a number of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of Burns was constantly excited by the wild and sublime scenery through which he passed. Of this, several proofs may be found in the poems for- merly printed * Of the history cf one of these poems, The humbk Petition of Brnar WaJer, and of the bard's visit to Athole House, some particulars wiil be found in Letters No. 33. and No. 34 : and, by the favour of Mr Walker of Perth, then residing in the family of the Duke f Athole, we are enabled to give the following addit Hi a •On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arrival (as I nad been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet' him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He accepted the invitaliou ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, beg- ged I would iu 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 vvlriob arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. AVhen we reached a" rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody preci- pice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and volup- tuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot help thinking it might have been here that he conceived the idea of the following lines, which he afterwards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a combination of objects as were now present to * See " Lines on seeing some water fowl in Loch Turk, a wild scene among the hills of Ochtertyre. " «' Lines written with a Pencil over the chimney piece, in the Inn at Ken- more, Taymouth". " "Lines written with a pencil standing by the Fall of Fyres, near Lochias. '* - - Or by the reaper's nightlj beam, Mild chequering through the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. Hoarse swelling on the breeze. "It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. "My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. t His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good sense for directing his beha- viour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to forget a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, bespoke 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 feli- citously closed his poem. " Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh, bourbood, and was highly gratified by his con. versation. As a specimen of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which he made on his fellow- traveiler, 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 ex- pressing 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-kneed sort of a souL ' "Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some descriptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of B mar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, with the verses inclosed. "J It appears that the impression made by our poet on the noble family of Athole was in a high degree favourable ; it is certain he was charmed with the reception he received from them, and he often mentioned the two days he spent at Alhole-house as among ihe happiest of his life. He was warmly invited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his engagement with Mr Nicol ; which is the more to be regretted, as he would otherwise have + In the preceding- winter, Burns had been in company of the highest rank in Edinburgh ; but this description of his manners is perfectly applicable to his first appearance in such society. % Extract of a letter from Mr "Walker to Mr Cunnimrhnm, dated Perth, 21th October, 1797. " BUKNS.— LITE. been introduced to Mr Dundas (then daily ex- pected on a visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might have had a favourable influence on Burns' future fortunes. At Athole house, he met, for the first time, Mr Graham of Fintry, to whom he was afterwards indebted for his office in the Excise. The letters and poems which he addressed to Mr Graham, bear testimony of his sensibil- ity, and justify the supposition, that he would not have been deficient in gratitude had he been elevated to a situation better suited to his disposition and to his talents. A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at Fochabers. In the course of the preceding winter Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr Nicol at the inn in the village. At the castle our poet was re- ceived with the utmost hospitality and kind- ness, and the family being about to sit down to dinner, he was invited to take his place at table as a matter of course. This invitation he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses of wine, he rose up and proposed to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his engagement with his fellow- traveller ; and his noble host offering to send a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, Burns insisted on undertaking that office him . self. He was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in all the forms of politeness. The invitation came too late ; the pride of Nicol was inflamed to a high degree of passion, by the neglect which he had already suffered He had ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, being de- termined to proceed on his journey alone: and they found him parading the streets of Focha- bers, before the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postilion, for the slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no ex- planation nor entreaty could change the pur- pose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating fro u him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the last of '' 7 himself beside th mortification s turned his back on Gordon Castle," where he had promised himself some happy days. Sensible, however, of the great kindness of the noble family, he made the best return in his power, by the following poem.* Streams that glide in orient plains Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix 'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands: These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks ly Castle- Gordon. II. Spicy forests ever gay, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil, Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil, "Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms, by Castle-Gordon. : in. Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole ; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood, Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wa By bonnie Castle Gordon, f entered into the society and dissipation of that metropolis. It appears that, on the 3 1st day of December, he at ended a meeting to cele- brate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the Scottish race of kin?s, the late unfortunate Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish or purpose of the original institutors of this annual meeting, there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which it was at this time composed, were not per- fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It is not to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling wine, they indulged the generous feelings which the recollection of falle.i greatness is calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain — valour worthy of a nobler cause and a hap- pier fortune. On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, though deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished versifica- tion that such compositions require, might, on a fair competition, where energy of feelings and of expression were alone in question, have won the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of that day. The following extracts may serve as a speci- False flatterer, Hope, away ! Nor think to lure us as in days of yore, We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, To prove our loyal truth— we can no more ; And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, Submissive, low, adore. II. Ye honour 'd mighty dead ! Who nobly perish 'd in the glorious cause, Your king, your country, and her laws ! f These versesour poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air of which he was ex- tremely fond. DIAMCXD CABINET LIBRARY. which will be viewed by From great Dundee, who smiling vic- tory led, . And fell a martyr in her arms, (What breast of northern ice but warms ?) To bold Balmerino's undying name, Whose sjuI, of tire, lighted at Heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes III. Not nnrevenged ycur fate shall be ; It only lags, the fatal hour ; Your blo.d shall with incessant cry Awake at last th' unsparing power. As from the cliff, with thundering course, The snowy ruin smokes along, With doublfng speed and gathering force, Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the So vengeance .... In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sympathy wi:h which he traced out the grave of his predecessor Fergusson, over whose ashes, in the Canongate churchyard, he obtained lea> humble" luonurx ' reflecting mincL which will awake, in the bosom of kindred genius, many a hgn emotion. Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he ex- perienced from a poet then living, lha amiable and accomplished Blacklo^k To his encour- aging advice it was owing (as has already ap- peared) that Burns, instead of emigrating lo the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. lie re- ceived him trere with all the ardour of affec- tionate admiration ; he eagerly introduced h:m to the respectable circle of his friends ; he consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame; he lavished upon him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart, into which nothing 6elfish or envious ever found admittance. Among the friends whom he introduced to Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn of 1787. at his delightful retirement in the neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the backs of the Teith. Of this visit we have the following particulars: " I have been in the company of many men of genius," says Mr Ramsay, '"some of them poets, but never witnessed such flashes of in- telhc ual brightness as from him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial tire ! I never was more delighted, therefore, than wilh his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I should, have made little of him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not * In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a happier manner, in the Cheva- lier's Lament. But if there were no other rea-ons for omitting to print the entire poem, the want of originality would be sufficient. A considerable part of "it is a kind of rant, for which, indeed, precedent may be cited in various other odes, tut with which it is impos- sible to go along. always know when to play off and when t» play on. . . I net only propo-ei lo him the writing of a play similar to ihe Gtiiile Shep- herd, qualem decet ease sororem, hut Seoituh Georgics, a subject which Thomson has by no means exhausted in his Seasons What beau, liful landscapes of rural life and manners might not have been expected from a pencil so faith- ful and forcible as his, which could have ex- hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those in the Gtrntle Shepherd, which every one, who knows our swains in tne unadult-rat-d stale, instantly recognises as true to nature. But to have "executed either of these plans, steadiness and abstraclion from company were wanting, not talents. When I a^ked him whether the Ecinturgh Literati had mended 5 poem y :hei aid he, e gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in inv countrv, who spin their thread so fine thit ft is neither lit for weft nor woof.' He said be had not changed a word except one, to please Dr Blair."* Having settled with his publisher, Mr Creech, in February, 17SS, Burns found himself mas- ter of nearly rive hundred Dounds, afier dis- charging a'll his expenses! Two hundred pounds he immediately advanced to his brother Gi;bert, who had taken upon himself the support of their aged mother, and was strug- gling with 'many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, and some further eventual profits from his poems, he determined on settling himse:f for life i:i the occupation of agriculture, and took from Mr Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of Ellislaud, on the banks cf the river Nilb, six miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at Whitsunday, 17SS. Having been previous- ly recommended to the Board of Excise, his name had been put on the list of candidates for the humble office of a gauger or exciseman ; and he immediately applied to acquiring tbe in- formation necessary for fillii hat a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! . . There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, virtue sole suriives. "Tell us, ye dead: "Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? A little time Will make us wise as you are, and as close. " *' T am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my mother's lap, and be at peace. ' " But a wife and children bind me to strug- gle with the stream, till some sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless return of years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though half- sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit, and humour, are at best but thriftless iclirg with the precious current of existence ; nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho, tlie water is naught and the ground barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally- gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. «' Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were to be any thing with me but names, was what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my present situation it was alsolutely neces- sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of character, justice, to my own happiness for after life, so far a9 it could depend (which it surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all thtse joined their warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with a roots d attach- ment, to urge the step I have taken. Ivor have I any reasou on lur part to repent it. — I can fancy how, but have never seen where, I could have made a better choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto that glorious passage in Young — • On reas. That column of true j)\l r. Jnder the impels ! of these reflections, rns immediately er, »aged in rebuilding the ellins-house on hi farm, which, in the e he found it, w?. inadecuate to the ac- lilv. On this occasion, himself resumed .t times the occupation of a :mu i, ,eiiU his skill impaired Pleased w ilh surveying the grounds he was about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a i uilding that shcuid give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he foudly hoped, to his own grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of domestic content "and peace rose en his ima- gination ; and a few days passed away, as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his life, our poet was without the society of his wife and children. A great change had taken place in his situation ; his) old habits were broken ; and the new Circum- stances in which he was placed were calculated to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct. f But his application to the cares and labours of his farm was interrupted by several visits to his family in Ayrshire; and as the distance was too great for a single day's sion were in part expressed by the following vigorous and characteristic, though not very delicate verses : they are in imitation of an old ballad. I hae a wife o' my ain, I'll partake wi' nae-lody ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to nae-Lcdy. I hae a pency to spend, 'I here— thanks to nae-bocy ; I hae naethiug to lend, I'll borrow frae nac-body. I am nae-body's lord, i '11 be slave to nae-body ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body ; If nae-body care for me, I'll care for nae body. j- Mrs Burns was about to he confned ia child-bed, and the house at Ellisland was re lu ; ldiug. , • 46 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. journey, he generally speut a night at an inn I on the road. On such occasions he sometimes j fell into company, and forgot the resolutions i he had formed. In a little while temptation | assailed him nearer horae. His fame naturally drew upon him the at- I tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance in the district in -which he lived. The public voice had now pro- nounced on the subject of his talents ; the re- ception he had met with in Edinburgh had given him the currency which fashion bestows : he had surmounted the prejudices arising from his humble birth, and he was received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale w th wel- come, with kindness, and even with respect. Their social parties too often seduced him from his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and in- flamed those propensities which temperance might have weakened, and prudence ultimately suppressed. * Jt was not long, therefore, be- fore Burns began to view his farm with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. k Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office in the Excise as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he had been recommended to the Beard of Excise, and had situation. He now applied to be employed ; and, by the interest of Mr Graham of Fintra, was appointed to be exci-eman, or, as it is vulgarly called, gaugcr, of the district in which he lived. His farm was, after this, in a great measure abandoned to servants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appoint- He might indeed still be seen in the spring, directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- celled; or with a white sheet, containing his seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding with measured steps along his turned up fur- rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, but his farm no longer occupied the principal part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, this high- minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, among the hills and vales of Niths- dale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his icay ward fancies as he moved along. " I had an adventure with him in the year 1790," says Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyrej in a * The poem of The Whistle celebrates a Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen of Nithsdale, where Burns appears as umpire. ; Mr Riddel died before our bard, and some : elegiac verses to his memory will be found in this volume. From him, and from all the members of his family, Burns received not . kindness only but friendship ; and the society | he met in general at Friar's Carse was calcu- [ lated to improve his habits as well as his man- ; ners. Mr Ferguson of Craigdarroch, so well i known for his eloquence and social talents, | died sood after our poet. Sir Robert Lawrie, the third person in the drama, survives, and has since been engaged in contests of a bloodier nature. Long may he live to fight the battles of his country ! (K99.) — ' I Dr Stuart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly near Closeburn, I said to my companion, ' that is Burns. ' On coming to the inn, the hostler told us he would be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he met with any thing seizable he was no better than any other gauger, in every thing else, he was perfectly a gentleman. After leaving a note to be delivered to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c I was much pleased with his uxor Sahina qualis, and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. In the evening he sud- denly bounced in upon us, and said, as he entered, I come, to use the words of Shak- speare, slewed in haste. In fact, he had ridden incredibly last after receiving my note. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had now gotten a story for a dvamn, which he was to call Rob Macqueehan.' s Eishon, from a popular story of Robert Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, when the heel of his boot having loosened in his flight he applied to Robert Mazquechan to fix it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up tho king's heel. We were now going on at a great rate, when Mr S popped iu his head; which put a stop to our discourse, which had become very interesting. Yet in a little while it was resumed, and such was the force and versatility of the bard's genius, that he made the tears run down Mr S 's cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. .... From that time we met no more, and I was grieved at the reports of him afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its motions, which did not do good proportioned to the blaze of light it displayed. " In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- men, who had before met with him in Edin- burgh, made a visit to him at Ellisland. On calling at the house, they were informed that he had walked out on ihe banks of the river ; and dismounting from their horses, they pro- ceeded in search of him. On a rock that pro- jected into the stream, they saw a man employ- ed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made o'' a fox's skin on his head, a loose great-coat fixed round him by a belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broad-sword. It was Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share his humble dinner — an invitation which they accepted. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetables and barley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, of which they partook heartily. After dinner, the bard told them ingenuously that he had no wine to offer them, nothing better than Highland whisky, a bottle of which Mrs Burns set on the board. He produced at the same time his punch- bowl, made of Inverary marble, and, mixing the spirits with water and sugar, filled their glasses, and invited them to ,drink. * The * This bowl was made of the stone of which Inverary house is built, the mansion of the family of Argyle. .. -.. ' BURNS LIFE. « travellers were in haste, and besides, the flavour of the whisky to their touthron pa- lates was scarcely tolerable; but the gen- erous poet offered thein his best, and bis ardent hospitality they found it impossible to resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the charms of bis conversation were altogether fascinating. He ranged over a great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. He related the tales of his infancy and of his youth ; he recited some of the gayest and some of the teuderest of his poems ; in the wildest of his strains of mirth, he threw in touches of melancholy, and spread around him the elec- tric emotions of his powerful mind. The high- laud whisky improved in its flavour ; the marble bowl was again and again emptied and replen- ished ; the guests of our poet torgot the iiight of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the hour of midnight they lost their way in return- ing to Dumfries, and could scarcely distin- guish it when assisted by the morning's Besides his duties in the Excise and his so- cial pleasures, other circumstances interfered with the attention of Burns to his farm. He engaged in the formation of a society for pur- chasing and circulating books among the far- mers of his neighbourhood, of which he un- dertook the management ; and he occupied himself occasionally in composing songs for the musical work of Mr Johnson, then in the course of publication. These engagements, useful and honourable in themselves, contri- buted, no doubt, to the abstraction of his thoughts from the business of agriculture. The consequences may be easily imagined. Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and good management of Mrs Burns, and though his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to resign his farm to Mr Miller ; after having oc- cupied it three years and a half. His office in the Excise had originally produced about fifty pounds per annum. Having acquitted him- self to the satisfaction of the Board, he had been appointed to a new district, the emolu- ments of which rose to about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping to support himself and his family on this humble income till promo- tion should reach him, he disposed of his stock and of his crop on Ellisland by public auction, and removed to a small house which he had tak- en in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in social parties, had abstained from the habit- ual use of strong liquors, and his constitution had not suffered any permanent injury from the irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations to the si7i that so eusily beset him, continually presented themselves ; and his ir- regularities grew by degrees into habits. These temptations unhappily occurred during his en- gagements in the business of his office, as well as during his hours of relaxation ; and though he clearly foresaw the consequence of yielding to them, his appetites and sensations, which could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over all the powers of his will. Yet this victory was not obtained with- out many obstinate struggles, and at times temperance and virtue seemed to have obtained the mastery. Besides his engagements in the Excise, and the society into which they led, many circumstances contributed to the melan- choly fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him an object of interest and curiosity to stran- gers, and few persons of cultivated minds pas- sed through Dumfries without attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his conversation. As he could not receive them under his own humble roof, these interviews passed at the inns of the town, and often ter- minated in those excesses which Burns some- times provoked, and was seldom able to resist. And among the inhabitants of Dumfries and its vicinity, there were never wanting persons to share his social pleasures ; to lead or accom- pany him to the tavern ; to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit; to witness the strength and degradation of his genius. Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste and respectabiiitv, and in their company could impose on himself the restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor was his muse dormant. In the four years which he lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that he attempted any poem of considerable length. During this time, he made several excursions into the neighbouring country, of one of which through Galloway, an account is preserved in a letter of Mr Syme, written soon after; which, as it gives an animated picture of him by a correct and masterly hand, we shall pre- sent to the reader. " I got Burns a grey highland ehelty to ride on. We dined the lir=t day, 27th July, 1793, at Glendenwynes cf Parton ; a beautiful situa- tion on the banks of the Dee. In the evening we walked out, and ascended a gentle eminence, from which we had as fine a view of Alpine scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful soft evening showed all its wilder as well as its grander graces. Immediately opposite, and within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep no more for me. f This was classical ground for Burns. He viewed '• the highest hill which rises o'er the source of Dee;" and would have staid till "the passing spirit" had appealed, had we not resolved to reach Kenmore that night. We arrived as Mr and Mrs Gordon were sitting down to supper, " Here is a genuine baron's seat. The cas- tle, an old building, stands on a large natural moat. In front, the river Ken winds for se- veral miles through the most fertile and beauti- ful holmX till it expands into a lake twelve f A beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins thus : The moon had climb 'd the highest hill . Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And, from the eastern summit, shed Its silver light on tower and tree. ^ The level low ground on the banks of a river or stream. This word should be adopted from the Scottish, as, indeed, ought several others of the same nature. That dialect is singularly copious and exact in the denomina- tions of natural objects. 43 DIAMOND CAEIXLT LIZHA5LY. miles long, (lie banks of which, on the south, present a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, natural wood, and here and there a grey rock. On the north, the aspect is great, wild", and I may say, tremendous. In short, I can scarcely conceive a scene more terribly roman- tic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun the work. We spent three days with Air Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an original and endearing kind. Airs Gordon "s lap-dog, Echo, was dead. She would have an epitaph for him. Several had been made. Burns was asked for one. This was setting Hercules to his aistaff. He disliked the sub- ject ; but, to please the lady, he would In. Here is what he produced : la wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore ; Now half extinct your powers of scng, Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring screeching things aroaud, Scream your discordant joy s ; Now half your din of tuners sound With Echo silent lies. •' We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. I ;ook him the moor road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide arour.d. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of the soil; it became lowering and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet ecjuyed the awful scene — he spoke not a word, but seeuicd wrapt in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fail; it poured in floods upon as. For three hours did the wild elements iT.-nu.ie their UUy-JuU upon our defenceless heads. Oh, oh I 'twas foul. We got utterly wet ; and to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gate- house on our getting utterly drunk. ** From Gaiehouse, we went nest day to Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But here I must tell y ou that Burns had got a pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which ha«i been thoroughly wet, and which had Lceii crm la such a manner that it was not possible to get thera on again. — The brawny poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. A w Milling vexation of this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. We were going to Saint Mary's Lie, the" seat of the Earl o( Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick stoinaeii, and a heart-ache, lent their aid, and the man of \erse was quite cccaiU. I attempted to reason \vi h him. 'Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage I Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedients, and at last bit on one that succeeded. I showed him the house of • • • •, across the bay of Wigton. Against • • • •, with whom he was offended, he expectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a most epigram- matic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one • • • whom ne docs not iove. He had a passing blow at him. When , deceased, to the devil went down, [own crown: 'Twas nothing wonid serve him tut Satan's Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall I gram thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so •« Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our poet, without boots. I carried the tarn ruins across ray saddle in spite of his fuiininations, and in contempt of appearances ; and what is more, Lcrd Selkirk carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they '• We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. 1 haa promised that "we should diua with one of the lirst men in our countrv, J. Dalzeil. But Burns was in a wild and obstre- perous humour, and swore he would not dine where he should be under the smallest restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr Dalzeil to dine with us in the inn, and had a very agree- able party. In the evening we set out for St Mary 'a Isle. Kobert haa cot absolutely re- gained the milkiuess of good temper, and it occurred once or twice to h;m, as he rode along, thai at Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord; yet that Lord was not an aristocrate, at least in his sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and coffee. Sc Mary's Lie is one of the most de- lightful places that can, iu my opiaion.be form- ed by the assemblage of every soft but not tame object which constitutes natural and cul- tivated beauty. But not to dwell ou its exter- nal graces, let me tell you that we found all tLe .auiesof the rami. \ (ail beautiful,) at home, a:.c eouie slracgers ; and among others, who tut Urban; J Ihe ltaiian sung us many Scot- tish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung a^so. We had the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked for, to ha\e an opportunity of calling on Bums to recite his b'a>iad to that tune. He d d recite it ; and such was the effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such a siience as a mind of feeling naturally pie. serves when it is touched with that enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but the contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad. The fastidious critic may perhaps say, some cf the sentiments and imagery are of too eleva- ted a kind for such a siyle of composition ; for instance, "Thou bolt of Heaven that pass- es! by ;" and, "' Ye mustering thunder,'' 6tc. ; but this is a colc-b, coded objection, which will be said rather than Jelt. •' We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Seikirk 's. We had, iu every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delight- ed with bis company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The lion that had raged so vio- lently in the morning, was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to> Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the wilds or Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in medi- tation. What do you think he was about? He was charging the English army, along with Bruce, at Banuockburn. He was engaged iu the same manner on our ricle home from St Mary's Lie, and I uid not disturb him. Next day he produced me the following address of BURNS— LIFE. 43 Bruce to hie troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell. ' Scot3, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' &c." Burns bad entertained hopes cf promotion ■n the Excise; but circumstances occurred A-hich retarded their fulfilment, and which, in his own mind, desiro\ed all expectation of ibeir being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary ■jvents which ushered in the revolution of France, interested tbe feelings, and excited the jopes of men in every corner of Europe. Pre- judice and tyranny seemed about to disappear from among men, and the day-star of reu.-on to i e upon a benighted world. In the dawn of his beautiful morning, the genius cf French ieedom appeared on our southern horizon with •he countenance of an angel, but speedily as- sumed the features of a iltmon, and vanished n a shower of blood. Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, turns had shared in the original hopes enter- lined of this astonishing revolution, by ardent nd benevolent minds. The novelty and the azard of the attempt meditated by the First, r Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is robable, to recommend it to his daring tem- per ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be iven to every kind of talents, was doubtless . ratifying to the feelings of conscious but in- ignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ; jin that was to be the immediate consequence •fan enterprise, which, on its commencement, i romised so much happiness to the human '» ice. And even after the career of guilt and f blood commenced, he could not immediately, ; may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze Irom a people who had so lately breathed the -entiments of universal peace and benignity, r obliteiate in his besom the pictures of hope nd of happiness to which those sentiments .'.ad given birth. Under these impressions, he id not always conduct himself with the cir- •jmspection and prudence which his depend- ,it situation seemed to demand. He engaged ideed in no popular associations so common ■ t tbe time of which we speak ; but in com- ;any he did not conceal his opinions of public . .leasures, or of the reforms required in the ■-.is social and unguarded moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence, nformalion of this was given to the Board of Excise, with the exaggerations so general in • ach cases. A superior officer in that de- artmeut was authorized to inquire into his < onduct. Burns defended himself in a letter ddressed to one of the board, written with reat independence of spirit, and with more ran his accustomed eloquence. The officer ppointed to inquire into his conduct gave a avourable report. His steady friend, Mr iraham of Fiutra, interposed his good offices a his behalf; and the imprudent gauger was uffered to retain his situation, but given to inderstand that his promotion was deferred, md must depend on his future behaviour. This circumstance made a deep impression •n the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his nisconduct, and represented him as actually dismissed from his office : and this report in- duced a gentleman of much respectability to propose a subscription in his favour. The offer was refused by our poet in a letter ot great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives an account of the whole of this transaction, and defends himself from imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, from the charge of having made svl missions for the sake of his office, unworthy of his char- *' The partiality of my countrymen,'" he ob- serves, " has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to sup- port. In the poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I hope have been fcund in the man. Reasons of no lets weight than the support of a wife and children, have pointed out my present occupation as the only eligible line of life within my reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of the degrading epithets that malice or misrepre- sentation may affix to my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy ma- lice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the/, ;/c?cmqA> of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held up to public view, and yet, (jiiite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk cut tbe rest of: his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. lodge my strong disavowal and delianceof such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but - I Kill say it! the sterling of his honest worth, poverty could not debase, and his inde- pendent British spirit, oppression might bend, but c uid i t su! c of the last acts of his life to copy this letter into his look of manuscripts, ac- companied by some additional remarks on the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a season of universal alarm for the safety cf the constitution, the indiscreet expressions of a man so powerful as Burns, should have attracted notice. Tbe times certainly required extraor- dinary vigilance in ihose intrusted with the admiuistralion of the government, and to insure the safety of the constitution was dcubtlesi their first duty. Yet generous minds will la- ment that their Pleasures of precaution should have robbed the imagination of our poet of the last prop on which his hopes of independence rested, and by embittering his peace, have ag- gravated those excesses which were soon to conduct him to an untimely grave. Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many improper and un- guarded expressions, there seems no reason to doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of government. In his common-place book, where he could have no temptation to disguise* are tbe following sentiments — ""Whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever adjured the idea. A constitution which, in its original principles, experience has proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it would be in- sanity to abandon for an untried visionary theory." In conformity to these sentiment^. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. when the pressing nature of public affairs call- ed in ] 795 for a general arming of the people, Burns appeared in the ranks of the Pum'ries volunteers, and employed his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism ; and at this season of alarm, he brought forward the fol- lowing Lr.mn, worthy of the Grecian muse, ■when Greece was most conspicuous for genius nnd valour. Scene— A FieU of Ba'ile—Time of the day, Eieuinz—lke icounced and dying if the vic- torious army at e supposed io join in the fol- lowing Song. Farewell, thou fair dav, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now -ay wi-h the bright setting sun ; Farewell, loves aud friendships, ye dear tender Oar race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy No terrors hast thou to the brave ! TLou stracest the dull peasant, he sicks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; Thou strikest the young hero - a glorious mark! He falis in the blaze of his fame ! la the Seld of proud honour— our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save — ■ While victory shines on life''s last ebbing sands, O ! who would not rest with the brave ! * Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns had in his constitution the peculiarities and the delicacies that belong to the temperament of genius. He was liable, from a very early pe- riod of life, to that interruption in the process of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes the cause of depression of spirits. Connected with this disorder of the stomach, there was a disposition to head-ache, affecting more especially the temples and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied by violent and irregular movements of the heart. Endowed by nature ■with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions ; to fe\er of body as well as of mind. This predisposition * This poem was written in 1791. I: was printed in Johnson's Musical Museum. The poet had an intention, in the latter part of his life, of printing it separately, set to music, but was advised against it, or at least discour- cged from it. The martial ardour which rose fco high afterwards, on the threatened invasion, had not then acquired the tone necessary to give popularity to this noble poem ; which, to the editor, seems more calculated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season of real and pressing danger, than any production of modern times. It is here printed with his last correc- i disease, which strict temperance in diet, >gu!ar exercise, and sound sleep, might have ulated by subdued, habits of a different cat ened and inflamed. Perpetually alcohol in one or other of its vai"ic„- .„ inordinate actions of the circulating system be- came at length habitual : the process of nutri- tion was unable to supply the waste, and the powers of life began to "fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there was an evident de- cline in our poet's personal appearance, and though his appetite continued unimpaired, he was himself sensible that his constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought he reflect- ed with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the goal towaids which he was hastening, without the strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to slacken his course. His temper now became more irritable and gloomy ; he fled from himself into societv often of the lowest kind. And in such con;'- pany, that part of the convivial scene, in which wine increases sensibility and excites benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled pas- sion generally presided. He who suffers the pollution of inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution ? Eut let us refrain from the mention of errors over which delicacy and humanity craw the veil. In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- cess and forgiveness, except in the gnawings of his own remorse. He acknowledged his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, pro- mised amendment, and again and again re- ceived pardon for his offences. But as the strength of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predomina- ting strength. From October, 1792, Io the January follow- ing, an accidental complaint confined hm to the house. A few days after he began to go abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home about three o'clock in a very cold morning, be- numbed and intoxicated. This was followed by an attack of rheumatism, which confined him about a week. His appetite now began to fail : his hand shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His pulse becami >f the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and too well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- covery, he was ever musing on the approaching desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk into a uniform gloom. It was hoped by seme of his friends, that if he could Ihe through the months of spring, the succeeding season might restore him. But they were disappointed. The genial beams of the sun infused no vigour into his languid frame; the summer wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the latter end of June he was advised to go into the country, and, impatient of medical advice, as we'd as of every species of control, he deter- mined for himseif to try the effects of bathing in the sea. For this purpose he took up his residence at Brow, in Anuandale, abcut ten miles cast of Dun.fries, on the shore of the Polwav-Frith. It happened that at that time BURNS LIFE. 61 whom Tie had been connected" in friendship by the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing in the immediate neighbourhood. Being in- formed of his arrival, she invited him to din- ner, and sent her carriage for him to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. — *« I was struck," says this lady (in a confi- dential letter to a friend written soon after), •« with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His tirst salutation was • Well, madam, have you any commands for the other world?' I replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soon- est, and that I hoped that he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kindness and expressed his con- cern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and 6erious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of nil his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philo- sophy, but with firmness as well as feeling - as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotected, and his pectation of lying in of alifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the pro- mising genius of his eldest sen, and the flatter- ing marks of approbation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy 's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the re- flection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. Pass- ing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his literary fame, and particu- larly the publication of his posthumous works. He "saidhe was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation: that let- ters and verses written with unguarded and improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be Landed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would re- strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their venom to blast his fame. " He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he en- tertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; and many indiffer- ent poetical pieces, which he feared would |nm, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he The lady goes on to mention many other topit'9 hich he spoke. — 'The shetv with great evenness and ; I had seldom sren his mind greater collected. There wa., frequent!} a ,1 up able degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, hed not the concern and dejection I could not dis- guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. " We parted cbout sun-et on the evening of that day (the 5th of July, 179G); the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted to meet At lirst, Burns imagined bathing in the sea had been of benefit to him: the pains in his limbs were relieved ; but this was immediately followed by a new attack of fever. When brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand upright. At. this time a tremor per- vaded his frame ; his tongue was parched, and jiiud = del:r ersation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength dimi- nished. On the fourth, the sufferings of this great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, and a life was closed in which virtue and pas- sion had been at perpetual variance.* 'the death of Burns made a strong and general impression on all who had interested themselves in his character, and especially on the inhabitants of the town and county in which he had spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant jis his follies and errors had been, they had not deprived him of the respect and regard entertained for the extraordinary powers of his genius, and the generous qualities of his heart. The Gentlemen Volunteers of Dum- fries determined to bury their illustrious asso- ciate with military honours, and every prepar- ation was made to render this last service solemn and impressive. The Fencibie Infan- try of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance on this oc- casion ; the principal inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them from a considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of July, the remains of Burns were re- moved from his house to the Town-Hall, and the funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the volunteers, selected to perform the military duty in the church-yard, stationed themselves in the front of the procession, with their arms reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on which were placed the hat and sword of their friend and feilow-soldier ; the numerous body of attendants ranged themselves in the rear ; while the Fencibie regiments of infantry and cavalry lined the streets from the Town-Hall to the burial-ground in the Southern church- yard, a distance of more than half a mile. ihe whole process : on moved forward to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Dead March in Saul : and three volleys fired over his grave, marked the return of Burns to his parent earth ! 'Ihe spectacle was in a high degree grand and solemn, and accorded with * The particulars respecting the illness and death of Burns were obligmgly furnished by Dr Maxwell, the physician who attended 53 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow ■which the occasion had called forth. It was an affecting circumstance, that on the morning of the day of her husband's fune- ral, .Mrs Burns was undergoing the pains of labour, and that, during the solemn service we have just been describing, the posthumous son of our poet was born. fhis infant boy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. lie has already become an inhabitant of the s-me grave with'his celebrated father- The t\>ur other children of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time about ten years of age) yet survive, and give every pro- mise of pruuenee and virtue tUat can be ex- pected from their tender vears. They remain under the care of their affectionate mother in Dumfries, and are enjoying the means of edu- catioa which the excellent schools of that town afford : the teachers of which, in their conduct to the children of Burns, do thesis* ; ; grea honour. On this occasion, the name of Mr Wtiyie deserves to be particularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science. * Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- pendence of his spirit, and the exemplary pru- dence of his wire, had preserved him from debt. He had received from his poems a clear profit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sjm, the part expended on his library (which was far from extensive) and in the humble furniture of his house, remained; and obliga- tions were found for two hundred pounds advanced by hi.n to the assistance of those to whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still more bj thos= of esteem and affection. When it is considered, that his expenses in Ediu. the Rxeise was and never rose that his family v a jonri thai , could not t lileral stances were so poor, or that, as bis health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk under the secret consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither c'jicauery ncr sordidness ever appeared in his conduct. He carried h s disregard of money to a blameable excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily to the world, and received with a jealous reluctance every offer of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured hiai great celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for the latter offsprings of his pen might have produced him considerable emolument. la the year Ko'd, the Editor of a London news- paper, high in its character for l.terature, and independence of sentiment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish ihem, once a- •week, with an article for their poetical depart- ment, and receive from them a recompense of fifty-two guineas per annum; an offer wh;?ii the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he hid for several years furnished, and was at that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful .vrics, w.thou. fee or regard, * The author of SV Gordon's WeU. a poem ; and of A Tribute lo the Memory tfB :.=. and waj obstinately refusing all recompense for his assistance to the greater work of Mr Thomson, which the justice and generosity of that gentlemen was pressing upon him. The seQse of his poverty, and of the ap- proaching distress of his infant family, pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed" of death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with something approaching to his wonted gaiety. — " What business," said he to Dr .Maxwefl, who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has a physician to waste his lime on me ? I am a poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas! I have not feathers enough upon me to carry me to my grave." And wnen his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- choly train ; the horrors of a jaii were continu- ally present to his troubled imagination, and produced the mot affecting exclamations. As for some months prewous to his death he had been incapable of th; duties of his office, Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced one half, as is usual in such "case-;. The Board, however, to their honour, continued his full emolument* ; and Mr Graham of Fintra, hearing of his illness, though unacquainted with its dangerous nature, made an offer of his assistance towards procuring him the means of preserving his healtn. —"Whatever might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the num- ber Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are found of the sense he entertained of Mr Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards that gentleman has induced us to suppress; and on the last occasion there is no doubt tuat his heart overflowed towards him, though he had no longer the power of expressing his Feeli ga.* On'the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dumfries aud its neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife and family; and Mr Miller, Mr M'Murdo, Dr Maxwell, and Mr Syme, gentlemen of the first respectability, became trustees for the application of the money to its proper objects. The subscription was extended to oth-r parts of Scjtiand, and of England also, particularly London and Liverpool. By this means a suoi was raised amounting lo seven hundred pounds ; and thus the widow and children were rescued fiom immediate distress, and the most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this sura, though equal to iheir present support, is in- sufficient 10 secure them from future penury. Their hope in regard to futurity depends ou the favourable reception of those volumes from the public at large, in the promoting of which the candour aou humanity of the reader may induce him to lend bis assistance. form that indicated agility as well a His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. His ej es were large, dark, full of ardour and intelligence. H.s face was well formed; and his countenance uncommonly interesting aud * The letter to Mr Graham alluded to abov?, is dated on the 13th of July, and probably or- rived on the 15th. Burns became delirious on the Ktb or lS.h and di?d on the 21-t. BURNS. -LIFE. 53 expressive. His mode of dressing-, which was ofleu slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend in his shoulders, characteristic cf his original profession, disguised in some degree the natu- ral symmetry and elegance of his form. The external appearance of Burns was most strik- ingly indicative of the character of his mind, hio physiognomy had - — air of express io iriih a deep penetration, and of calm htfulness approaching to melancholy. There appeared in nis first manner and address, perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern and almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, incompatible with openness and affability, which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of superior talents Strangers that supposed themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, who could make rhymes, and to whotn their notice was an honour, found themselves speed- ily overawed by the presence of a man who bore himself with dignity, and who possessed a singular power ot correcting forwardness and of repelling intrusion. But though jealous of the respect due to himself, Burns never enforced it where he saw it was willingly paid j ant though inaccessible to the approaches of prid he was open to every advance of kindness ana of benevolence. His dark and haughty coun- tenance easily relaxed into a look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, as- sumed with equal ease the expression of the Lroadest humour, of the most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sub- lime emotion. The tones of his voice happily corresponded with the expression of his fea- tures, and with the feelings ot his mind. "When to these endowments are added a rapid and distinct apprehension, a most powerful under- standing, and a happy command of language — of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall be able to account for the extraordinary attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery which in his social parties he seemed to exert on all around him. In the company of women this sorcery was more especially apparent. Their presence charmed the fiend cf melancholy in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, by restrain- ing the vehemence and the exuberance of his language, at times gave to his manners the impression of taste, and even of elegance, which in the company of men they seldom pos- sessed. This influence was doubtless recipro- cal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed to the best society, declared with characteristic naivete, that no man's conversation ever carried her so completely off her feet as that of Burns ; and an English Lady, familiarly acquainted with se- veral of the most distinguished characters of the present times, assured the editor, that in the happiest of his social hours, there was a charm aLout Burns which she had never seen equalled. The charm arose not more from the power than the versatility of his genius. No languor could be felt in the society of a man who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the simple to the sublime ; who wielded ail his faculties with equal strength and ease, and never failed to impress the offspring of his fancy with the stamp of his understanding, 4 This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties, he was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the inso- lence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality of fortune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singu- lar degree compassionate, he was on the other hand proud, irascible, and vindictive. H>9 virtues and his failings had their origin in the extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and equally partook of the chills and glows of senti- ment. His friendships were liable to interrup- tion from jealou=y or disgust, and his enmities died away under the influence of pity or self- accusation. His understanding was equal to the other powers of his mind, and his deliberate opinions were singularly candid and just; but, like other men of great and irregular genius, the opinions which he delivered in conversation were often the offspring of temporary feelings, and widely different from the calm decisions of his judgment. This was not merely true re- specting the characters of others, but in regard to some of the most important points of human speculation. On no subject did he give a more striking; proof of the strength of his understanding than in the correct estimate he formed of himself. He knew his own failings; he predicted their consequence; the melancholy forecoding was never long absent from hi^ mind; yet his pas- sions carried him down the stiearn of error, and swept him over the precipice he saw di- rectly in his course. The fatal defect in his character lay in the comparative weakness of his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, which governing the conduct according to the dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it to be denominated rational; which is the pa- rent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; which, by regulating and combining human exertions, may be said to have affected all that is great in the works of man, in literature, in science, or in the face of nature. The occupa- tions of a pott are not calculated to strengthen the governing powers of the mind, or to weak en that sensibility which requires perpetual control, since it gives birth to the vehemence of passion as well as to the higher powers cf imagination. Unfortunately the favourite oc- cupations of genius are calculated to increase all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride, which disdains the littleness of prudence, and the restrictions of order ; and, by indulgence, to increase that sensibility, which, in the present form of our existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or happiuess, even when accompanied with the choicest gifts of fortune. It is observed by one who was a friend and associate of Burns, * and who has contemplated and explained the system of animated nature, that no sentient being, with mental powers greatly superior to those of men, could possibly live and be happy in this world. — " If such a being really existed, ' ' continues lie, " his misery would be extreme. With senses more delicate and refined ; with perceptions more acute and I * Smellie— See his Philosophy of Ac/arc J I History, Vol. h p. 526. M DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. penetrating ; with a teste so exquisite that the objects around him would by no means gratify it: obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for his frame ; he must he tern only to be miserable, and the ctntiuuationof his existence would be utterly impossible. Even in our present condition, tLe sameness and the insipi- dity of objects acd pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and the infinite sources of excru- ciating pain, are supported with great difii- culty by cultivated and refined minds. In- crease cur sensibilities, continue the same ob- jects and situation, and no man could hear to Thus it appear?, that cur powers of sensa- lion, as weil as all cur other powers, ere adapted to the scene of cur existence; that they are limited in mercy, as well as in wis- Ihe speculations of Ki Smellie are not to be considered as the dreams cf a theorist ; they weie probably founded en sad experience. The being he supposes, " with senses more de- licate and refined, with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be found in real life. He is cf the temperament cf genius, end per- haps a poet. Is there, thtn, no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? Are there no means by which the happiness" of one so constituted by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it will he found, that regular aid constant occupation, irksome though it may at first be, is the true remedy. Occupation in which the powers c" the understanding are exercised, will diminisl the force of external impressions, and keep thi imagination under restraint. lhat the bent of every man's mind shculd be followed in his education and in his destina- tion in life, is a maxim which has been often repeated, but which cannot he admitted with- out many restrictions. It may be generally true when applied to weak minds, which, being capable of little, must be encouraged and strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that little is produced, t'ut where indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought fre- quently to he the role of conducr. In minds of a higher order, the object of instruction and of discipline is very often to restrain rather than to impel ; to curb the impulses cf imagination that the passions also may be kept under cc trol.* Hence the advantages, even in a lr ral point of view, of studies of a severe natui * Quinctilian discusses the important ques- tion, whether the bent of the individual's ge- nius should be followed in his education {an eecun-iam eui quisque ingenii docenaus sit ?.a~ turam), chiefly, indeed, with a reference to the orator, but in a way that admits of very gene- ral application. His conclusions coincide very- much with ihcse of the text. An rere lie- crates mm de Efhoro atque Theopnmpo sicjndi- caret, ut alteri frenis, alteri calcaribus opus esse aiceret ; aut in Mo lenticre taiditate-m, aut in Mo feme prcccipiii ccucitatic?itm aajuva/i- dum decendo existimavit ? turn alttrum (Uterine natura miscen-lum artitraretur. Imttcilis ta. men ingenue sane sic otsequendum sit, ut tan. turn in id quo vecat natura, dixanlur. Ita inim, quod tolum poseunt, melius efficient.— Jnstii. Orator, lib. ii. 9, which, while they iufcrm the understanding* employ the volition, that regulating power of the n.ir.o, which, like all other faculties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the supericr- ity of which, virtue, happiness, and honour- able fame, are wholly dependent. Hence a;to the advantage cf regular and constant applica- tion, which aids the voluntary power by the production of habits so necessary to the sup- port of order and virtue, and so difScult to be iormed in the temperament cf genius. The man who is so endow eu and so regu. lated, may pursue his course with confidence in almost any of the various w alks of life w bich, choice or accident shall open to him ; and pro- viced he employs the talents he has cultivated, may hope lor such imperfect happiness, and such limited success, as are reasonably expect- ed from human exertions. The pie-eminence among men, which pro- cures personal respect, and which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- tained by the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has been acquired by those only who have possessed the comprehension ana the energy of general talents, aud who have regulated their applica- tion, in the line which choice, or perhaps acci- dent may ha\e determined, by the dictates of' their jvifgment. Imagination is supposed, and; with justice, to be the leading faculty of the poet. Eut what poet has stood the test cf time by the force of this single faculty '{ \* ho does not see that Homer and Shakspeare ex- celled the rest cf their species in understand- ing as well as in imagination ; that they wtie pre-eminent in the highest species of know- ledge- the knowledge cf the nature and char- acter of man ? On the other hand, the ialent of ratiocinaticn is more especially requisite to the cialor; hut no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by the highest excellence in this single talent, who dees not perceive thtt Demosthenes and Cicero were not more happy in their addresses to the reason, than in their appeals to the passions ? Ihey knew, that to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are among the most potent arts of pel suasion ; and they enforced their impression on the understanding, by their command cf all the .sympathies of the heart. These observations might he extended to other walks cf life. He who has the facul- ties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties which, duly governed and Differently directed, might lead to pre-eminence in other, and, as far as respects himself, perhaps in happier destina- tions. 1 he talents necessary to the construction of an Iliad, under difierent discipline and appli- cation, might have led armies to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded the thunder cf eloquence, or discovered and enlarged the sciences that constitute the pew er, and improve the condition of cur species.f + The reader must not suppose it is contended that the same individual ccuict have excelled in all these directions. A certain degree of in- struction and practice is necessary to excel* lence in every one, and life is too short to admit of one man, however great bis talents, acquiring this in all of them. It is only assert- ed, that the same talents differently applied, might have succeeded in o^ eve, though per* BURNS. -LIFE. 55 haps, not equally well in each. And, after all, this position requires certain limitations, which the reader's candour and judgment will supply. In supposing that a great poet might have made a great orator, the physical qualities necessary to oratory are presupposed. In sup- posing that a great orator might have made a great poet, it is a necessary condition, that he should have devoted himself to poetry, and that he should have acquired a proficiency in metrical numbers which by patience and attention may be acquired, though the want of it has embar- rassed and chilled many of the first efforts of true poetical genius. In supposing that Homer might have led armies to victory, more indeed is assumed than the physical qualities of a gene- ral. To these must be added that hardihood of mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty and danger, which great poets and orators are found sometimes, but not always, to possess. The nature of the institutions of Greece and Rome produced more instances of single indi- viduals who excelled in various departments of active and speculative life, than occur in modern Europe, where the employments of men are subdivided. Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity excelled in literature and in oratory. That they had the minds of great poets, a'so will be admitted., when the qualities are justly appreciated which are necessary to excite, combine, and command the active ener- gies of a great body of men, to rouse that enthu- siasm wh.ch sustains fatigue, hunger, and the inclemencies of (he elements, and which tri- umphs over the fear of death, the most power- ful instinct of our nature. The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in favour of the close connection between the poet and the orator. Est enim fiuitimus eratori voeta, numeris adstriclior pau'o, verboriim autem licenlia liberior, cjc. De Orator, lib. i. c. 16. See also, lib. iii. c. 7. —It is true the example of Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. His attempts in verse, which are praised by Plutarch, did not meet the approbation of Juvenal, or of many others. Cicero probably did not take sufficient time to learn the art of the poet : but that he had the afflatus necessary to poetical excellence, may be abundantly proved from his compositions in prose. On the other hand, nothing is more clear, than that, in the character of a great poet, all the mental qualities as -an orator are included. It is said by Quinctilian of Homer, Omnibus elo- quent ice parlibus exenplum et ortuin dedit. Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore re- commended to the orator, as of the first impor- tance. Of the two sublime poets in our < language, who are scarcely inferior to Hot Shakspeare, and Milton, a similar recomn dation may be given. How much an acqu tance with them has availed the great or who is now the pride and ornament of English bar, need not be mentioned, nor need we point out by name a character which may be appealed to with confidence when we are contending for the universality of genius. The identity, or at least the great similarity of the talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, painting, and war, will be admitted them info fu'l exertion are rarer still. But safe and salutary occupations may be found for men of genius in every direction, while the useful and ornamental arts remain to be culti- ated, while the sciences remain to be studied .nd to be extended, and the principles of cience to be applied to the correction and im- irovement of art. Iu the temperament of sen- ibility, which is in truth the temperament of reneral talents, the principal object of discip- ine and instruction is. as has already been nentioned, to strengthen the self-command; and tliis may be promoted by the direction of the studies, more effectually "perhaps than has been generally understood. If these observations be founded in truth, !hey may lead to practical consequences of some importance. It has been too much the custom to consider the possession of poetical talents as excluding the possibility of application to the severer branches of study, and as in some de- gree incapacitating the possessor from attaining those habits, and from bestowing that attention, which are necessary to success in the details life. It has been common for persons conscious of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain, on other kinds of intellectual excellence, and absolved from these rules of prudence by which humbler minds are restricted. They ara too much disposed to abandon themselves to their own sensa ijns, and io sutler life to pass away without regular exertion, or settled purpose. But though men of genius are generally prone to indolence, with them indolence and unhuppiness are in a more especial manner al- lied. The unbidden splendours of imagination may indeed at times irradiate the gloom which inactivity produces ; but such visions, though bright, are transient, and serve to cast the re- alises of life into deeper shade. In bestowing great talents, Nature seems very generally to have imposed on the possessor the necessity of exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. Better for him than sloth, toils the most pain- ful, or adventures the most hazardous. Hap- pier to him than idleness, were the condition of the peasant, earning with incessant labour by some, who will be inclined to dispute the extension of the position to science or natural knowledge. On this occasion I may quote the following observations of Sir William Jones, whose own example will, however, far exceed in weight the authority of his precepts. " Abul Clo had so nourishing a reputation, that several persons of uncommon genius were ambitious of learning the art of poetry from s able His >-t ilk; : =cho- Feleki and Khakar . less eminent for their Persian compositions, than for their skill in every branch of pure and mixed mathematics, and particularly in astro- nomy ; a striking proof that a sublime poet may become master of any kind of learning which he chooses to profess ; since a fine imagination, a lively wit, an easy and copious style, cannot possibly obstruct the acquisition of any science whatever ; but must necessarily assist him in his studies, and shorten his labour." Sir WLliam Jones's Works, Vol. II. p. 317. DIAMOND CABINET LIURART. his scanty food ; or that at the sailor, though hanging ou the yard-arm and wrestling with ihe hurricane. These observations might be amply illustrat- ed by the biography of men of genius cf every denomination, and more especially by the bio- graphy of the poets. Of this last description of men, few seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of happiness that falls to the lot of hu- manity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry as an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from other occupations, ot small number who have engaged with success in the greater or more arduous attempts of th« muse, iu which all the faculties of the rnind have been fully aud permanently employed. Even tasie, virtue, and comparative independ- ence, do not seem capable of bestowing, on men of genius, peace and tranquillity, w ithout such occupation as may give regular and health- ful exercise to the faculties of body and mind. The amiable Sheustcue has left us the records of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his unhappiuess, amidst the shades of the Leas- x o\ves;* aud the virtues, the learning, and the genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempt ot the epic muse, failed to procure him, ia the aca- demic bowers of Cambridge, that tranquillity and that respect which less fastidiousness oi taste, and greater constancy aud vigour of exer- tion, would have doubtless obtained. It is more necessary that men of genius should be aware of the importance of self-com- mand, and of exertion, because their indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappi- uess, but to diseases of mind, and to errors conduct, which are generally fatal. This inte subje : but i dese Villi , it content i or two cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes sought from the melancholy of indolence in practices, which for a time soothe and gratify the sensations, but which in the end involve the sufferer in darker gloom. To command the external circumstances by which happi is affected, is not in human power : but there are various substances in nature which operate on the system of the nerves, so as to give a fic- titious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and to alter the* effect of the external impressions which we receive. Opium is chiefly employed lor this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet, and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohol, the principle cf intoxication iu vinous aud spiritu- ous liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is uni- versally used in the Christian world, f Under f There are a great number of other sub- stauces which may be considered under this point oi view — Tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of the number. These substances essentially differ from each other in their qualities : and an inquiry into the particular effects of each ou the health, morals, and .happiness, of tho^e ■who use them, would be curious and useful. Ihe effects of wine and of opium on the tem- perament' of sensibility, the J^ditor intended to have discussed in this place at some length ; but he fouud the subject too professional to be introduced with propriety. The difficulty of the various wounds to which indolent sensibi- lity is exposed, and under the gloomy appre- hensions respecting futurity to which" it is so often a prey, how strong is the temptation to have recourse to an antidote by which the pain of these wounds is suspended, by which the heart is exhilarated, ideas of hope and of hap- piness are excited iu the mind, and the forms of external nature clothed with new beauty 1 — Elysium opens round, A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, And sauguine hopes dispel your ileeting care ; Aud what was difficult, and what was dire, Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : The happiest of you all that e'er were mad, Or are, or shall Ue, could this folly last. But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom Shuts o'er your head Morning comes ; your cares return With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well May be endured : so may the throbbing head : But such a dim delirium, such a dream Involves you ; such a dastardly despair Unmans your soul, as mada'niug Pentheiu felt, When, baited round Cithffiron's cruel sides, - He saw two suus and double Thebes ascend. Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv. 1. 163. Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- toxication, as they occur in the temperament of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with a degree of truth and energy which nothing but experience could have dictated. There are, indeed, some individuals of this temperament on whom wine produces no cheering influence. On some, even in very moderate quantities, its effects are painfully irritating;* in large doses it excites dark and melancholy ideas ; and in doses still larger, the- fierceness of in- sanity itself. Such men are happily exempted from a temptation, to which experience leaches abandoning any of these narcotics, (if we may so term them,) when inclination is strengthen ed by habit, is well known. Johnson, in his distresses, had experienced the cheering but treacherous influence of wine, and, by a power- ful effort, abandoned it. He was obliged, however, to use tea as a substitute, and this was the solace to which he constantly had re- course under his habitual melancholy. The praises of wine form many of the most beauti- ful lyrics of the poets of Greece and Rome, and modern Europe. Whether opium, which produces visions still more ecstatic, has been the theme of the eastern poets, I do not know, ae is taken in small doses at a time, in pany, where, for a time, it promotes har- ly and social affection. Opium is swallow- ed by the Asiatics in full doses at once; aud the- inebriate retires to the solitary indulgence of his delirious imaginations. Hence the wine- drinker appears in a superior light to the im- biber of opium, a distinction which he owes more to the form, than to the quality of kia liquor. BURNS. —L1FS us the finest dispositions often yield, and the influence of which, when strengthened by habit, it is a humiliating truth, that die most power- ful minds have not been able to resist. It is the more necessary for men of genius to be on their guard against the habitual use of wine, because it is apt to st?al on them insen- sibly ; and because the temptation to excess usually presents itself to them in their social hours, when they a»s alive only to warm and generous emotions, and when prudence and moderation are of .en contemned as selfishness and timidity. It is the more necessary for them to guard against excess in the use of wine, because on them its effects are, physically and morally, in an especial manner, injurious. In proportion to its stimulating inBueiice on the system (on which the pleasurable sensations depend), is the debility that ensues ; a debility that destroys digestion, and terminates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of the body decays, the volition fails; in proportion as the sensations are soothed and gratiued, the sensibility increases; and morbid sensibility is the parent of indolence, because, while it impairs the regulating power of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to exer- tion. Activity, perseverance, and self-com- mand, become more and more difficult, and the great purposes of utility, patriotism, or of honourable ambition, which had occupied the imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble efforts. To apply these observations to the subject of our memoirs, would be a useless as well as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe to the living, not to allow our admiration of great genius, or even our pity for its unhappy des- tiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. But there are sentiments of respect, and even of tenderness, with which this duty should be performed ; there is an awful sanctity which invests the mansions of the dead; "and let those who moralize over the graves of their contemporaries, reflect with humility on their own errors, nor forget how soon they may themselves require the candour and the sym- pathy they are called upon to bestow. Soon after the death of Burns, the following article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from whish it was copied into the Edinburgh news- papers, and into various other periodical pub- lications. It is from the elegant pen of- a lady already alluded to in the course of these me- moirs,* whose exertions for the family of our bard, in the circles of literature and fashion in which she moves, have done her so much honour. " It is not probable that the late mournful event, which is likely to be felt severely in the literary world, as well as in the circle of pri- vate friendship which surrounded our admired poet, should be unattended wi.h the usual pro- fusion of posthumous anecdotes, memoirs, &c. that commonly spring up at the death of every rare and celebrated personage. I shall not at- tempt to enlist with the numerous corps of bio- * §eep, 51. graphers, who, it is probable, may, without possessing his genius, arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising the character or writings of Mr Burns. ' The inspiring man- tle' thrown over him by that tutelary muse who first found him, like the prophet Elisha, ' at his plough"! has been the portion of few, may be the portion of fewer still ; and if it is true that men of genius have a claim in their literary capacities to the legal right of the Bri- tish citizen in a court of justice, that of being tried oidy by his peers, (I borrow here an ex- pression I have frequently heard Burns himself make use of,) God forbid I should, any mote than the generality of other people, assume the flattering and peculiar privilege of silting upon his jury. But the intimacy of our acquaintance for several years past, may perhaps justify my presenting to the public a few of those ideas and observations I have had the opportunity of forming, and which, to the day that closed for ever the scene of his happy qualities and of his errors, I have never bad the smallest cause to deviate in, or to recall. " It will be the misfortune of Bums' reputa- tion, in the records of literature, not only to future generations and to foreign countries, but even with his native Scotland and a number of his contemporaries, that he has been regarded as a poet, and nothing but a poet. It muot not be supposed that 1 consider this title as a trivial one : no person can be more penetrated with the respect due to the wreath bestowed by the muses than myself; and much certainly is due to the merit of a self-taught bard, de- prived of the advantages of a classical educa- tion, and the intercourse of minds congenial to his own, till that period of life, when his native fire had already blazed forth in all its wild graces of genuine simplicity and en- ergetic eloquence of sentiment. But the fact is, that eveu when all his honours are yielded to him, Burns will perhaps be found to move in a sphere less splendid, less dignified, and, eveu in his own pastoral style, less attrac- tive, than several other writers have done; aud that poetry was (I appeal to all who had the advantage of being personally acquainted with him) actually not his forte. If oiuers have climbed more successfully to the heights of Par- nassus, none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery I would almost call it, of fascinating conversation ; the spontaneous eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repartee. His personal endowments were perfectly correspondent with the qualifications of his mind. His form was manly; his action energy itself; devoid, in a great measure, however, of those graces, of that polish, acquired only in the refinement of so- cieties, where in early life he had not the op- portunity to mix ; but where, such was the irresistible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and u | «' The Poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— at the Ploj?h ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue," &c. Burns' Prefatory Address to the Noblemen and Gentle- men of ike Caledonian guni. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His figure certainly bore the authen- tic impress of his birth aud original station in life ; it seemed raiher moulded by nature for the rough exercise of agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the belles Litres. Hi* features were stamped with the haruy charac- ter of independence, and the firmness of con- scious, though not arrogant pre-eminence. I believe no man was ever gifted with a larger portion of the vivida vis animi; the animated expressions of his countenance were almost pe- culiar to himself. The rapid lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiority, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent aud impetuous atiections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye ; sonorous, repiete with the finest modulations, it alter- nately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of satire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say his forte or his foible; for though nature had endowed hi in with a portion of~the most pointed excel- lence in that ' perilous gift, ' he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and some- times unfounded animosities. It was not only that sportiveuess of humour, that " unwary pleasantry, ' which Sterne has described to us v\ ith touches so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently Directed as the caprice of the instant suggested, or the altercations of parties or of persons happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aver- sion. This was not, however, unexcep:ionably the case, his wit (which is no unusual matter indeed) had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied by the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full pointed bon mot, from the dread of injuring its object, the sage of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue ' only to be sought for in the calendar of saints ; ' if so, Burns must not be dealt with unconscientious^ for being rather deficient in it. He paid the forfeit of his talents as dearly as any one could do. * 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic to say of him, as of Yorick, that for every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies :' and much allow- ance should be made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit ' which distress had often spited with the world, ' and which, unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pur- suits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the waywardness of his fortune. The viva- city of his wisues. aud temper was indeed checked by constant disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or inactive, aud his genius was extinguished only with the last sparks of retreating life. His passions render- ed him, according as they disclosed themselves in affection or antipathy, the object of enthusi- astic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for he possessed none of that negative insipidity of character, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resentment could be considered with contempt. In this it should seem the temper of his companions took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledged in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- quently asserted of him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating where he ought to have despised, he alternately opened his heart, and poured forth all the treasures of his un- derstanding to such as were incapable of appre- ciating the homage, and elevated to the privi- leges of an adversary, some who were unquali- fied in talent, or by nature, for the honour of a contest so distinguished. " It is ^aid that the celebrated Dr Johnson professed to "love a good hater,'— a tempera- ment that had singuiarly adapted him to cher- ish a prepossession in favour of our bird, who perhaps fell little short even of the surly Doc- tor in this qualification, as long as the disposi- tion to ill-will continued ; but the fervour of his passions was fortunately tempered by their versatility. He was seldom, never indeed im- placable in his resentments, and sometimes, it has teen alleged, not inviolably steady in his; engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said of his inconstancy and caprice : but I am inclined to believe, they originated less from a levity of sentiment, than from an im- petuosity of feeling, that rendered him prompt to taie umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, where he fancied he had discovered the traces of unkindness, scorn, or neglect, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its ascenden- cy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflec- tion. He was candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoival was a reparation. His native jiurte never forsaking him a mo- ment, the value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold tow ards a generous nnud, from its never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the stronger and more acute operation of the passions, was im- practicable to the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. " It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed in that way himself ; where he paid a compli- ment, it might indeed claim the power of in- toxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes repre- sented, by those who it should seem had a view to detract from, though they could not Lope whoily to obscure tnat native brilliancy, which the powers of this extraordinary man had in- variably bestowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the in- terests of the great, aud enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. The Cot- ter's Saturday Night, Tarn o'Shauter, aud the Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his genius : will be readily traced, and which will be given ; to the public as soon as his friends have collected BURNS. - and arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- selves ; and had they fallen from a hand moie digniiied in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence they really sprung. " To the obscure scene of Burns 's education, and to the laborious, though honourable sta- tion of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, almost every inhabitant in the south of Scotland can give testimony. His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a small farm near Ma-rchhue;* and our poet's e.dest son, (a 1-td of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him to be the inheritor of his father '9 talents as well as indigence,) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the " That Turns had received no classical edu- cation, and was acquainted with the (jieekand Roman authors only through the medium of translations, is a fact that can be indisputably proven. I have seldom seen him at a lo=s in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers were the subjects of discus- sion. Whin I have pressed him to tell me why he never took pains to acquire the Latin, in particular, a language which his happy me- mory had so soon enabled him to be masier of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he already knew all the Latin he desired to learn, and that was, omnia, ctiit.it umor ; a phrase, that from his writings aud most favourite pur- suits, it should undoubtedly stem lie wa thoroughly versed in ; but I really bell classical erudition extended little, if any, far- ther. «« The penchant Mr Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive pleasures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer obji of nature s creation, has been the rallying point where the attacks of his censors, both pious and moral, have been directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he showed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happiness of description, the frolic spirit of the joy-inspiring bowl, cr melt the heart to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the failings he has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill the genial current of the soul, ' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Aua- creon sung beneath his vine ? «« I will not, however, undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities, even of a 1 of genius, though 1 believe it is certainly derstood that genius ne\er was free of im larities, as that their absolution may in a great measure be justly claimed, since it is certain that the world had continued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it * This very respectable and very superior man is now removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents lands on the estate of Clo = eburn, and is a tenaut of the venerable Dr Monteith. f This destination is now altered. decorums of the world, have been s seen to move hand in hand with genius, tha't some Have gone as far as to say, though there I cannot acquiesce, that they are even incom- patible : besides, the frailties that cast their shade over superior merit, =ire more conspicu- ously glaring, than where ihey a ■'tj : 1 the £ we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be soiled, and we never mind it. The eccentric intuitions of genius, tco often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always unbounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its own. No wonder then, if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling anima- tion, or that the calm monitions of reason were not found sufficient to fetter an imagination, which scorned the narrow limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, the child of sen- sibility, unbroke to the refrigerative precepts of philosophy, untaught always to vanquish the passions which were the only source of his frequent errors, Burns makes his own arlless apology in terms more forcible, than all the argumentatory vindications in the world could do, in one of his poems, where he delineates, with his usual simplicity, the progress of his mind, and its iirst expansion to the lessons of the tutelary muse. * I saw thy pulse's maddening play, AVild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. " I have already transgressed far beyond the bounds I had proposed to myself, on first committing to paper these sketches, which comprehend what at least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns 's mind and character. A critique either literary or moral, I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these paragraphs I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that distinguished him, of those talents which raised him from the plough, where he passed (he bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprung round his cottage, to that en\ iable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude; and proudly remember, that beneah her cold sky, that would have done honour to the geuial temperature of climes better adapted to cher- ishing its germs ; to the perfecting of those luxuriances, tha' warmth of fancy and colour- ing, in which he so eminently excelled. •* From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public prints, even since the idea of send- ing these thither was formed, I find private animosities are not yet subsided, and envy has net yet done her part. 1 still trust that honest fame will be affixed to Burns 's reputation, which he will be found to have merited by the candid of his countrymen; and where a kin- dred bosom is found that has been taught to glow with the fires that animated Burns, DIAMOND CAB1KET LIBRARY. should a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his br_ ? interpose, let aim remember at the same lime the iuir.erfec- tion of all human excellence ; and leave these inconsistencies which alternately exalted his nature to the seraph, and sunk il again into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the laL^rinihs of the human heart — * Where they alike in trembling tope repose — The Losom of his father, and his Cod. ' Grai 't "Aunandale, Aug. 7, 17£(j. " After this account of the life and personal character of Burns, it may be expected that some inquiry should be made into his literary merits- It will not however Le necessary to eii'.cr very minutely into this investigation. If liction be, as some suppose, the soul of poetry, no one had ever less pretensions to the name of poet than Bums- '1 hough he has displayed great powers of imagination, yet the subjects on which he has written, are seldom, if ever, im- aginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, may be considered as the effusions of his sensibility, and the transcript of his own musings on tie real incidents of his humble life. If we add, that they also contain most happy delineations of the characters, manners, and scenery that presented themselves to his observation, we shall include almost all the subjects of his muse. His writings may therefore be regarded as af- fording a great part of the data on which our account of his personal character has been founded ; arid most of the observations we have applied to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to the poet. The impression of his birth, and of bis ori- ginal station iu life, was not more evident on his form and manners, than on his poetical productions. The incidents which form the subjects of his poems, though tome of them highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical imagery, axe incidents in the life of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness of bis condition, or to throw into shade the cir- cumstances attending it, which more feeble or more a» tiheial minds would have endeavoured lion appears in the icrrnainn of ':■:* rhymes, j Las little of the pomp cr harmony cf modern versitealicn, Liid is iuueed, .o an Engiish ear, strange and uncouth. The greater part of his earlier poems are written in the dialect of bis country, which is obscure, if not unintelligible to Englishmen, and which, though it stili ad- heres more or less to the speech ot almost every Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are now endeavouring to banish from their tongues as well as their writings. The use of it in composition naturally therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in the mind. These singularities ore increased by the character of the poet, wLo defights to express himself with a simplicity »hat approaches to nakedness, and with an un- measured energy that often alarms delicacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap- proaching him, the trst impression is perhaps iepulsive: there is an air of coarseness about him, which is difficultly reconciled with our established notions of poetical excellence. As the reader, however, becomes better ac- quainted with the poet, the effects of his pecu- liciiiies lessen, lie perceives in his poems, even on the lowest subjects, expressions of Sentiment, and delineations of manners, which are highiy interesting. The scenery he de- scribes is tviuently taken from real life; the characters be introduces, and the incidents he reiites, have the impression of nature and truth. His humour, though wild and unbri- dled, is irresistibly amusing, and is so melimes heighiened in its effects bj tLe introduction cf emotions of tenderness, with which genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is this the ex- tent of his power. The leader, as he examines farther, discovers that the poet is not conlined to the descriptive, the humorous, or the pathe- tic : he is found, as occasion oilers, to rise with ease into the terrible and the sublime. Every where Le appears devoid of aitilice, performing what he attempts with little appa- rent effort ; and impressing on the offspring of his fat.cy the stamp of his unueritaucing. The reader, capable of forming a just estimate of poetical talents, discovers in these circumstan- ces marks of uncommon genius, and is willing to investigate more minutely its nature and its claim to originality. This last point we shall examine brst. That Burns had not the advantages of a classical education, or of any degree of acquain- tance with the Greek or Roman writers in their original dress, has appeared iu the history of his life. He aco,uirca, indeed, some know ledge of the Fiencb language, but it does not appear that he was ever much conversant in French literature, nor is there any evidence of his hav- ing derived any of his poetical stories from that source. >\ iih the English classics he became well acquainted iu the course of his life, and the effects of this acquaintance are observable in his latter productions ; but the character and style of his poetry were formed very early, and the model which he followed, in as far as he can be said to have had one, is to be sought for in the works of the poets who have written iu the Scottish dialect— in the works of such of them, more especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. Some observations on these may form a proper introduction to a more particular examination of the poetry of Burns. 'I he studies of the editor in this direction are indeed very recent and verv imperfect. Jt would Luve been imprudent for Lim to have entered on this subject at all, but for the kind- ness of Mi Ramsay cf Cchtertvre, wbose assis- tance he is proud to acknowleoge, and to whom the reader must ascribe whatever is of any value in the following imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the Scottish id.om. It is a circumstance not a little curious, and which does not .stem to be satisfactorily ex- plained, that in the thirteenth centurv, the language of the two Br.tish nations, if at all d.fiereut, differed only in d.aicct, the Gaelic in the one, l;ke the "\N elch a;.d Armcric in the other, being conlined to the mountainous dis- tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and BURXS.-UFE. CI tiie Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the t same language. We may observe also, that in | Scotland the history ascends to a period nearly ! ns remote as in England. Barbour and Blind I Harry, James the Frst, Dunbar, L'ouglas, and I Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, j and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the rather? of poetry in England ; nnd in the opinion of IVJr Wharton, not inferior to them | in genius or in composition. Though the | language of the two countries gradually devi- ated from each other during this period, yet the difference on the whole was not consider- able ; nor perhaps greater than between the different dialects of the different parts of Eng- land in our own time. At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the language of Scotland was in a flourishing condition, wanting only writers in prose equal to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. The iirst was the passion of the Scots for composition in Latin ; and the second, the accession of James the Sixth to the English throne. It may easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters in Italy, he would have left compositions in that language which might have excited other men of genius to have followed his example,* and given duration to the language itself. The union of the two crowns in the person of James, overthrew all reasonable expectation of this kind. That monarch, seated on the Eng- lish throne, would no longer be addressed in the rude dialect in which the Scottish clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or English only, both of which he prided himself on writing with puri- ty, though he himself never could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scot- tish idiom and intonation to the last. Scots- men of talents declined writing in their native language, which they knew was not acceptable to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time when national prejudice and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they disdained to study the niceties of the English tongue, though of so much easier acquisition than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. They studied the language of England, and composed in it with precision and elegance. They were however the last of their couutry- men who deserved to be considered as poets in that century. The muses of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a period of eighty years. To what causes are we to attribute this ex. treme depression among a people comparatively learned, enterprising, and ingeni >us ? Shall -we impute it to the fanaticism of the cove- nanters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- less these causes operated, but they seem un- equal to account for the effect. In England, similar distractions and oppressions took place, yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable c. g. The Authors of the Ddicice Foelariw degree. During this period, Cowley, nnd W aller, and Dryden sung, and Wilton raised his strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the causes already mentioned, another must be added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish literature — the want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to employ. The civil wars had frightened away the Latin muses, and no standard had been established of the Scottish tongue, wh:ch was deviating still farther from the pure English idiom. The revival of literature in Scotland may le dated from the establishment of the union, or rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally incorpo- rated, it was clearly seen that their tcngues must in the end incorporate also ; or rathei in- deed that the Scottish language must degener- ate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the united legislature. Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- peared, who studied the English classics, and imitated their beauties, in the same manner as they studied the classics of Greece and Koine. They had admirable models of com- position lately presented to them by the writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particu- larly in the periodical papers published by Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, which circulated w idely through Scotland, and diffused every where a taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in English composition, and a union was formed of the literary talents, as well as of the legisla- tures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets took the lead. While Henry Home,| Dr Wallace, nnd their learned associates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and studying to clear themselves of their Scot- tish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamilton of Bangour, had made their appearance before the public, and been enrolled on the list of English poets. The writers in prose followed— a numerous and powerful band, and poured their ample stores into the general stream of British literature. Scotland possessed her four universities before the accession of James to the English throne. Immediately before the union, she acquired her parochial schools. These establish nents combining happily to- gether, made the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, and presented a direct path, by which the ardent student might be carried along into the recesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, and faction and preju- dice gradually died away, a wider field was opened to literary ambition, and the influence of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became more and, more apparent. It seems indeed probable, that the establish- ment of the parochial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less splendid in their nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the There is some reason to helieve, that the 63 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. original inhabitants of the British isles pos- sessed a peculiar and interesting species of masic, -which being banished from the plains by the successive invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountaius of Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, bat the Gifference may be considered as in dialect only, and pro- bably produced by the influence of" time, like the different dialcts of their common language. If this conjecture be true, the Scottish music must be more immediately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character somewhat distinct, must have de- scended from the mountains in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given to conjectures, evidently involved in great uncertainty, there can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry have been long in possession of a number of songs and ballads composed in their native dialect, and sung to their native music. The subjects of these compositions were such as most interested the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of time varied probably as the condition of society vari=d. During the separa- tion and the hostility of the two nations, these songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect do- cuments enable ns to jocge, were chiefly war- like ; such as the Huatis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. -After the union of the two crowns', when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity t'.>ok place, the rural muse of Scot- land breathed in softer accents. '-In the want of real evidence respecting the history of course may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the union of the crowns. The in habitants of the borders, who had formerly been warriors from choice and huobaudmen from necessity, either quitted the country, or were transformed into teal shepherds, easy in their circumstances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Froissart remained sufficient to inspire elevation of sen- timent and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which had long sub- sisted between the genTy and the peasantry, could not all at once be obliterated, and this connection tended to sweeten rural life. In this 6tate of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music would still assume a form congenial to the more peaceful state of society. Tae minstrels, whose metri- cal tales used' once to rouse the borderers, like the trumoet's sound, had been, by an order of the Legislature (1579) classed with rogues and vagaoonds, and attempted to be suppressed. K.tdx and his disciples influenced the Scottish parliament, but contended in vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pto- bably on the Banks of the Tweed, or some of its tributary streams, one or more original geniuses may have arisen, who were destined to give a new turn to the taste of their country- men. They would see that the events and pursuits which chequer priva:e life were the prober subjects for popular poetry. Love, fhi.'k h3l formerly held a divided sway with glory and ambition, beeame now the master- passion of the soul. To pourtray 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 wh'ch Tibullus himself would not have beeu 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 some- times assumed, the truth of character, and the language of nature, are preserved. With un- affected simplicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain a tickle lover. Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes the sweetest of the Highland luenags, or vocal airs. Ncr are these songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, how- ever, genuine descriptions of the manners of an energetic and sequestered people in i heir hours of mirth and festivity, though in 'heir portraits some objects are brought into open view, which more fastidious painters would have thrown into *' As those rural poets sung for amusement, not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like the words of the elder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, but trea- sured up in the memory of their friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronized by the grea f , tbes? rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names have been forgotten.* When proper models for pastoral songs were produced, there would be no want of imitators. To succeed in this species of composition, soundness of under- standing and sensibility of heart were more re- quisite than flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. Great changes have certainly tak-n place in Scottish song-wririne, though we can- not trace the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces admred in Queen Mary's time are now to be discovered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, that tha music may have remained nearly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled, "f These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, he presumed, that the sUte of ease and tranquillity described by Mr Rant- say took place amo:.g the Scottish peasantry immediately on the union of the two crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth century. The Scottish nation, through all ranics, was deeply egilated by the civil wars, * In the Pepys collection, there are a few Scottish songs of the last century, but the names of the authors are not ^reserved. f Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsey cf Ochtertyre to the Editor, Sept. 11, 1799. la the Bee. Vol. II. p. 201, is a communication of .Mr Ramsay, under the signature of J. Run- cole, which enters into this subject somewhat more nt large. In that paper be gives his rea- sons for questioning (he antiquity of many of the celebra-.cd Scottish son^?. H URNS.— LIFE. <>-: and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period; it was not till after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent establishment of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is fiuce that period that a great number of ] the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes, to which they are ( sung, are in general of much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable to suppose, that the peace and security derived from the Revolu- j tion, and the Union, produced a favourable change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and j it can scarcely be doubted, that the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain ; degree of instruction was diffused universally , among the peasantry, contributed to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the ] Scottish Theocritus. He was torn on the high mouuains that divide Cl\desdale and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengonar, a stresm which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still fhown to the inquiring traveller.* He was the son of a peasant, and probably received such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, nnd the poverty of his parents admitted. -f» Ramsay made his appearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the present century, in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber ; he was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his social dispo- sition, and his talent for the composition of verses in the Scottish idiom : and, changing his profession for that of a bookseller, he became intimate with many of the literary, as well as of the pay and fashionable characters of his time. $ Having published a volume of poems of his own in 1721, which was favourably received, he undertook to make a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever-Green, and was afterwards encouraged to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. •' From what sources he procured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether from tradition or manuscript, is uncertain. As in the Ever-Green he made some rash attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient poems, he probably used still greater * See Campbell's History of Poetry in Sect- land, p. 185. f '1 he father of Mr Ramsay was, it is said, a workman in the lead-mines of the Earl of Hopetoun, at Lead hills. The workmen at those mines at present are of a very superior character to miners in general. They have only six hours of labour in the day, and have time for reading. They have a common library supported by contribution, containing several thousand volumes. When this was instituted, 1 have not learned. These miners are said to be of a very sober and moral character. Allan Ramsay, when very young, is supposed to have been a washer of ore in these mines. \ "He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, ami his club of small wits, who, about 1719, published a very poor miscellany, to which l)r Young, the author of the Night Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses. ' ' Extinct of a letter from Mr Ramsey nf Ochtertyre to the Editor. freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more ancient than the present century shall be produced, or access be obtained to his own papers, if they are still in existence. To several tunes which ei'her wanted words, or had words that were improper or imperfect, he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the melodies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the golden age. These verses were perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects, Ramsay had advantages net possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dia- lect 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 mo- ralists and poets were by this time read by every person of condition, i.r.d considered as the standards for polite composition. But, as national prejudices were still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, continued to speak their native dialect, and that with an elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just notion. 1 am old enough to have conversed with IVIr Spinal, 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 pro- nunciation and phraseology differed as much from the common dialect,^ as the language of from that of Thames Street. Had . it of ci 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 iu the whole circle of literature. " Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them attempted to write poetry in his manner. Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of compositions that required much exertion, succeeded very happily iu making tender sen- nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and transforming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language of the characters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Auch;- names, wrote the modern song of Ticecdside,§ which has been so much admired. Iu 1 743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of cur lawyers who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, com- posed, in the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, beginning, Afi/ (keep 1 7tegiicted, I lost my sheephook; on the marriage of his mis- tress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawf rd. And about twelve vears afterwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ajicient words to the tune of the Flowers of the Forest ;\\ and sup posed to allude to the battle of Flow jen. In spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and § Beginning, IV7in< beauties doer. Flora dis- I! Beginning, I have heard a lilting at ->ur ewes-milking. 61 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. though in some parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sorrow. The more modern words to the same tune, beginning, 1 liave seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, ive:e written long before by .Ws Cockburn, aVoman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present century, all of whom were very fond of her. 1 was delighted with her company, though when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know that is now lost. ' ' In addition to these instances of Scottish songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady "Wardlavv ; the ballad of William and Margaret ; and the song entitled the Birks of hivermay, by Mallet ; the love- song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, icVt thou prove, produced by the youthful muse of r l horn- son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of letters in Scotland, subse- quent to the L'nion, a very general taste seems to have prevailed for the national songs and mu^ie. " For many years, ' ' says Mr lUmsr.y , *' the sinking of songs was the great delight of the higher and middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceedingly 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 ex- ploits of Wallace and Bruce against the Scuih- rons. Lord Hailcs was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he being their great favour- ite next the Scriptures. When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt the fi rst emotion cf ge- nius, he wanted not models sui gt-neris. But though the seeds cf 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 ; foity-t.ve or mere are passable and useful; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildlings of this last description. They had the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they were not without j the aid of the best English writers ; and, what was of still more importance, they were no strangers to the book of nature, and to the book j Front this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay ma; Le considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish Eoems, under the name of The Ever-Green, is collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal of -which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have in some degree superseded the adventures of Bruce and W allace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all of these. He had also before him the poems cf Fergusscn in the Scottish dialect, which have been produced in our own times, and of which it will be necessary to give a short account I-ergusscm was born of parents who had it in their power to procure him a 1 beral education, a tircunisiar.ee, however, which in Scotland im- plies no very high rank in society. From a well written and apparently authentic account of his life,* we learn that he spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several years at the Universities of Edinburgh and St Andrew's. It appears that he was at one time destined for the Scottish Church; but as he advanced towards manhood, he renounced that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer to the signet, a title which desig nates a separate ana higher order of Scottish attorneys. Fergusscn had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and talents for society of the most attractive kind. To such a man no situation could be more dangerous than that in which he was placed. 'J he excesses into which he was ltd, impaired his feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in the month of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24th year. Burns was not acquainted with the poems of this youthful 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 Fiiivstcn's Scottish Poems, he informs us that he •« strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- gour. " Touched" by the sympaihy originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of similar fortune, Burns regarded Fergusscn with a pariial and an affectionate admiration. Over his grave he erected a monument, as has already been mentioned ; and his poems he has, in several instances, made the subjects of his From this account of the Scottish pcems known to Bums, those who are acquainted with them will see they are chiefly humor- gus or pathetic: and under one or other cf these descriptions most if bis own poems will class. Let us compare him with his predeces- sors under each cf these points of view, and close cur examination with a few general ob- it has frequently been observed, that Scotland has produced, comparatively speaking, few wrileis who have excelled in humour. But this observation is true only when applied to those who have continued to reside in their own country, and hive ccnflned themselves to com- position 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 for dwelling on subjects of iiumour, 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 tbat the poem of Christ's Kirk of the Grene was written by James the First t of In the Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britannka. See also, Campbells lutrccuclicn to the History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 288. f Notwithstanding the evidence produced on this subject bv Mr Tytler, the Editor acknow- ledges his being somewhat cf a sceptic on this point. Sir David Dalrymp'.e inclines to the opinion that it was written by his successor James the Fifth. There are oifBculties at- ing this supposition also. But on the »et of Scottish Antiquities the Editor is an mpetcnt judge BURNS — LIFE. Co direction of Henry the Fourth, and who bore I arms under his gallant successor, gave the j model on which the greater pan of the humorous productions of the rustic muse of Scotland had been formed. Christie Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat modernized in the orthography, and two cantos were added by him in which he attempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, in the hrst canto, a rustic dance, and after- wards a contention in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of con- cord," and the renewal of the rural sports with the humours of a country wedding, 'lhough each of the poets describes the manners of his respective age, jet in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uniformity ; a striking proof of the identity of character in the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, distant from each other three hundred years. It is an hon- ourable distinction to this body of men, that their character and manners, very little em- bellished, have been found to be susceptible of an amusing and interesting species of poetry; and it must appear not a little curious, that the sesses an original poetry, should have re- ceived the model, followed by their rustic bards, from the monarch on the throne. The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk oftlm Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the happiest of his productions. His chief excel- lence, indeed, lay in the description of rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any very high powers either of imagination or of understanding, He was well acquainted with the peasantry of Scot- land, their lives, and opinions. The subject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject ; and he has shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are de- lineations from nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, the passions and affections of rural life are finely pourtrayed, and the heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole there is an air of reality which the most care- less reader cannot but perceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps acquired so high a reputa- tion, in which truth received so little embel- lishment from the imagination. In his pasto- ral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but still with con- siderable attraction. The story of the Monk and the Milter's Wife, though somewhat licen- tious, may rank with the happiest productions of Prior or La Fontaine. Rut when he at- tempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure English composition, he is feeble and un- interesting, and seldom even reaches mediocri- ty.* Neither are his familiar epistles and el- egies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much r.pprobation. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his * See Tltc Morning Zntervici genius was not of the highest order; nor did his learning, which was considerable, improve liis genius. His poems written in pure Eng- lish, in which he often follows classical mo- dels, though superior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in those composed in the Scottish dialect he is often very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the sub- jects of his muse. As he spent the greater part of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for ins amusement in the intervals tf business or dis- sipation, his Scottish poems are chieliy found- ed on the incidents of a town life, which, though they are not susceptible of humour, do not admit of those delineations of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeatly amuse the fancy and interest the heart. '1 he town ec- logues of Fergusson, if we may so denominate them, are however faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a very happy vein of humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, The King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, Ltith Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done before him. His Address to the Tron-kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of hu- mour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the care- less effusions of an irregular though amiable young man, who wrote for tiie periodical pa- pers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life been prolonged under happier cir- cumstances of fortune, he would probably have risen to much higher reputation. He might have excelled in rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals wi the established Sicilian model, are stale and uninteresting. The Far- m he was of the temperament of devo- tion, and the powers of memory co-operated in this instance v. ith the sensibility of his hear', and the fervour of his imagination.* The Cotter's SaluraJi, Xi^hl is ie:u;er and moral, it is solemn and devotional, and rises at length into a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which mo- dern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with which it con- cludes, correspond with the rest of the poem, lu 1.0 a^e or country have the pastoral muses breaAed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is to Le regretted that Burns did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nam e, which the manners and cus- toms of the Scottish peasantry would have am- ply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimat- ed by the degree of pieasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes ajsd the characters it so es_u.sitely describes. f * The reader will recollect that the Cotter was Burns s father. See p. 22. + A great number of manuscript poems were found among the papers of Burns, addres- sed to hitu by admirers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as w ell as from Ire- land and America. Anif ng these was a poeti- cal epistle irom Mr Telford oi Shrew sLury, of superior uier.t. It was written in the Dialect of Scotland (of which country >ir Telford is a native), aud in the versification generally em- ployed by our poet himself. Its object is to recommend to him o:her sul jects of a serious nature similar to that ot the G tier's Saturday Xighi ; and the reader will hud that the advice is happily enforced by example. It would have given the editor pleasure to haTe inserted the whole of this poem, which he hopes w one day see the light ; he is happy to have ( tained, in the meantime, his trend Mr T ford's permission to insert the following t Pursue, Burns! thy happy =ty:e, ' Those manner-painting strains," that whili They bear me northward many a mile, Recall the days, "When tender joys, with pleasing smile, Bless 'd my young ways. I see my fond companions rise, I join the happy village joys, I see our green hiils touch the skies, And] through the woods, I hear the river's rush ng uoi=e, Itsroarit.g fkcds.* Nor could his w When up this a lent monut 1 so, With songs of thine. O happy Bard I thy generous flame But mony a theme awaits thy muse, Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, Then in such verse thv soul infuse, With holy air, And sing the course the pious* choose, With all thy care. How with religious awe impress'd, They open lay the guiltless breast, And youth and age with fears distress 'd, Ail due prepare, The symbols of eternal rest Devout to share. }. How down ilk lang withdraw irg hill. Successive ciowdsthe vallcvs till, While pu'.e relig.ous converse still 1'eguiles the way, And gives a cast to youthful will, "To suit the day. How placed along the sacred board, Their hoary pastor's looks adored. His voice with peace and biessing stored, Sent from alo%? ; And faith, and hope, and joy aricrri. And boundless lore. O'er this, with warm seraphic glow. Celestial be:i:gs, pleased. Low, And, whisper 'u, hear the holy tow, 'Mid gruteful tears; And mark, amid such scenes below, Their future peers. O mark the awful solemn scene !§ When hoary winter clothes the plain, Along the snowy hills is seen Approaching slow, jng weeds, the village tram. In silent woe. Some much-respected brothel Along the path ; + A beautiful little rccunt which stands lir.ediatelv before, or rather forms a part of Shrewsbury castle, a seat of Sir Wiiliam Pulteney, Bar"t. i The Sacrament, generally administered in the cvu.itry parishes of Scotland in the cj*b sir. § A ScoUisb. funeraL BURNS.— LIFE. 71 And when they pass the rocky howe, Where binwood bushes o'er ihetn flow. And move around the rising knowe, Where far away r brae. Assembled round the narrow grave, While o'er thein wintry tempests rave, In the cold wind their grey locks wave, As low they lay Their brother's body 'mongsl the lave Of parent clay. Expressive looks from each declare The griefs within their bosoms bear, One holy bow devout they share, Then home return, And think o'er all the virtues fair Of him they mourn. Say how by early lessons taught, (Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) Congenial to th 'untainted thought, The shepherd boy, Who tends his flocks on lonely height, Feels holy joy. Is aught on earth so lovely known, On Sabbath morn, and far alone, His guileless soul all naked shown Before his God — Such prayers must welcome reach the throne, And bless 'd abode. O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; And all his constant, kind employ, Is how to give The best of lear be can enjoy, As means to live. The parish-school, its curious site, The master who can clear indite, And lead him on to count and write, Demand thy care ; Nor pass the ploughman's scUool at night, Without a share. Nor yet the tcnty curious lad, Who* o'er the ingle hings his head, And begs o' neighbours' books to read ; For hence arise Thy country 's sons, who far are spread, Baiih bauld and wise. * This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskdale and Annandale, that a light pre oedes in the night every funeral, marking the precise palh it is to pus*. lect, and always rfter the model of the Scottish songs, on the general character and moral in- fluence of whieh, some observations have already been offered. We may hazard a few more particular remarks. Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- land it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where imitated them, a circumstance to be re- gretted, sine? iii this species of composition, from its admitting the more terrible, as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs which served as a model to Burns, are almost, without exception, pastoral, or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship, or a country wedding; or they describe the differences of opinion which ari>.e in married life. Burns has imitated this spec e-, ;.nd surpr.s^ed his models. The song begiuninrce, while we conceive that they were . over to his mistress, whom be met ail alone on a summ-r's evening, by the hanks of a beautiful stream, which some of cs have actually ;een, and which all of os can paint to our imagination. Lei lis take another example. It is now a nymph that speaks. Hear how she expresses herself — •« How blythe each morn was I to see My swain come o'er i the burn, and Hew to me, I met him with good wil.'- Here is anoth-.r picture drawn by the pencil of Nature. We see a shepherdess standing b» >\>e side of a. brook, watching i.er lo vet sceods the opposite bill. He bounds lightly along : he approaches nearer and nearer ; !=e leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. It the recollection of these circumstances, the surrounding scenery becomes endeared to Ihe fair mourner, and she bursts into the following exclamation : "O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, Tne croom of :he Cowden-knowes I I wish I were with my dear sw With his pipe and my ewes." Thus the individual spot of this happy inter- view is pointed out, and the picture is com pieted. ~ That the dramatic furra of writing ebnrc-'- terizes the productions of an early, or. w'-al amounts to the same, of a nm> society, may be illustrated by a re the most ancient composirioas that we knew of. the Hebrew scriptures, and the Homer. Tne form of dialogue is ■ the cid Scottish ballads, evec in narratrM. whenever the situation described becomes ioter- estin"-. This sometims produces a very strid- ing effect, of which an instance may be give:! froEa the ballad of Edasi 0' Gor*-*, a co; v.- BURNS LIFB. 73 tionof thedui The Scottish 6ong are of very unequal poet- ical merit, and this Inequality otten extends to the different parts of the same song. Those that are humorous, or characteristic of man- ners, have in general the merit of copying na- ture ; those that are serious, are tender, and often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high power, of imagination, whuh indeed do not easily hud a place in this species of compo- sition. The alliance of the words of the Scot- tish songs with the music, has in some in- btances given to the former a popularity, which otherwise they would never have obtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs, with tue more beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same etlect. It has given them not merely popularity, but permaneii the works of man some i ity of the works of nature. If, from our im- perfect experience of the past, we may judge songs of this description are of all others the least likely to die- In the changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the as- sociated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the sale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden Knowes. The first attempts of Burns in song-writing were not very successful. His habitual inat- tention to the exactness cf rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, arising probably from the models on which his versification was formed, were faults likely lo appear to more advantage in this species of composition, than in any other ; and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and the exu- berance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within the limits of gentleness, deli- cacy, and tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the love songs of his nation. Burns was belter adapted by nature fcr following in such tition apparently of the sixteenth century. The ulory of the ballad is shortly this : — '1 he Cattle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, is attack- ed by the robber Edom o" Gordon. The lady 6lands on her defence, beats off the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage orders the castle to be tet on tire. That his orders are carried into effect, we learn from the expostu- lation of the lady, who is represented as stand- ing on the battlements, and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is interrupted — •• O then bespakeh Says, e's knee; , gie owre this house, jomposhions the model of the Grecian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice he however surmounted ail these obstacles. In his earlier songs there is some ruggeduess : but this gradually disappears in his successiva efforts ; and some ot his later compcsitiom of this kind may be compared, in polished de- lieacj, with the finest songs in cur language, while in the eloquence of sensibility they sur- pass them all. The songs of Burns, like the models ho followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of rural nature are everywhere associated with the passions and emotions of the mind-. Dis- daining to copy the works of others, he has not, like some poets of great name, admitted into his descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes he has painted, and the objects with which they are embellished, are, Ifa every tingle instance, such as are to be found in especially when it is comparatively rude and naked, the most beau;iful scenery will always he found in the valleys, and on the banks ol the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiar- ly interesting at the close of a summer ray. As we advance northwards, the number of the days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but, from this cause, as well as from the mildness of the temper ..ture, the attraction of the season increases, and the summer night oecomes still more beautiful. The greater obliquity 01 the sun's path on the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of twilight to the midnight hours, and the shades of the evening seem to mingle with the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as may be expected, asso- ciate in their songs the expression of passion, with the most beautiful of thrir scenery, in the fairest season of the year, and generally in those hours of the evening when the beauties of nature are most interesting. W I wad g:e a' my gowd, my childe, For ae blast o' the ucstiin wind. To blaw the reek lVae thee. ' ' The circuinstamiuVity of the Scottish love- Bougs, and the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, probably arisen from their being the descendants and successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful modern song of Ma.\y of Castle-Cury, the dramatic form hui a very happy eft'ect. The same may be brtid of Do/taid and Fiora, and C>me under »y plaidir, bv the same author, Sir Macniel. *A lady, of whose genius the editor enter- tains high admiration (Mrs Barbauld), has fallen into an error in this respect. In her prefatory address to the works of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may be em- ployed lo give interest to the descriptions of passion, she observes, "they present an inex- haustible variety, from the Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose dam- sels carry their miikiug-pails through the Irosls and snows of their less genial, but not less pas- toral country." 'Ihe damsels of Uum.-ay do not walk in the midst of frost and snow. - Al- most all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in the open air, amidst beautiful natural obiects, and at t'. e most genial season oi" the year. Ramsay introduces' all his acts with a prefatory description to assure of this. The fuult of the cliuiae of Britain is not, that it does not afford us the beauties of summer, but that the season of such beauties is compara- tively short, and even uncertain. There are days and nights, even in the northern division of the island, which equal, or perhaps sur- pass what are to be found in the latitude of Sicily or of Greece. Buchanan, when lie wrote his exquisite Ode to May, felt the charm as well as the uansientness ofihese h-ppv davsl DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. To all these adventitious circumstances, on which sj much cf the effect of poetry depends, great attention is paid by Burns. There is scarcely a single song of his in which particular scenery is not described, or allusions made to natural objects, remarkable for beauty or in- terest ; ana though his descriptions are not so full as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof t»f th:s might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan Water, from ihat beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean and a great number of others. Occa- sionally t!:e force of his genius carries him be- yo id the usual bounaaries of Scottish song, and -.he natural objects introduced have more of the character of suoiiinity. An instance of this kind is noticed by ,Mr Syme,* and many others might be adduced, '• Had I a care on some wild, distant shore, Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing There wouid I weep my woes, There seek mv last repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more." In ie song, the seene of which is laid ia a night, the •' wan moon" is described as Ititg behind the white waves ;" iu another, "storms" are apostrophized, and colli- ded to 'rest in the cave of their slumbers. " several occasions, the genius of Burns loses of his archetj pea, and Mib.i In,tai this kind aopear in Liberty, a Vision, and in his two war- songs, Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of Death. These last are of a descrip- The martia, songs of our nation are not military, the»e songs of Burns with others of a similar o the poetry of t Cue sm Gai aat addition to the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the mus c. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country. Many of her rivers and moun- tains, formerly unknown to the muse, are now consecrated bv his immortal verse. Tue Doon, the Lugar, the A\r, the N:th, and the Ciudeu, will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, aid the Tay. be considered as c'.issic streams, and their borders will be trod with new and superior The greater part of the songs of Burns were written after he removed into the county of Duaifries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits formed in early life, he usually composed while walking in the open air. When engaged in writing these sonsrs, his favourite walks were on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beautiful scenery he has very happily Ive fugacis gloria seculi, !ve secunda digna dies nota, Salve vetusts vitrc imaso, El specimen venierrtis iGm ! * See pa?? 4S. described urider various aspects, as it appears during the softness and serenity of evening, and during the stillness and solemnity of the moon- light night. There is no species of poetry, the productions of the drama not excepted, so much calculated to influence the morals, as well as the happiness of a people, as those popular verses which are associated with the national airs, and which being learnt in the years of infancy, make a deep impression on the heart before "the evolu- tion of the powers of the understanding. The compositions of Bums, of this kind, now pre- sented in a collected form to the world, make a most important addition to the popular songs of his nation. Like all his other writings, they exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are peculiarly calculated to increase those lie's- whicj bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to the domestic circle of their infancy : and to cherish those sensibilities which, under due restriction, form the purest happiness of our nature. If in his u. guarded moments he composed some songs on which this praise can. not be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily be forgotten. In several instances, where Scottish airs were allied to words ob- jectionable in point of delicacy. Burns has sub- stituted others of a purer character. Oa such occasions, without changing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the air of John Anderson my Jo, which is now un.ted to words that breathe a strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral as it is exquisitely affecting. Few circumstances could afford a more striking proof of the strength of Bums ' genius, than the general circulation of his poems in England, notwithstanding the dialect in which the greater part are written, and which might be supposed to render them here uncouth or ob- scure. In some instances he has used this dialect on subjects of a sublime nature; but in general he confines it to semiments or descrip- tion of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where heiises into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer English style. The singular faculty he possessed of mingling in the same poem hu- morous sentiments and descriptions, with ima- gery of a sublime and terrdic nature, ensbted him to use this variety of dialect on some occa- sions with striking effect. His poem of Tarn o' Shanlsr affords an instance of this. There he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, to situaions of the most awful and terrible kind, lie is a musician that runs from the lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish dialect enables-bim to add two additional notes to the bottom of his scale. Great efforts have been made by the inhabi. tauts of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- proximate in their speech to the pure English standard ; and this has made it difficult to write in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them some feelings of disgust, which in Eng. land are scarcely felt. An Englishman who understands ihe meaning of the Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, be is perhaps pleased with tne rustic dialect, as he may be with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- try, if a man of education, and more especially if a literary character, has banished sucu i*ords from his writings:, and has attempted to BURNS LIFE. 75 banish them from his speech ; and being accustomed to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not easily aamit of their use in poetry, which requires a style elevated and ornamental. A dislike of this kind, is, how- ever, accidental, not natural. It is of the species of disgust which we feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; which if she be really young and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to overcome. A lady who assumes such a dress puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She rejects she, indeed, opposes, the influence of fashion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of elegant and flowing drapery; but her natue charms re- main, the more striking, perhaps, because the less adorned : and to these shs trusts for fixing her empire on those affections over which fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new association arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. And when, in after ages, the contemplative observer shall view her picture in the gallery that con- tains the portraits of the beauties of successive centuries, each in the dress of her respective day, her drapery will not devia'e, more than that of her rivals, from the siandard of his taste, and he will give the palm to her who excels in the lineaments of nature. Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of his country, and by them* their native dialect is universally relished. To a numerous class of the natives of Scotland of another description, it may also be considtred as attractive in a different point of view. Estranged from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their country unites with the senti- ments and the descriptions on which it is employed, to recall to their minds the interesting scenes of infancy and youth to awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary men. residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on this point for one hundred and fifty thousand of their expatriated country- men.* To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste of the "public has been for some time reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as i living i t of Scot- * These observations remarks of respectable description alluded to. the number of Scotchme land is not altogether arbitrary bably below the truth. It is, in some degree, founded on the proportion between the number of the sexes in ScolloTid, as it appears from the invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. For Scotchmen of this description more parti- beginning, T/uir groves o' sweet myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it may be confidently predicted, will be sung with equal or superior interest, on the banks of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on thooe of the'Tay or the Tweed. has already been observed, in the copiousness and exactness of its terras for natural objects ; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric s.mplicity, which is very generally approved. Neither does the regret seem well founded which some persons of taste have expressed, that Burns used this dialect in so many other of his compositions. His declared purpose was to paint the manners of rustic life among his " humble compeers, " and it is not easy to conceive, that this could have been done with equal humour and eflect, if lie had cot adopted their idiom. There are some, indeed, who will think the subject too low for poetry. Per- sons of this sickly taste will find their delica- cies consulted in many a polite and learned author ; let them not seek lor gratification in the rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of To determine the comparative mtri, of Burns would be no easy task. Many persons after- wards distinguished in literature, have been born in as humble a s tuation of life; but it would be difficult to find any other, who, while earning- his subsistence by daily labour, lias written verses which have attracted and retained universal attention, and which are likely to give the author a permanent and distinguished place among the followers of the muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- tinguished for ease as well as energy ; and these are indications of the h gher order of genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling in strength, another in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. Every species of intellectual superiority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrangement. One writer excels in force — another in ease ; he is superior to them both, in whom both these qualities are united. Of Homer himself, it may be said, that like his own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as well as strength. The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding, and in the sensibility of his heart ; and these will be found to infuse the living principle into all the works of genius which seem destined to immortality. His sensibility had an uncommon range. He was alive to every species of emot on. He is one of the few poets that can be mentioned, who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the ancients, and which in modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to pare the writings of the Voltair Scottish peasant with the works of these giants in literature, might appear presumptuous; yet, it may be asserted that he has displayed the fool of Hercules. How near he might have approached them by proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such materials have been reared the fairest and the most durable of the monuments of genius. ADVERTISEMENT. It is impossible to dismiss this Volume* of the Correspondence of our Bard, without some anxiety as to the reception it may meet with. The experiment we are niak ng has uot often bten tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so large a portion of the recent and unpremeditated ef- fusions of a man of genius been committed to the press. Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- erable number were transmitted for publication, by the individuals to whom they were addres- sed ; but very few have been printed entire. It •will easily be believed, that in a series of letters written without the least view to publication, various passages were found unlit for the press, from different considerations. It will also be readily supposed, that our Poet, writing uecjly 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, theretore, the t*dious- ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- cessary to mutilate many of the individual letters, and souiet mes to exscind parts of great delicacy-— the uutriulea effus:ons of panegyric and regard. Eut though man} of the ieuere inted from originals furnished by the per- intedfrom hrst draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge ntral no man committed his thoughts to his cor- respondents w itu less consideration or effort than Burnt, yet it appears tlia. in some instances he was nissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote out his communications in a fairer ehar- ac;er, or perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos n reality, his affection is centered in her pock- it ; aim the slavish drudge may go a- wooing is he goes to the horse-market to choose one vho is s'out and firm, and, as we may say of til old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain tlteir dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of "humour Ailh myself, if I thought 1 were capable of laving so pour a notion of the sex, which were le lined to crowji the pleasures of society. Poor dc-.iL> '. 1 don't envy lueui their happi- ness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear No. II. TO THE SAME. Mr DSAR E. I do not remember in the course of your ac- quaintance and nrne, ever lo have heard your opinion ou the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst peo;..e. of our s.-iioii of life: I do not meau the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person. Though I be, as you know very well, but a. very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better sklled in the affair of courtship than I am, I ofteu think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are not more uuhappy marriages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the feinaU-s, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion scr\es; some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something, he knows cot what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greatest part of us, and i most own, my dear E. it is a hard ganio s jell a one a- you iiave to piay when you meet with such a lo'.er. You cannot r fuse but ha is siacere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccount- able fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. 1 am aware, that perhaps the nej-t lime I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell ine that the pas- sion 1 li ive professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been describing ; b'it I hope my dear E. you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you, that the iove I have for you is founded on the sa- cred principles of virtue and honour, and bj consequence, so long as you coutinue possessed of those am able qualities which lirst inspired my passion for yon., so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the married state happy. People mny talk of dames aud §i DIAMOND CAB.jCET LIBRARY. raptures as long as they please ; aud a warm j fancy with a flow of youthful spirits;, may make them feel soniethinsr" like what ihev describe; But sure I am, the nobler i'aciifties of the mmd, with kinured feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion, (hat the married life was only friendship in a more exalted de- gree. It you will be so good as to grant my wishes, I and it should p!e.i=e providence to spare us to the lul st periods of life, 1 can ,ook lorward aim see. liiat even ilien, though bent down ; w.,n wrinkled auld oblige me much if \ When I look c am sensible tt is vastly aii'.ereut from the on nary style of coi;nsh>p but I shall make cpoiogy — I know your good nature will excuse What your good sense may see amiss. No. III. TO THE SAME, MY EEAR S. I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest .lillicl epuz. - for in, than whe and his intentions are honourable. I do think that it is very difficult for a person ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondue which are not felt, nod to make vows of c stancy aud lidelity, which are never intern to be performed, if he be villain enough practise such detestable conduct : but to man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon reliue- such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure sou, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed, 'ihere is such a number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind Wile. that what tj speak or what lo write I am altogether at a loss. There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and flint is, honestly to Jell you the plain truth. Ihere is something to mean aud m would send iient. I shall ■viour regulat- ii perfectly ) by only add further, that if a b ed (thougn perhaps Lut very (he rules of honour and virt.^, . voted lo love and esteem you, aud an earnest endeavour lo promote your happiness; and if these are qua.ities you would wish in a friend, in a husband ; I iiope you shall ever bud LhetU in your real frieud ana sincere lover. to the sa:..e. I ought in good manners to have acknowledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the con- tents of it, that I can scarcely yet coliect tny thoughts so as to write to you "on ihe subject. I will not attempt to describe what I tell on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the po- litest language of refusal, still it was peremp- tory ; "ycu were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me " what, without you, I never can obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak aud unmanly to say, that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life with you, would have given it a relish.'that, wanting you, I 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 metwith in others ; but that amiabie goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with in such a degree in ihis world. All these charming qualities heightened by an education much be- d any thing I have ever met with in any nan 1 ever dared to approach-, have marie mpression on my heart that I do not think world can ever efface. My imagination has fondly flattered itself with a wish", 1 d=ra not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I ight one day call you mine. I had forme I e most delightful images, and my fancy f.nd- ly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched lor the loss of what I really had no right to Kt. I must now llunk no more of you as stress, still I presume to ask to be udmit- s a friend. As such I wish to be all*) wed LURKS.— LE'ITEttS. S3 to w ait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, I sup- pose, wiil perhaps soon ieave this place, I wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for friendship, 1 hope you will par- don it in, my dear iViiss , (pardon me the dear expression for once). . . No. V. TO MR JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. DRAB SIR, Loc/dee, loth January, 1783. As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter, without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that 1 have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kind- ness and friendship. I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with; but that is what 1 am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and in this respect, I hope my conduct will not disgrace the education 1 have gotten ; but as a man ot the world, I am most miserably deficient. — One would have thought, that bre^I as I have Leen, under a father who has figured pretty well as un hun.mc dcs rjetre^ I might have been what the world culls a push- ing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. J seem to be one sent into the world to see, mid observe; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, il there he any thing original about hi show e hu ;• 1 IklV . bdoi . difcti In the joy of my heart is to «• study men, their maimer?, and their ways ; ' ' and for this darling subject, 1 cheerfully sacrifice every other con- sideration. 1 am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling busy sous of care agog ; and if 1 have to answer for the present hour, 1 am very easy with regard to any thing lurther. Even the last, worst shift* of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me: I know thai even then my ntr* 1 :tilied by a hoary e happy. How- ever, I am under no apprehensions about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- ly delicate constitution pennies, I am not lazy ; and in many things, especially in tavern mat- ters, 1 am a strict economist; not indeed for the sake of the money, but one of the principal * The Inst shift alluded to here, must be the condition of an iliucruM beggar. pirts in my composition is u kind of pride of tiomach, and i scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea, of sneaking in a coiner to avoid a duu — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart 1 despise and detest, "lis ihis, and this alone, that euaears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, 1 am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as bhenskme, pat ticnli^ily his Ele- gies ; Thomson ; Man of fitting, a book 1 prize next to the Bible ; Man of t/ie World ; Merne, especially his Sentimental Journey; Macphersou's Otsicn, d c. 'lhese are the glorious models alter which I endeavour to form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lightened up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race — he •« who can soar above this little scene of things, "can he descend to mind the paltry con- cerns about which the terrajlilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ? O how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor insignilicunt devil, unnoticed and un- kets, when 1 happen to be in them, rending a page or two of mankind, and " catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side as an idle en- cumbrance in their way. -But I dare say I have by this time tired your patieDce ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs .Vurdoch— not my compliments, for that is a mere common place story, but — my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from, Dear Sir, Yours, &c« [The following is taken from the MS. pros* presented by our Bard to Mr Riddel.] On rummaging over some old papers, I light- ed on a MS. of my early years, in which 1 had determined to write myself out, as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have Leen nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that, some lime or other, even after 1 was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of appre- ciating their value. It sets off thus : Obixrratiens. hints, bon^s, Scraps of Poe- try, d-c. by R. Ii._anum who had little an in making money, iid 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 rustio way of life; but as I believe they are really his o-xn, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- sure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the I like cares and pactions, which, however ui\er- SI DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. •« of life, operate d all tbe 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 ;heir observations, and allowing them the some importance which they do to these which appear in print. " — Sher.slone. April, 1793. Notwithstanding ail that has been sai !?jinst love, res^ectm? t>ie follv and weaknes t leads a young inexperienced mind into; si the high Feels all the bitter horrors of his cr.ine, Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; And, after proper purpose of amendment. Can tircnly force his jarring thoughts to peace! O, happy ! happy I enviable man I 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 ihan a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man say in what degree any other per side, himself, | n be, ith >tr tj.lMi, ;alled i thia irth de> the n ssed 01 imeofraptur Aup.sl. love, and music, and poetrv ; wd, therefore I have always thought a tin- toujh of nU are Htr For ray own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily in love : and then rbyme and song wire, in a manner, the spontaneous lan- guage of my heart. pher September. entirely aeree with that judicious philoso- . Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of t! SenHim-nts, iluu reinor-e is the most bear n. Anj ordinary pitch of fortitude may glorious effort of seif-command. numerous ills that hurt our peac?, mher c :e, the o deed of mine ;" Hut when to ail the evil of misfortune This sting is added— "Blame thy foolish self! * Or worser far, the pangs of keeu remorse ; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! O burning hell ! in all thy store of tormeuls, There's not a Lives there a man bo lira), heart . while his wicked. Let any of the sirictest "character for regularity of conduct among us, examine im- parl 'a!. y how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any ere or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance intervening; bow many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- cause he was out of the line of such tempta- tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs more than al! the rest, how much he is indebt- ed to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, wi h a brother's eye. I hive ofteo courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase »f blackguards, sometimes far- ther than was consistent with the safety of my characier ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- lity or headstrong passions, have been driven to rain. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes "stained with guilt, • • • . " I have yet found among ibem, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship-, and even modesty. April. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, won d call a whimsical mor- tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out. of.the- way person. Such is the peculiar pie: - I i 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 something even in the "Mighty t:n.pest, and t "ie hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stietch'd o'er the buried earth, " which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and nobie. There is scarcely any earthly oLject gives me nore — I do not know if I shou.d call it plea- ;ure— but something which exalts me, some- hin? which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high plantat- ion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear tbe itormy wind howling among- the trees, and aving over the plain. It is my best sea.-on for devotion : my mind is wiapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Wm, who, in the pompuiiH language of the Ilsbrew bard, " waika-an ;ha El UN?. -LETTERS. wings of the wind. " In one of these secsons, just \-fier a train of niisfor tit nes, 1 composed the following : Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits; anil [ have oilen thought that no man can be a proper critic of love-compositiou, except he himself, in one or more instances, ha\e been a warm votary of this passion. As 1 liave been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led ii.to & thousand weaknesses and tollies by it, for that reason 1 put the more continence in my critical skill, in distinguish. n? toppery, and conceit, from real passion and nature. W helber the following song will stand the test, 1 will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at the time, genuine from the heart. I think the whole species of young men may Le naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which 1 shall call the grove and the nitrry ; though, by the bye these terms do not with propriety enough express niy ideas. The grave 1 shail cast into the Usual division of those who are gt.aded on by the love of money; and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world, 'lhe merry r.re, the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much tire and spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but with- out much deliberation, follow the strong im- pulses of nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent -in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steal* through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such as are, generally, those whose beads fire 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 culti- vate an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that can render life delightful ; and to maintain an in- tegritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be lit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revela- tion teach us to expect beyond the grave : I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred* interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and hon- ours ; and 1 do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespat- tering all about him, gains some of life's little where, nftcr nl!, lie can only ?fp, and Le seen, a li'tie mc re conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, be is" apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has lett Lehiud There is a noble sublimity, a beart-irclting which shows them to be the work oi an Bbterll acl.e to rellect, that such giorious o.u Lards - Lards who very probably oweu a j l their talents to native genius, yet have deserired tie ex- ploits of berries, trip pangs of disappointment, and the meltings oi iove with such l.i.e strokes of nature that their \er. i^ini., (O how mortiiy ing to a bard's vanity ! ) are now "buried among the wreck of things when O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the muxes' train one who, though far inferior to v..ur ii.jrhis, ^ evis sour path, and with trembling *»<»g «. l( ..i sometime, soar after you- a poor rnst.c batd unknown, pay this s\ mpathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell us, Willi t ii the eharmS of verse, that you have been unfortu- nate in the wot id- unfortunate in love ; he too has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of •A. Lik the ail I t him .1 hi: I the v oiatio it with sour strength ot niagintiou und flow of verse"! May the turf lie lightly on your tones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this "world seldom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of potsv and love ! Tli is is all worth quoting in my MSS. and more than all. R. D. No. VII. TO MR AIKEN. sib, Ayrshire, KS6. I was with Wilson, my printer, t other day, and settled all our by -gone matters Let ween us. Alter I had paid him ail demands, I made him the offer of liie second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the Ji,sL ci;d rea- ditst, which he declines. By his account, (he paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and tbe printing aboi.t fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; but (his you know, is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer! -an epocha whic., I think, will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edi- tion, ns not having it in my power to show my grat.tude to Mr Dallantyne, by publishing my DIAMOND CA3IXET LIBRARY. poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, if' I th^nght I were capa- ble, in a *efy long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into mv interests. I am sometimes pleased null myself in mv grateful sensations; but I belieie t .an he whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the con- sequence of rellecion, but sheerly tlie instinc- tive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into sellish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against ft ; the uncertainty of getting soon into busi- ness, the consequences of my follies, which mav perU ps make it impracticable for nie to stay at home ; and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by»the calls of society or the vagaries of the muse. E en *n the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad : and to all these reasons I have oniv one answer— the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood 1 am in, overbalances everything that can be laid iu the scale against it. You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but'it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical in some points, of our current belief, vet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life be- yond the "stinted bourne of our present exis- tence : if so, then how should I, in the pre- tence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou Almighty God 1 who Tiast lighted up reason in mv brenst, and biessed me with immortality ! I have frequently wan- dered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet" thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! ' Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thiol: - ening over my folly-de\oted head Should you/'my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications' for ir.e, perhaps it may not be 'in mv power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of mv present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail farther misery — . To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last complaint, as the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the stru/gle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud iu the chance- directed atmosphere of fortune, whil*, 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 rutin a creature destined for a pro- gressive struggle ; and that, however 1 might possess a warm h-art and ir.oflet.sive manners (which last, by the bye, was rather more than 1 could well boast,) s'tiil, more than these pas- sive qualities, there was something to be timie. When all uiy school-fellows and youthful com- peers (those misguided few excepted, who joined, to use a tientoo phrase, the i alJachores of the human race), were striking off with other of the many paths of busy life, 1 was " standing idle in the market place," or only left the chase of the buttertly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. Ycu see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a prohabili'y 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.* TO MRS DUXLOP. OF DUXLOP. MADAM, Ayrshire, 1785. I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when 1 was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abiiiiies. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class cf mankind so feelingly alive to the titillatiqus of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me. Madam, you could" not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- brate your illustrious ances'tor, the Saviour of his Country. " Great, patriot hero! ill requited chief" ! The first book I met with in my early years, which 1 perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was 77je History of Sir WUliam W-iace; for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have 1 stole out, after the labori- ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines o + This letter was evidently written under the distress of mind occasioned by our Poet s separation from Mrs Burns, burn?.- « Syne to the Legk n wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a -afe retreat. " I choee a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line oi' Life allowed, and Walked half a dozen of* miles to pay my respects to the Legleu wood, with a^ tmich devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every den and deli where I could suppose mv untryman to have lodged, 1 recoiled then I was a rhymer), thai my heari rith a wish to be aide to make a aoiig 5 equal to his merits. (for e No. IX. TO MRS STEWART OF STAIR. MADAM. 178(5. The hurry of my preparations for going abioad lias hindered me from perform! so soon as 1 intended, I have parcel of sou- Crept 3 a rrie Perhaps being an adequate judge- otEUrick Bank*, you wi pvioty of exposing much 1 think, myself, Tt has s tolerable description of ot piece*"' elf N«i3v*& i be i aware, madam, what task the assign me in this letter. The when any of the great c .ndescend vith the iuc The high i mid actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, madam, is a task for whfcll I am altogether unfit, besides a ceruin" disqualifying pride of heart, 1 know nothing of your connections in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — he company of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to vour good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever ■with grateful pleasure remember- the recep. tion I got, when " ' I i i little acqua ited v politeness ; but I know a good deal of bei lencc of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- ly, did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs Stewart of St a r * Miss A t The song inclosed is that given in the Life of our Poet, beginning, , Twem of any object you hr.Te in vew. Your ■ ■ msn (forgiTe nv. order), as well as a poe', "e tiiink, to lie assistance cf every A .- c I have been told yo'n wc^h-d to be tion, wbieth T it would not be more cesiraDle, if a sum could be raked by sub- e second edition of vour poems, ti> la^ it out in ■ af a *nia;l farm. I an* persuaded it woo, d be a iine of iif? much r ; = , and in the end more satisfac- tmry. Wh a you have . : - -. _ .- ;• - r know, a;,d whatever yoa determine upon, I will erjdeavocr to promote ss far as my abili- y.'t. Willi coa.ptiuients*to mv friend ih? doctor, I are, r ,-iand well wisher, JOHN V.HIfEFORD. FROM , D'AR sir, 221 Oeceiftfer. 17>6 I l»st week rjoeived a letter from Dr Mack- lock, in wbi;u he expresses a ce ; f r; r ; ; i rray lose no time in waiting upon him, saoold you not yet kave seen him. : hear, from all corners, of your ani I wish and el h ihar by the new publication. lint, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your shore of detraction and eavy — a train that aiwavs accompany great roea. For your comfort, I am in grra; "hopes that the number of your fr ends and admirers will in- crease, aud that you have some chance cf :.- even • • • • • patronage. Now, my friend, su.-h rapid success is very and do yoa think yoa - : : ■ i ..; : : / ; Sering applause acd a fu;l p tSSe ! Remember Solomon's advice which He spoke from experience, "stro^s-er is he that conquers." &c Keep fast bold of your rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus. s _ii, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. I hope .yon have also Minerva with you I need rut ten ion how much a mod-st diffidence and invincible temperance sijrn the most shicir.g taleats, and elevate tbe mind, and exalt and refiae the imag inatu>n I hope yoa will not im^ine I speak from I Ir-.Ti ; - - 1 rO-^x from love and good report, and good opinion, and a strong ces re to s-?e you shine ss much in the rWTjhiar as ycu have done in the shade, and in the practice as you do in the theory of ▼irtue. This is my prayer, in return for your elegant composition in ver=e. All here join in compliments, and good wishes for jour further - y . xnt. TO MR CHALMERS. E. . . V L ., -2::\D:c. I ."86. JIY DEAR TRIS^D, •r I have sinned the sin for srbich .-.rdiyany forgiveness — iajntiiade to p— in not writing yoa sooner; but of aii men Itvir.g. I had in'enaed to send yoa an entertaining letter; and by all tbe pioddiag, I stupid powers, that in uedding eoneeted nia- je-ty preside over the dull routine of busine*! — a heavily solemn oath ibis ! — I an, and have ben eer * rue I came to Edinburgh, as unfit men.ary on the RertlatioTU. To make you same amends for what, before ycu reach this paragraph, you will Lave suffer- ed, I inclose you Iwo poems I bave carded and spun since I passed G.cr.ruck. One blank in the address to Edinburgh, " Fair B ? is the heavenly Mis- Burce:, daaghtez to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I bave bad tbe honour to be more than oace. There has not been any thing nearly like her, in all tbe com* binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, rbe gTeat Creator has' formed, sines 31 ikon's Eve on the first day of her n ! I have sen: you a par,ei of subset and hare written to Mr Bal'.entii.e and Mr Aiken to call on yoa for some of them, if they want them. My direction is — Care of Andrew Bruce, mereha.it, Br.c; TO THE EARL OF EGLIXTOX. ■ 8 LOKB, Edinburgh, January, 17S7. As I have bat slender pretensions to puiloso. pby I cannot rise to tl;e exalted ideas of a citizen of tbe world; but bave a tional prejudices which, I believe, glow peca- iiar.y Strang in the breast of a Sect, man. T.-ere is scarcely any thiixg 'o which I am so feelingiy alive, as the honour and my country ; and. as a poet, I have no higher - ■ £ her soris and riaugh- s ration in the veriest shades of life; but never did a heart part more ardently than mine, to be distinguished : though, till very lately, I locked ia ■ side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to guess bow much I was gra ined with the cuua- tenance and approbation of one of my country 's most illustrious sons, when Mr Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord, cer- tainly deserves my very grateful acknowledg- ments ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- liarlv suited to my feelioes. 1 am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know whether in troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but my heart whispered me to do iu From the emotions foul I do it. Seifi- : ir-cspsble of ; and mercenary set- BURNS, -LL'JTiTiH. my head— I a No. XV. TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, January 15, 1787. Yours, of the 9th current, which 1 am (his moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to roe ioi ungrateful neglect. 1 will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a f.b: 1 wished to have written to Dr Moore before I wrote to you ; but though, every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fume and character, and 1 am one of " the sons of little Bien. " To write him a mere matter-of fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be dis- gracing the little character I have ; and to write the author of The Vicic of Society and Man- ners a letter of sentiment— 1 declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write him to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have al- ready experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, ou the part of Lord Eglin- ron, with ten guineas by way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to ill the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does uot strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- plied for the opinion of some of the Literati here, who honour me with their critical stric- tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song jou ask 1 cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. 1 have not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print, and the inclosed, which 1 will print in this edition.* You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When 1 composed my Vision, long ago, I had attempt- ed a description of Kyle, of which the addi- tional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the SotiWur of his Country, which sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, [ know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am will- ing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the tirst natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be drag- ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awk- ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on * Sta::zas in the Vision, beginning third stanza, "By stately tower or palace fair," and ending with the lirst dtuui. sure you, madam, I do not dis- tell you ( tremble for the con- sequences, 'lhe novelty of a poet in my ob- scure situation, without any of those advan- tages which are reckoned necessr.ry for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public nutice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abiJilir Blair, who, 5 am informed, interests him- self very much for you. I beg to be remem- bered to him : nobody can have a warmer re- gard for that gentleman than I have, which, independent of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by the mem.ry of friend, the late ?.ir George Before I received vour letter, I sent inclosed in a letter to :_ , a sonnet by Miss Wil liams, a young poetical lady, which she wn--e on- reading your Mountain-Daisy; perhaps it j'have been trvinjr to add to the number of your subscribers; but I find many of toy ac quaintance are already among them. I have only to add, that with every sentiment of es- teem, and most cordial good wishes, While soon the garden's flaunting flowers de> A poet drew from heaven, shall n< Ah, like lht;t lonely flower the poet ] 'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter Be felt each storm that on the blows, Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale, By genius in her native vigour nursed, On nature with impassion 'd look he gazed ; TT.en through the cloud of adverse fortune Indignant, and in lieht unborrow'd blazed. Esotia i from rude affliction shield thy bard. His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will guard. TO DE. MOORE. Edinburgh, loth Ftirucry, 1787. E EVER END SIE, Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so iong to acknowledge the honour you have dune me, in your kind notice cf me. January 23d. Not many months ago, I knew no orirer em- ployment th-.n following the plough, norcouid boast any thing higher than a distant ac- quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me": I have no- thing to ask from the great, and Z do net fear their judgment ; tr:t genius, polished by learn- ing, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late 1 frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the ar!eclat!uii of seeming mode.-tv to cover self-conce 1. That I haveVcme merit I do not deny; but 1 see with frequent wring g heart, that the novelty of l'ny character, and the honest national prejudice of my country- men, have borne ir.e to a heigh; altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss W. has done me, plea-e, Sir, rrturu hi-r in my name, my tr.ost grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted' tiie idea in hopeless despon- dency. I had never before heard of her : but the other day I got her poems, which, for several reasons, some belonging to the head, and others the offspring of the heart give me a great deal of pleasure. 1 have little pre .-ions to critic lore: there are, I think, characteristic features in her poetry the un- fettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settlea what pleases me, often without I only kn ( being able to tell v No. XIX. FROM OR MOORE. CiJ.rd Sired, SSth February, KS 7. r.EAit sir. Your letter of the loth gave me a great deal of pleasure, it is not surprising thr.t you improve in correctness and taste, considering where yc.u have been for some time past. And I dare swear there is no danger of your admitting any polish wh:ch might weaken the vigour of vour native powers. I am glad to perceive that you disda.n tne nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit as a poet — an affectat on which is dis- played with most ostentation by those who have the greatest share of self-conceit, and which only adds undeceiving falsehood to gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit of your poems would be arraigning the fixed opinion of the public. As the new edition of my Fiftf cf Society is not yet ready, I have sent you the former edition, which", I beg jou will accept as a BURXS. -LETTERS. small tnarR of my esteem. It 13 sent by sea, to the care of Mr Creech; and, along" with these four volumes for yourself, 1 have also sent my Medical Skttchts, in one volume, for my friend Mrs Dunlop of Lunlop : this you will he so obliging as to transmit, or, if )cu chance topass soon by Dunlop, to g.ve to her. I am happy to hear that your Mibscription is bo ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good fortune that befalls you : for you are a v ery great favourite in my family ; and this is u higher compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It includes almost all the professions, and of course is a proof that your wr tings are adapted lo various tastes and situations. Mjf youngest son, who is at \\ inchester school, writes to me that he is translating some stanzas of your Halkut'tn into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. This union of taste partly proceeds, r.o dcubt, from the cement of Scottish partiality, with wLicb they are ail somewhat tinctured. Even icur translator, who left Scotland too early in life for recollec- tion, is not w ithout it. TO THE EARL OF GLEXCAIRX. v to see t 1 "Lun. Edinburgh, ] 7S7. a profile of jour lordship, s to be got in town ; but : U.C ihs Uended to lit below a picture cr profile of your lordship, could 1 have been so happy as to procure one with any thing of a likeness. As 1 will scon return to my shades, I want- ed to have something like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, There is my noble patron, my genero'is benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lord- fchip by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of benevolence, by ail the powers and feelings w hich compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition.* 1 owe to your lordship ; and what has not in some instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. 1 trust, 1 have a heart as independent as your lordship's, than which 1 can say nothing more : and I would not be beholden to favours that would crucify my feelings- Ycur dignified character in life, and manner of sUj porting that character, are flattering to my pride; and I would be jealous of the purity of niy grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of the much favoured tons of fortune. Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow *■ It does not appear that the earl granted this request, nor have the verses alluded to been found among the MSS. , then, mv lord, if you think the verses hn rinsic me/it, lo tell' the world how much ,e the honour to be Your lordship's highly indebted, And e\ er gi ateiui humble aei van Ko. XXI. TO THE EARL GF BrCHAX. shall ever grateful y remember: "Praise from thv lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, They best can give it who deserve it mot. " Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, when you advise me lo fire my muse at Scottish story "and Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- g rim age through my native country ; to sit and mute en ibise 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. Rut, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic revcr t"s, a leng-visaged/tiry, moral looking phantom strid vords, " I, "Wisdom, dwell with piU' This, my lord, is unanswerable, eturu to my humble station, and wo< ic muse in my wonted way al ihe plo ' ipsoflite' thai in , which 1 boast my hi. lb, and gratitude U her distinguished sons, who have honoured me ±0 much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through mj humble shades, ever distend my besom, and at times draw forth the swelling tear. Ext. Property in/vevr rf Mr Robert Enrns, loercci end kiep up a Htacsiont in n.eu.ory of Pott Fergusson, 17S7. Scssior.-houte, within the Kirk vf Ca- tcr.gate, the tvei.il/-siroiid day ct be- 1 Iruc.ry, cue iKoutcnd ttien hui.dted yai rf the Kirk and Kirk- Which day, the treasurer to the said funds pr deathless fame. Gentiemen, vuur ver, hnUe servant, (j B^scribitar,) "ROBERT BURNS." Jlr Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do unanimously errant power and liberty to ihe said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the sa.d Robert Fereusson. and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in ail time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the managers, by- William Sprott, Clerk. M By special grant of the Managers to Rubmt Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-plti-a is to remain for ever sacred to the uieiuor. y f Robert Ftrsusso ■>. " EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM SUi March, 1787. 1 am trnly happy to know you have found a friend in ; his patronise of you does him great honour. He is truly a good man ; by far the be>t I ever knew, oi. perhaps, ever shall know, in this world. But I must not speak all I think of him, le=t I should be So you have obtained liberty from the ma- rates to erect a stone over F^rgusson's e ? I do not doubt it; such things have been, as Shak=pea-e says, " in thuoldeu-time :'' TO ■ . XV TEAR SIR, Yott may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and vet 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 hear" would think yourself loo much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to me so unaccountable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- cient to prevent a mischief he might be of use: but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of pa-sion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the Hnclouded fervour of the rising sun : and uo sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- sequences of fo:ly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up stairs conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the d . I have inclosed you, by way of expiation, some ver=e and prose, that, if they merit a place in jour truly entertaining miscellany, jou are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr Sprott sent it me. The Inscription on the Slone is as follows ; HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, I-OET, No sculptured marble here, nor pompons lay, " No storied urn nor animated bust ;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pojr her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. Oh the other ride of the Stone is at follows ; Tl is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that this is written. But how many brothers of Parnassus, as well o.s poor Hutler and poor Fergusson, have a~ked for bread, and been The magistrates gave you liberty, did they? O generous magistrates ! "■*•*•• i celebrated over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor port's memory I — most generous • • • • I once upon a time, gave that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. But" then it must be considered that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- ness of hunger; and, over and above, he re- ceived a worth, at least one-lhird of ihe value, in exchange, but which, I believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. Next week I Lope to have the p'easuie cf seeing \ou : n Edinburgh ; and as my stay wiil be for eight or ten days, 1 wish you or . would take a snog", weli-aired bedroom for me, where I ma? have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But by all accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty to s-eeyou at ali, unless your company is be- spoke a week beforehand. There is a great rumour here concerning your great intimacy with the Duchess of , and other ladies of distinction. I am really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and, if you had one, 1 suppoie there would also be •« bribes to sour old secretary." It seems you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fer- gusson Quce'-enca pe- cuuia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by ! you seemed to despise it while in this country ; but probably some phi- losopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense. Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- ing ?— Are you yet seized •« With itch of picture in the front, With bays of wicked rhyme upon't : * BUBK6 — LETTERS. » But I must give up this trifling, and attend to matters that more concern mvseif: so, ai the Aberdeen -wit says, adieu dryly, lie sal drink phun tee meet.* WA XXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 1 read your letter with watery eyes. A little, ■very little while ago, I had scarce a friend tut the ftubborn pride of my oun befom ; now 1 am distinguished patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of cr.ticisms, ! receive with reve- rence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the lite- rati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures : his hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, ] follow implicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects j there i can give you no light ; it is all •• Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had triid his beams Athwart the gloom profound. ' ' The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far r.v highest pride; to continue to deserve " ny most exalted ambition. Scottish scene: Scottish story are the themes 1 could wis sing. I have no dearer aim than to base power, unplagued with the routine of 1 usi- s, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; ander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; i ruins, once the honoured abodes of her beree* it these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough with life: 'tVs time to be irnest. 1 have a fond, an agect mother to c?re for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual oi.ly suffers by the consequences of his own thought- lessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excus- able : nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may haii'-sauctify a heedless * The above extract is from a letter cf one of the ablest of our poet's correspondents, which mtains some interesting anecdotes of Fergus- >ii, that we should have been happy to have inserted, if they could have been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in supposing the inagis- :ratesof Edinburgh had anysharein the transac- especting the monument erected for Fer- i by our ard : this, it is evident, passed etwecn Burns and the Kirk Session of the Ca- .oiigate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor anywhere 'se, do magistrates usually trouble thr"- -' character: but where God and naiure have intrusted the welfare cf others to bis care ; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these con- nexions will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and Three hundred pounds by my authorship : with that sum I intend, >so tar as 1 may be said to have any intention, to return to my old ae- (jBaintance, the plough, and, if 1 can meet with a lease by Which I can live, to commence lar- nier. 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 ir.v resolution, 1 shall have principally at heart the serious business of life: bnt while follow- ing my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a "leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country and the patronage of a Wallace. Thus, honoured madam, I have grvtni \ou the bard, his situation and his views., native aa they are in his own bosom. No. XXVI. TO THE SAME. MADAM, Edinburgh, 15lh April, 1787. There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my part, madam, I trust 1 have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence for selfish- ness. 1 have this moment broke open jour letter, but " Rude am I in speech, And therefore little can I erace my cause In speaking for myself — " so I shall not trouble ycu with any fine speeches and hunted figures. " I shall jus't lay my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall" ever have the truest, the warmest, seu.se of your good- I come abroad in prii.tlfcr certain on Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr Moore's and Miss W. 's copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle when I have the honour of wait- l)r Bnrirhf was just gone to Londcn the morning before I recehed ycur ktter to him. No. XXYII. TO DR MOORE. Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. received the books, and sent the one you ;iitioned to Mrs Duulop. I am ill-skilled ih>hed, or how Lit grave is a , iur- ( Adam Smith. 94 in beating die coveits of imagination for roeta- Shors of- gratitude. I thuuk you, sir, ior the onour ycu have done me ; and to iuy latest hour will waruiiy re.nember it. To Le highly pleased with your took, as what I have in common with the world ; hut to regard these vo.uuies as a mark af die author s frieiiiuy esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Edinburgh in the course oi leu days or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgr. mages over some of the osssic ground of L„c^.,.i, Ci-utu-x-Iuiowcs, fiamla tfi'a 1 snaal return to my rural shades, in all likeii. hood never more to quit them. 1 have formed ajraid they are all of loo tender a construction to U;ar curr.age a hundred and ti'ty tunes. To the rich, the great, me fash.ouaLie, the polite, I have no equivalent to oner ; aud I am afraid my meteor aggeargjuy w... by no means en- tire me (o a seeded coxrespende of you, v.ho are ih= p :tui-:..i i - ;--.= --" g: : a i.lera My uiosi . . = - If once tins tangent slight of iu.uc « = &aj I were returned to my wonted i motion in my old circle, 1 may prco Xo. XXYIIL ?•;:,= w. exrBACX of to a>t&s c UXLCP. Edinburgh, SOi'A April, 17S7. _ Your criticisms, Madam, 1 understand verv wel', ar.dcoulu have wished to have pleas- ed you better) You are right in y. ur guess that 1 am not very aint..aL.e to counsel. To-ets, ; : r .-. '..-t, have so Haltered i of I set as Utile ty . lords, e'.ergy, cr;- Itea, See- as all these .-.-; .. ws.gea rj ih: bj iiiy bar-ship. 1 know what I may e^^ecl from the world by ana ty — ij.teral abuse, aud perhaps ol .... 1 am happy, Madam, inat some of my own favourite pieces are a.stiiigu.shed by your par- ticular approbation. Tor my Dream, wh.eh his unfortunately incurred your sure, 1 hope in lour weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dualop in its deieuce, in person. Lau-n-2dar'j to thank ; cu :or the kiuduess, patronage, and friendship you have shown ate, liften felt the embarrassment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark ; ami honoured ty ti.e not.ee of those ii.ustrious names of my country, whose works, while ibey are applaud- ed to the end of time, -will ever instruct and mend the Heart. However ;he meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the ac- quaintance ot' the permanent lights of genius ana literature, lho=e who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man ; 1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserv.ug lb*.! character when once the novelty was over. I have mane up uiy mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters. 1 have sent ycu a proof impression of Eeu- go's work for me, none on Indian paper, as a trilling, hut sincere testimony wuh what beart- waiui gratitude- J am, gjc. X\. XXX. FROM EA fJLAIIi. Arzjle-Square, Edinburgh, 4.A Hay, 17S7. I was favoured this forenoon with your very obliging letter, together with au inuression of your portrait, for which I return you my best thai.ks. The success ycu have met with I do not think «sf beyoud yuar merits; and if I have had any small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know noVay in ; ersons, who are advanced in ars, ... more service to the world, than g the efforts of rising genius, or bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. I was the Urst person who brought out to the no;ice of the worid, the poems or Ossian by the .F.'Cg;:.. . .-: I .. ry which i published, and afterwards, by mj V foot the undertaking for eoUectii g iug the IVorfe cj Uisiai. : audi ha considered this as a meritorious action of my life. Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular ; aud. in being trought out ail at once from the shaaes of deepest privacy, to so great a share >. you had to s:a:iu a severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so we.i ; and as far as £ have known or heard, though in the m:dst of i:;a::y temptations, without reproach to your character and beoaviour. private walk of life; and i tru^t, will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence, aud honour. l'oi have laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the midst of those em. ploymeuts, which your situation will render proper, you Will not, 1 hope, neglect to pro- mole that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attending to sucu productions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, oe not iu loo great a haste to come for • ward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature vour talents ; for on any second pro- duction you give the world, your fate as a j iu>ich depend. 'iiiere is, no BURNS. — LETTERS. doabt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. As you very properly hint yourself, you are noi 10 be surprisei if, in )o-ir rural retreat, you do nut tind yourself surrounded with that glare of notice and applause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a pbilos pher. He must lay his account, that any one who exposes himself to public observation, will occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, ■which it is always ben to overlook and despise. He will be inclined sometimes to com t retreat, r from public ■t aire.. = iiin. ; adv. If ne- i forth and energy. He will not think hi gieeted if 'lie be not always praised. I h; taken the liberty, you see. of an old man, give advice and make reflections which yi own good sense will, I dare say, render un • As you mention your being just about to leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dauifr'^shre to iook at soma of Mr Miller's farms. I heartily \vi=h the offers to be made you there may answer; as I am persuaded you will not easily iiud a more generous and beiier hearted proprietor to live under than Mr Miller. When you return, if you come this way, I will be happy to see you. and to know concerning your future plans of life. You will bud me, by the 22.1 o; this month, not in my hou«e in Arjvle Square, but at a country* Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. W.sh- i:i? you ail success and piospe.ity, I am, with Dear Sir, Yours sincerely, HUGH BLAIR. mt of his Odes than all bis other writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and Colter's Saturday Nigh/. In these are united fine ima- gery, natural and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and tboiiihr. It is evi- dent that 3 on already possess a ereat variety of expression and command of the Eo S lish Ian- guage ; you ought, therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future, in the provine'al dia- lect : — why should you, by using that, limit the number of your admirers to those who under- stand !he Scottish, when you can extend it to all persons of taste who understand the English language ? In my opiuion, you should plan some larger work than any you have as yet at. tempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper snijee', and arrange the plan in your mind, jou have "studied most of the' b-st English FROM DR MOORE. Clifford Street, May 23, 17S7- t>zar s 1 had (he pleasure of your letter by Mr Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edition of your poems. You seem to think it incumbent on you to send to each subscriber a number of copies proportionate to his subscripion money ; hut you may depend upon it, few subscribers expect more than one copy, whatever thev sub- scribed. I must inform you, however, that I took twelve copies for those subscribers for whose money you were so accurate as to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent fur six copies for himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. Some of ihe poems you have added in this last ediiion are beautiful, par»i uiarly the Win- ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green grow the Rashes, and the two songs immedi- ately following; the latter of which was ex- quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such composiiiwns, which ;ek and Roi i lit j cf h abridgment, and soon become master of the most brilliant facts, which must hijrhly delight a poetical mind. You should alto, and very soon may, become master of the heathen my tho- logy, to which there are everlasting allusions in all the poets, and which in itself is char- mingly fanciful. What will require to be studied with more attention, is moJern history ; that is, the history of France and Great Britain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I know very well you have a mind capable of attaining knowledge by a shorter process than is commonly used, and I am certain you are capable of making a better use of it, when attained, than is generally don9. I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing to me when it is inco.wenient, and make do apology, when you do write, for hav- ing postponed it ; be assured of this, however, that I shall always be happy lo hear from yon. I think my friend Mr — — . told me that y.-ni had some poems in manuscript by you of a satirical and humorous nature (in 'which, by the way, I think you very strong,) which your prudent friends prevailed on you to omit ; par- ticularly one called Somebody's Confession ; if you will intrust me with the si-bt of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no copies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal of ihsm. I understand ycu intend to t : ke a farm, and make the U9eful and respectable business of husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hop*, will not prevent your making occasional ad- dresses to the nine ladies who have shown vou such favour, one of whom visited you in "the auld clay biggin. Virgil, before you, proved io the world that there is nothing in the business of husbandry inimical to poetry j and I sincerely hope that you ma^ afford an example of a good poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in tnv power to visit Scotland this sea- son ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converge wiio you. If ever your occasions call you to this place, I make uo doubt of your paying me a * His subsequent compositions will hear tes- timony to the accuracy of Or Moore V judg- DIAMOND CAB1NE1 LIBRARY. vialt, and you may depend ou a verj cordial welcome from this family. I am, dear* Sit, "Sour friend andobediert servant, J. MOORE. No. XXXIL FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. SiU, Jamaica, St Ann's, IMh June, 1787. I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Janu- ary 17S7, wherein you acquaint me you were engaged with Mr Doi.glas of Port Antonio, for three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year; and am happy some" unexpected accidents in- tervened that prevented your sailing with the vessel, as I have great reason to think Mr Douglas's employ would by no means have answeiedyoui expectations, i received a copy of your publications, fcr 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 couid have wished they had been in the En-ash style, as they allege the ScoU -'- dialect is now becoming obsolete, and thereby die elegance and beauties of your poems are in a great measure lest 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 ceuntry style ; and y our own-inclinations for the hopes ycur genius for poetry both for protit and honour country. i can by no means to think of coming to the VV« Inverness, 5th September, 1787. MY DEAR SIR, I have just time to write the foregoing,* an to tell you that it was (at least most part of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruur. 1 do not mean it was extempore, for I have en- deavoured 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 oebts of honour or gratitude. What 1 owe to the noLle family or Athole, of the hrst kind, I shall ever proudly Loast ; what I owe of tho help me God in my hour of need, L shall n r k;v( 'lhe little "angel bam! ! "—I declare I prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fali of Fyars. I shall never forget the line family-piece I saw at Elair ; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her lap, nt the bead of the table; the lovely " olive plants, " as the Hebrew bard. finely says, round the happy mother; the Leau- tiiulMrs G , the io.ely sweet Mis* C. &-'. 1 wish I had the powers of Cuido to tlo them justice ! Mj Lord Guke's kind hospital- ' ndecd MrG.ofF 's fritndsbip- -S!r W. M_ nrks, ing in the English there is no encouragement f< I 1 C Jama°ica d . r fam'glaTt'o i e well, and shall always be happy No. XXXIV. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, \7lh Sept. 1787. MY DEAR BROTHER, arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a our of twenty-two days, and travelling neat ix hundred miles, windii gs included. My arthest stretch was ; bout ten miles beyond In- erness. I went through the heart of the 3ijrhlands, by Crieff, Icy mouth, the famous ea^t of Lord Breadalbane, c.own the Tay, .inong cascades and druidical circles of stones o Dunkeld, a seat cf the I!uke of Athole ; hence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary (reams to Blair of Athole, another of tha lake's seats, where I had the honour of spend- ng nearly two days with his Grace and fam- ly ; thence many miles through a wild conn- r'v, among cliffs gray wi.li e.erual snows, aiQ. fcomy savage glens," I'll 1 crossed Spey and x-nt clown the stream through t tialhspey, so siiions in Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. tiU reached Grant Castle, where 1 spent half a ay with Sir James Gr;,r.t and family , i;d then crossed the country for Fort George, Ut mailed by the way at Cawdor, the ancient rat ot Macbeth ; there 1 saw the identical bed n which, tradition says, king Duncan was nurdued: lastly, from Fort George to htver- I returned by the co:st, througa Nairn, Torres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stouehive, where James Burnes, from Mon- e, met me by appointment. I spent two s among our relations, and found ouraunts, n and Isabel, still alive, and hale old wo- i. John Caird, though born the same year ...h oi.r father, walks as vigorously as I can : they have had sevtxal letters from hi* sub EURX5 LETTERS. ■ -. New York. ~ "William Brand is likewise a • out old fellow: but further particulars I de- y till I see you, which will be in two or three ' eeks. The rest of my stages are not worth >>hearsing; warm as I was from Ossian's :3tmtry, where I had seen his very grave, •tat cared I for fishing towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one right, and dined at Gordon Castle next day .^i;h the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am • linking to cause my old mare to meet me, by means of JobnRonald.atGlasgow; but you shall Lear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 7y dutv, and many compliments from the ■:orth, to my mother, and my brotherly compli- ments to the rest. I have been trying for a ' :rth for William, but am not likely io be suc- essful. — Farewell. No. XXXV. FROM MR R i-lK, Ochlertyre, 22J October, 1787. Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- Etoune's answer, that neither the words of Lhicn ihe burn, Davie, nor Dainty Davie, (I forgot which you mentioned), were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Nest time I meet him, i will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. Inclosed are the inscriptions yon requested, end 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 97 also Oraeron Cameron, which seemed to male such a deep impression on your imagination, that I ara not without Lopes it will beget some- thing to delight the public in due time: and, no doubt the circumstances of this little tale might be varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his countrymen were in the field. His station may be somewhat varied, without losing his simplicity and kindness .... A group of characters male and female, connected with the plot, might be formed from his family, or some neighbouring one cf rank. It is not in- dispensable that the guest should be a man of high station ; nor is the political quarrel in which he is engaged, of much importance, un- less to call forth the exercise of senerosity 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 Eueueus "WRITTEN IN 1768. FOR THE SANCTUM t AT OCHTER- TYRE. Salubritatis voluptatiscue causa, Hoc Salictum, Paludem olim intidam, Mihi meisque desieco et exorno. Hie, procul negotiis slrepauque, Innocuis deliciis Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, Apiumque labores suspiciendi, Hie, si faxit Dens opt. max. Prope hunc fontem pe'llucidum, Cum quodam juventutis amico superstite, Conuntus modicis, meoque latus '. Sin aliter- .aSvume paululutn snpersit, ENGLISHED. To improve both air aud soil, I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, "Which was lately an unprofitable morass. Here far frcm noise and s:rife, I luve to wander, Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. Here, if it please Almighty God, May I often rest in the evening of life. Near that transparent fountain, "With some surviving frie:id of my youth ; Contented with a competency, And happy with my lot. , If vain these bumble wishes, And life draws near a close, Ye trees and friends, J And whatever else is dear, Farewell, and long may ye flourish. ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE ■WRITTEN IN 1775. Mihi meisque ntinam contingat, Prope Taichi margiuem," Avito in agello, Bene vivere fausteque mori ! ENGLISHED. On the banks of the Teith, In the small but sweet inheritance Of my fathers, May T and mine live in peace, Aud die in joyful hope I These inscriptions, and the translations, are in t e haud writing of Mr R . This gentleman, if still alive, will, it is hoped, excuse the liberty taken by the unknown editor, in enriching the correspondence cf Burns with his excellent letter, and with in- scriptions so classical and so interesting. DIAMOND CABLYET LIBRARY. iD the Odyssey, which, ia Mr Pope's transla- tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing from nature, that would suit some of our coun- try elders of the present day. There must be love in the plot, and a happy discovery ; and peace and pardon may be tfce reward of hospitality, and honest attachment to misguided principles. When you have cnce thou-rht of a plot, and brousht "the storv into form; Dr Eiacklock, 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 yoa could afterwards till up at your leisure. But, whilst I presume to give a few well- meant hints, let me advise you to study the spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which is natural without being low, and, under the trammels of verse, is such as country people in their situations, speak every day. You have on'y to bring down your own strain a very litiie. A great plan, such as this, would con- centre ail your id-eas, which facilitates the execution, 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 abssrb 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- Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, permit me to go a step further. Let those bright talents which the Almighty has bestowed on yoa, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. Au 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 hare been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they ■would wish to blot. Ia particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of individuals 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 mead the heart or temper. Whilst these poinrs are beyond human ken, it is sufficient that all our seets concur 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 hospi- tality and elevation of mind were conspicuous 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 # Allan Ratneay, in the Gemle Shepherd. b=g my best Tespects to Dr and Mrs Black- lock, - And am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. f 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 charac- ter in the iteenth century), and Donald Stew, art, Earl of Caithness, "had the command of the royal army. They marched into Lochaber, with a view of attacking a body of McDonalds, commanded by Donald Halloch, and posted upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Having timely intelligence of their approach, the insurgents got off precipitately to the oppo- site shore in tr.eir curaghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's troops encamped in fall security; but the M'Dor.alds, returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the Tne Earl of Mar escaped in tbe dark, with- out 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 Oineron Cameron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the utmost kindness : but, as there was no meat in the house, he to'.d his wife he would directly kill Mod Oiihar,X to feed the stranger. "Kill our only cow ! ' : said she, "our own and our little children's principal support!" More atten- however.'o the present call for hospitality, ) thr • the of his family, he killed the cow. The best and tenderest parts were im- mediately roasted before the fire, and plenty of innirich', or Highland soup, prepared to con- clude their meal The whole family and their guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent as usual, in telling tales and singing songs be- side a cheerful fire. Bed time came; Omeion brushed the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The Earl wrapped hia plaid about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the family betook themselves to rest in a coiner of the same room. Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at bis departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew whom he had entertained? *■ You may probably," answered he, " be one of the king's officers; but whoever you are, yoa came here in distress, and here it was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage afforded, you are most welcome.' 1 — " Your guest, then," replied the other, "is the Earl of Mar : and if hereafter you fall into any misfor- tune, fail not to come to the castle of Kildrum- mie."_"My blessing be with you! noble stranger," said Omeron ; "if I am ever in The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head'agaiust it, dispersed. TheM'- Donalds, however, got notice that Omeron had % Mool OJhar, i. e. the brown humble cow. BURNS LETTERS. No. XXXYI. FROM MR W , 4tlwle House, 13/ft September, J 767. Tour letter of the 5th reached me only on the 11th; what awkward route it had taken 1 know not : but it deprived me of the pleasure of writing to yon in the manner you proposed, as you must have left Dundee before a letter could possibly have got there. 1 hope your n being forced f ' Th iappoin great as appeared Irom your expre- ' ' the best consolation for the great! I still think with vexation on that ill- timed indisposition which lost joy men t of a man (I speak v.itheut flattery), possessed of those very dispositions and talents 1 most admire: .......... . . . You know how anxious the Duke was to have another day of you, and to let Mr Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation, as the best dainty with which be 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, tut the ambush failed. Proh mirum I The driver was incor- ruptible. Your verses have given us much de- light, and I think will produce their proper effect.* They produced a pow erful one imme- diately ; for the morning alter 1 read them, we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where none of the ladies had been these seven or eight years, and r.gain enjoyed them there. The passages we most admired are the description of the dying trouls. Of the high fall, " twist- ing strength" is a happy picture of the upper part. The characters of the birds, " mild and mellow,'' is the thrush itself. The benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safety I highly approve. The two stanzas beginning «« Here been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife and children to the gate of Rildrummie Castle, and required admittance with a confidence which hardly- corresponded with his hab;t and appearance. The porter told him, rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He be- came noisy and importunate : at last his name was announced. Upon hearing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seat, aniis said to have exclaimed in a sort of poetical stanza, " 1 was a night in his house, and fared most plentifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breugach is an excellent fellow!" He was introduced into the great hall, and received with the wel- come he deserved. Upon hearing how he had been treated, the earl ga\e him a four merk land near the castle ; and it is said there are still in the country a number of Camerons de- scended of this Highland Eumieus. * The humble Petition of Bruar- Water to toe Duke of Athole. Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure ol mentioning an incident which happened yes- terday at the Bruar. As we passed the door of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curt- sied to us with looks of such poverty, and such contentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her some money. She was astonished, and in the confusion of her gratitude, invited us in. Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt her de- licacy, entered— Lut, good God, uiiat wretch- edness ! It was a cow-hcuse — her own cottage had been burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood perfectly silent — looked at Miss C. then to the money, and burst i _ nned hei sensibility, took ou into the old woman Mth a 'W'hat : char miplished girl of s teen in so angelic a situation ! Take jcur pen- cil and paint her in jcur most glowing tints. — Hold her up amidst the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, without ever feeling one generous, one great emotion. Two davs after you left us, I went to Tav- mouth. ft is a charming place, but still" I think art has been too busy. Let me be your Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, gave me most delight. But 1 think the last has not been taken proper advantage of. The hermitage is too much in the common-place style. Every body expects the couch, the .book-press, and the hairy gown. 'J he Duke's idea I think better. A rich and elegant apart- ment is an excellent contrast to a scene of Al- pine horrors. I must now beg your permission (unless you have some other design) to have your verses printed. They appear to me extremely correct, and some particular stanzas would give univer- sal pleasure. Let me know, howrever, if you incline to give them any farther touches. Were they in some of the public papers, we could more easily disseminate them among our friends, which many of us are anxious to do. When you pay your promised visit to the Braes of Ochtertjre, Mr and Mrs Graham of Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- ing you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, which is now in their possession. The Duchess would give any consideration for ano- ther sight of your letter to l)r Moore ; we must fall upon some method of procuring it for her. I shall inclose this to our mutual friend Dr B , who Jiay forward it. 1 shall b« extremely happy to hear from you at your first leisure. Inclose your letter in a cover ad- dressed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. God bless you, J W . DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY FROM MR A- SIR, 6lh October, 17S7. Having just arrived from abroad, 1 bad your poems put into my bands : tbe pleasure I re- ceived in reading them, has induoed me to solicit your liberty to publish them amongst a number of our countrymen in America (to which place I shall shortly return), and where they will be a treat of such excellence, that it would be an injury to your merit and their feeling to prevent their appearing in public % Receive the following hastily written lines from a well-wisher. Fair fa' your pen, bit dainty Rob, Your leisom way o writing, Whiles, g':owring o'er your warks, I sob, Whiles laugh, whiles downright greetinj Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, Their words are wond'rous bonny, But guid Scotch drink the truth does say, It is as guid as ony Wi ' you this day. Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, Ye did the poor thins wransr, To leave her tether 'd oil the brink Of stank sae wide and lang ; Her dying words upbraid ve sair, Cry fie on your neglect ; Guid faith gin ye had got play fair, This deed had stretch 'd your neck, That mournfu' day, But waes me, how dare fin' faut, Wi' sik a winsome bardie, Wha great an' sma's begun to daut, And"tak him by the gardie : It sets na onv lawland chie!, Like vou lo verse or rhyme, For few like you can flej tbe deil, And skclp auid wither 'd Time On ony day. It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, Be he of purest fame, If he but tries to raise, as Allan, Auld Scotia's bonny name ; To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, Better I canna gie. And though it's but a swatch of thine, Accept these lines frae me, LTpon this day. Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, Frae that e 'en to the line, In ilka place where Scotchmen bleed, There shall your hardship shine ; Ilk honest chiel wha reads your tuick. Will there aye meet a brither, He lang may seek and lang will look, Ere be fin' sic anither On ony day. Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge Some wark of wordie mak, I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge But now my farewell tak ; Lang may vou live, lang mav vou write. And sing'l.ke English Weischell, This prater I do myself indite. From yours still," A M . This very day. No. XXXVIII, FROM MR J. RAMSAY, TO THE REV W. YOUNG, AT ERSKIXE. OchUrtyrc, 22d October, 17 87. DEAR SIR, Allow me to introduce Mr Burns, whop poems, I dare say, have given you mucl personal acquaintance, h the his works, in which there is a rich vein of intellectual ore. He has heard some of our Highland Itdiags or songs played, which delighted him so much that he has made words to one or two of them, which will ren- der these more popular. As he has thought of being in your quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a sample of those sweet artlesa melodies, which only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) to congenial words. I wish we could conjure up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a portion of his enthu- siasm for those neglected airs, which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. But if it be true that Corelli (whom I locked on as the Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their taste ; — this, how- ever, is going out of my province. You can show Mr Burns the manner of singing these same luinigs ; and, if be can humour it in words, I do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the original style, 1 am very sorrv we are likely to meet so sel- dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has bo few opportun ties of eultivatieg acquaintances at a distance. I hope, how- ever, some time or other, to have the pleasure of beat ng up your quarters at Er=kine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c, mean- while I beg' to be remembered to Messrs Boog and Mvlne. If Mr B. goes by -, give him a billet on our friend Mr Stuart, who, I presume, does net dread the frown of his diocesan, I am, Dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. BURNS. —LETTERS. 101 MR RAMSAY TO DR BLACKLOCK. Ochtertyre, 27th October, 1787. DEAR SIR, 1 received yours by Mr Burns, and give you many thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed between us on the subject of my hints, to which I have made additions, in a letter sent him t 'other day to your care. Yet may tell Mr Burns, when you see h!ro, that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former mar- riage) had a great turn that way, having writ- ten the words of The Rush aboon Traquair, and Twcedside. That the Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr John Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial tii'ty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and had lived long in France. Lady Ankerville is his niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. An epi- taph-monger like me might moralize upon the vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions.— But 1 have hardly room to offer my best compliments to Mrs Blacklock ; and I am, Dear Doctor, Your most obedient humble servant, RAMSAY. Edinburgh. We frequently repeat some of ur verses in our Caledonian society ; and , u may believe, that I am not a little vain that I have had some share in cultivating such snius. I was not absolutely certain that were the author, till a few days ago, when ade a visit to Mrs Hill, Dr M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, and who told me lat she was informed of it by a letter from her ster in Edinburgh, with whom you had been i company when in that capital. Pray let me know if you have any intention f visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? t would afford matter for a large poem. Here ou would have an opportunity of indulging our vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to greater degree than in any city upon the face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as know, are a collection of all nations, kin- dreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce. Present my respectful compliments to Mrs Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the universe bless you all with those princi- ples and dispositions that the best of parents took such uncommon pains to instil into your minds from your earliest infancy I May ycu live as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at once, and affected in a manner I cannot de- scribe. I shall only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures 1 promise myself before I die, that of see ng the family of a man whose me- mory I revere more than that of any person '.hat ever I was acquainted with. I am, my dear Friend, Yours sincerel JOHN MURDOCH. FROM MR JOHN MURDOCH. London, 2 8 /A October, 1787. MY DEAR SIR, As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the oppor- tunity of telling you that I am yet alive, toler- ably well, and always in expectation of being better. By the much valued letters before me, I see that it was my duty to have given you this intelligence about three years and nine months ago; and have nothing to allege as an excuse, DUt that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in Lon- don, are so much taken up with the various pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we seldom think of any person, creature, place, or thing, that is absent. But this is not altogether the case with me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and Russet, and an unfalkomed depth, and lowan brunstane, all in the same minute, although you and they are (as I sup- pose) at a considerable distance. I flatter my- self, however, with the pleasing thought, that you and 1 shall meet some time or other either Hi Scotland or England. If ever you come hither, you will have the satisfaction of seeing your poems relished by the Caledonians in Loudon, full as much as they can be by those FROM MR Gordon Castle, 31st October, 1787. S'R, If you were not sensible of your fault as well as of your loss in leaving this place so suddenly, I should condemn you to starve upon cauld kail for ae toivmont at least ; and as for D!ck Latine,* your travelling companion, without banning him ttu' a* the curses contained in your letter, (which he'll ko value a bawbee,') I 'louid give him nought but Stra'bogie castovks chew for *a.r ouks, or aye until he was ai sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. Your song I showed without producing the author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be the production of Dr Beattie. I sent a copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs M'Pherson in Badenoch, who sings Alorag and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is in company with a great many other poems and verses, some of the writers of which are no ltss eminent for their political than for their 10* poetical abilities. When the Duchess" was in- formed that you were the author, she wished you had written the verses in Scotch. Any letter directed to me here will come to hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, as long as the Duke is in this country. I am, Sir, yours s'.ncerely. No. XLIL FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. SIR, Linshart, November 11th, 1787. Your kind return without date, but of post- mark October 25ih, came to my hand only this day ; and, to testify my punctuality to my poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- ing genius, and your opinion of my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The difference between our two tracts of edu- cation and the ways of life is entirely in your favour, and gives you the preference every man- ner of way. I know a classical education will not create a versifying taste, but it mightily im- proves and assists it ; and though, where both these meet, there may sometimes be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears single, as it were, and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, I will always sustain the jus- tice of its prior claim to applause. A small portion of taste, this way, 1 have had almost from childhood, especially in the old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness for Christ's idrk o' the Grene, •which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While 1 was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which have made a public appear- ance beyond my expectation, and contrary to my intentions, at the same time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharac- teristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected. As to the assistance you propose from me in the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, perhapg, expect. My daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are all foris familiate, and the old woman their mother has lost that taste. There are two from my own pen, which I might give you, if worth the while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dum- barto?i's Drums. The other perhaps you have met with, as your noble friend the Duchess has, 1 am told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a brother parson in her neighbourhood, to ac- commodate a new Highland reel for the Mar- quis's birth day, to the stanza of DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. " Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, "&c. If this last answer your purpose, you may have it from a brother of mine, Mr James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, can give the music too. There is another humorous thing, I have heard said to be done by the Catholic priest Geudes, and which hit my taste much : *' There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the fair, Had got a little drapikie, which bred ner meikle care ; It took upo ' the wibe's heart, and she began And, quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I biuria fou, "I wish, 4'C. #"C. " I have heard of another new composition, by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of Tke humours of Glen, which I fear wont do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish original. 1 have mentioned these, such as they are, to show my readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have in hand, and which 1 wish all success to. You have only to notify your mind, and what you want of the above shall be sent you. Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I may say, employed, do not sheath your own proper and piercing weapon. From what I have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and morality, delivered in your amusing style, and from such as you, will operate more than doz- ens would do from such as me, who shall be told it is our employment, and be never more minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one cf the many, what comes will be ad- mired. Admiration will produce regard, and regard will leave sn impression, especially when example goes along. Now binna saying I'm ill bred. Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad ; For cadgers, ye have heard it said, And sic like fry, Maun aye be harland in their trade. And sae maun I. Wishing you from my poet- pen, all success, and in my other character, all happiness aud heavenly direction, I remain, with esteem, Your sincere friend, JOHN SKINNER. No. XLIH. FROM MRS f —k Ccstle, 30th November, 1787. , believe, (Mrs Ross of Kilravock, Nairnshire. BURNS LETTERS. 10S punctual performance of your parting promise, that has made me so long in acknowledging it, but merely the difficulty I had in getting the Highland songs you wished to have, accurately- noted : they are at last inclosed : but how shall I convey along with them those graces they acquired from the melodious voice of one of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! These I must leave to your imagination to supply. It has powers sufficient to transport you to her side, to recall her accents, and to make them still vibrate in the ears of memory. To her I am indebted for getting the inclosed notes. They are clothed with tl thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. " 1'hese, how- ever, being in an unknown tongue to you, you must again have recourse to that same fertile imagination of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties of an adored mistress — Why did I say unknown 'i The language of love is au universal one, that seems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be understood by all nations. I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many things, persons, and places in your northern tour, because it leads me to hope you may be induced to revisit them again. That the old castle of K. k, and its in- habitants, were amongst these, adds to my la your very flattering applicat Addison's; at any rate, all that " friendship will mainti has occupied" in both ( absence, and that, when as acquaintance of a sc* and on this footing, con in the future course of y commenced. Any comn gress of your muse will tain the ground she hearts, in spite of do meet, it will be )f years standing ; ar me as interested fame, so splendidly of tb ill be received witli great i of your genius will have power to warm, even us frozen sisters of the The friends of K k and K e i cordial regards to you. When you :ne of us reading yc >okin idea, lr poems, ;, aud my little Hugh e, and you'll seldom ;mber Mr N. with as do any body, who hur- be wrong, much good w ried Mr Burn Farewell, sir. I can only contribute the wi- dow's mite to the esteem and admiration excited by your merits and genius, but this I give, as .she did, with all my heart — being sincerely E. R. the bottom a name that I shall ever value with grateful respect, «'I gapit wide bit naething spak. " I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word. I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and aa soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness and resumed its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might por- tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in their con- sequences, occurred to my fancy. The down- fal of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G and the protestant interest ; or St Peter's key You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman, with my Latin, "in auld use and wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my con- cerns, with a goodness like that benevolent be- ing, whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worship- ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At best they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. " TO MRS DUNLOP. Edinburgh, 2\st January, 1783. After six weeks confinement, Iain beginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. I Have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission : for I would not tote in any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a six- penny private ; and, Cod 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 want bravery Ifor the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal WSAR SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you, that he is determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me : hummed over the rhymes ; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- self they were very well i but when I saw at I can bear the journey, whicli will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. EXTRACT OF A LETTER. TO THE SAME. Edinburgh, l&kFOruaiy, 17SS. Some things ia your late letters, hurt Die : not that you say them, but that you mistake me. Religon, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment, I have indeed been the luck- less victim of w a;, ward follies; but alas! I cave ever been "more fool than knave." A mathematician without religion, is a proba- ble character ; an irreligious poet, is t; a:on- TO A LADY. MADAM, Mbssgfei, IthMarck, 17S5. 1h* las; paragraph in yours of the 30. b Feb- ruary affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a siuner with any little wit I have, I do confess ; but I have taxed my recollection to so purpose, to find out when it was employed against yon. I ha:e an ungenerous sarcasm, a great deal worse than I do the devil ; at l describes him ; and though I iscaily .ugh to be s s guilty elf, I cannot endure it You, mv honoured friend, who cannot appear ia any light, tut yon ?.re sure of being respec- table — you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fir^e on your sense ; or if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem of ali ; but Goi help who are wits land uot for I aai bighl or witlings by profession, if we fame there, we sink uusupooried ! v flattered bv the news vou tell me if Cbi a. * may say to the fair painter who r , at bis Muse S:o.ia. iroai which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a poem of Beanie's in toe Scots dialect, which perhaps you have never seen :) '" Ye shake your head, but o' my fegs, - Ye've se: auld Scotia on her legs: La-g had she lien wi' buffs and flees, Bouibazed and dizzie, Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, No. XLYIII. TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORX. a track of melancholy joyless niuirs, bef.Teen Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and by nans, 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. \ I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but a.i I have only a sketch of the tone, I leave it wiih you to try if they suit the measure of the I am so harassed with care and anxiety about thi farming prcject of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a linker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I stiall trouble jou with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming : at present, the world sits such a load on my tcind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the in me. My very best compliments, and good wishes to Mrs C.eghorn. FROM MR ROEERT CLEGHORX. 5: gifou Mills, 271* April, 17S8. UV REAR BROTHER FARMER, I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 31st nit. and consider myself greatlj obliged to yon, for your attention in seudin? me the song to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. Tha words delight me much ; ihey fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse or would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sur.g after the fatal field of Cull Jden b* the unfortunate Charles: Tenducci p rso- n; - es the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Q-ncn Mary's Lamentation. — Why may not I sing in the person of her great- great-great grandson ?f i f Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Chevalier's Lament. f Our poet took this advice. The whole cf this beautiful soag, as it was afterwards finish- ed, is below : — THE CHEVALIER'S LAMEXT. The small birds rej.ice in the green leaves re- The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro the va'.e ; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the gretn dale: Bat whit can give pleasure, or what can seen While Uie lingering moments are numbered by No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly Can soothe the sad bosom of joyl«:s despair. BURNS.— LETTERS. Any skill I have in country business yoi may truly command. Situation, soil, custom: of countries may vary from each other, bu Farmer Attention is a pood farmer in ever] place. I beg to hear from you soon. Air: Ceghorn joins me in best compliments. I am, in the most comprehensive sense o: tho word, your verv sincere friend, ROBERT CLEGHORN. TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Maucfdine, 2Sth April, 17S8. Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made ray he;irt ache with penitential pangs, even though 1 .as really not guilty. As I commence farmer at "Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the excise business without solicitation ; inly six months' attendance for k title me to a 1 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 in her jade tricks should kick Lira down from the little eminence- to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, madam, 1 pre- pared with the sincerest pleasure lo meet jou 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 au apart- ment, where the force of the winds and rain ivas only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walks, &c. In consequence, I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a violent cold. You see, madam, the truth of the French maxim, Le vrui n'csl pas toujours le vrai- temblable ; your last was so full of expostula- tion, and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grate- ful pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. Your books have delighted me; Virgil, The deed that I dared could it merit their malice — A ki . and a father to place on his throne ? His n-ht are these hills and his right are these Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find n But 'tis cot "my sufferings thus wretched, for- My brave gallant friends '119 your ruin I mourn ; Your deeds proved so loyal, in hot blrody trial, Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return"'. FROM THE REY. JOHN SKINNER. DEAR SIR, Linshart, 28th April, 178S. I received your last, with the curious present you have favoured me with, and would have made proper acknowledgments before now, but that I have been necessarily engaged in mat- ters 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 sincere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the giver ; as a small testimony 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. CiuD-ming Nancy is the real production of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the time of its appearing, with no mora education than what he picked up at an eld farmer grandfather's fireside, though now, by the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleachfield in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in it a sim- plicity and delicacy, with some turns of humour, that wiil please one of your taste; at least it pleased me when I iirst saw it, if that can be any recommendation to it. The other e of i: > you * CHARMING NANCY. A SOXG, BI A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAX. Tune—" Humours of Glen- " Some sin? of sweet Mollv, some sing of fair Nell,, 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 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 But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my Her beauty delights me.herkindnessinvitesme, Her pleasant'behaviour is free from all stain ; Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, My charming dear Nancy, wert thou my DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Yon -will oblige me by presenting my respects to your host, Mr Cruikshank, who has given Like PhcDbus adorning the fair ruddy morning, Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are The whole of her face is wi( Array 'd like the gowans, My charming, sweet Nancy, wert thou I'll seek through the nation for some habita- To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and my deary, I'll keep her aye sweet Nancy, gin thou wert With songs My charm ii I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwa.l'ng, "With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; Thou shalt not sit single, tut by a clear iugle, I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my I'll make true affection the constant direction Of loving my >iancy while life doth remain : Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be My char sweet Nancy, gin thou wert But what if my Nancy should aid To favour another be forward aim ram, I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell h Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er my ain. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. Tune— " Dumbarton's Drums. " By the Reverend J. S kisser. For how happy now am With my old wife silting And our bairns" and our oes all a: jui.d a We began in the world wi' naething, O, And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing, O ; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claith- ing, 0. We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, Since the day we became first acquainted, : It's true we've been but pc>r, And we are so to this hour, Yet we never pined nor lamented, O. We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O. By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, But we always had the bliss, And what farther could we wiss. To be pleased wi* ourselves, and be healthy, 0. such high approbation to my poc ■ — may Jet him know, that as I have likewise r Lattnity ; been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have things that I would, if he desires it, submit not to his judgment, but to his amusement: the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some years ago; the other Batrachomyomachia Humeri Latinia versibiis cum additameniis, given in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr C. will know Seria non semper deltctant, non jcca semper. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. I have just room to repeat compliments and good wishes from, Sir, your humble servant, JOHN SKINNER. No. L1L TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. sir, Alauchline, 2d May, 1787. I inclose you one or two more of my baga- svishes of honest gratitude ith that great, unknown ho frames the chain of causes and rosperity and happiness will attend the Continent, and return you safe telles. If the fer shore. erever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as vilege, to acquaint jou with my progress trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could with truth, "that, next to my little fame, lie having it in my power to make life What fbo' wecanna boast of our guineas, O, We have plenty of Jockies, and Jeanies, O, Moie desirable by far, Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. We have seen many wonder and ferley, O, Of changes that almost are yearly, O, Among rich folk, np and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrim ply, and barely, O. Then why should people brag of prosperity, O ? A straitened life we see is no rarity, O ; Indeed we've been in want, And our living been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. st came together, O, een a Father and Mither, O, of stone and lime, In this house we i Where we've long And tho' m It will last And, 1 hope, we shall never need ariither, O. And when we leave this habitation, O, '11 depart w ith a good commendation, O, We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation, O. Then why should old age so much wound u» O, There is nothing in it all to confound us, : For how happy now am I, With my auld wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oes all around u§, BURNS LETTERS. 107 more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your iriendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my Jate success in life. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Mauchline, 4th May, 17S8. Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own 1 am dis- appointed in the Mneid. Faultless correctness may please, and does highly please the lettered critic ; but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil has evi- dently copied, but by no means improved Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of this owing to the translators ; for, from every thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion : in some future letter, you shall have my ideas of him ; though I am con- scious ray criticisms must be very inaccurate, and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and la- mented my want of learning most. TO THE SAME. MADAM, 27th May, 1788. I have been torturing my philosophy to no pur- pose, to account for that kind partiality of yours, which, unlike . . . . . . . ., has followed me in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'- wisp appearance, that ■• here I had no continu- ing city ;" and but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions of my road through life, insignificance and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good things of this life, that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an honr or two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that composed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. Tis now about term- day, and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who, though in appearance partakers, and equally noble partakers of the same nature with madame ; are from time to time, their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold for months and years » not only to "the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the important few.* We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, not- withstanding their general stupidity and ras- cality, did some of the poor devils the honour to commend them. Rut light be the turf upon his breast, who taught "Reverence thyself." We looked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty anl-bili, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- lessness of his ramble, or tosses in air in the wantonness of his pride. No. LV. ' TO THE SAME. AT MR DUNLOP's, HADDINGTON, Ellisland, 13th June, 1788. " Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthen 'd chain." Goldsmith. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am lo\ed ; nor any acquaintance older than \esterday, except Jiimy Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my sou! in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob. jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sen-, sibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- ments, at that period of my existence when tne soul is laying in her cargo of idea9 for the vojage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. D1A.M0XD CABINET LIBRARY. mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no sport- ing with a fellow-creature's happiness, or The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition ; a -warm heart, gratefully devoted with ail its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage, by a more thaa commonly handsome figure; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page, but the Scriptures cf Ike Gld and Xew Testament, uor have cacced in a brighter as- sembly tbau a penny pay-wedding. No. LVI. TO MR P. HILL, MI DEAR HILL, I shaii s?-y nothing at all to your msd present — you have bo long and of.en been of impor- tant service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obligations until' I shall not be able to lift up ray fa:e before you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverly, because it happened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourning, so, because I have been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'lis the devil fcnd all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends my palate that it chokes me in the gullet : and the pulvilised, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. If ever yoa have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe for vou patience aud a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your good thi-gs among your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our friend Smellie, a man positively of "the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with : when you see him, as alas ! he too is smarting at "the pinch of distressful circum- stances, aggravated by the sneer of contumeli- ous greatness — a bit «f my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning mist before the summer sun. C - h, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the" worthiest feliows that ever any man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some of his superabundant modesty, you would do well to David* with his Courant comes, too, across my recollection, an.! I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to en- * Printer of the Edinburgh EvcniDgCcurant. able him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the iean characters of certain great men in a certain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good thing ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory it does not at all improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend, D r, 1 would wish also to be a partaker; not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps, f Among cur common friends I must not for- get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, ana selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if ycu can help him to any thing that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very As to honest J S e, he is such a contented happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except perhaps he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest "anecdotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time said poet was in town. Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- fessedly— the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- tion. As to their clients, tha't is another thing ; God knows they have much to digest ! The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, and their liberality of sentiment; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are, so proverbially notorious, as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. I was goins to mention a man of worth, ar to call friend, the but I have spoken nave, at tne next county-meeting, a large ew milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of t Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queensberry "s late political cou- I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage. TO MRS DUXLOP. MaucMine, 2d August, 1788. HOX. TJRED MADAM, Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight'. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it my-elf, and, as\et, have little acquaintance iu the neighbourhood. t A dub of choice spirits. whom I have the bono Laird of Craigdarroch ; the landlord of the Kin: BURNS LETTERS. Besides, I am now very busy on my fain building a dwelling-house; as at present I ai almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for have scarce " where to lay my head. " There are some passages in your last thi brought tears in my eyes. ■ i ■ The heart k a stranger iuter- eddleth not therewith." The repository of these "sorrows of the heart," sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them. Ycu will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentle- man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muse has con- ferred on me in that country. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul : Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour ; Fear not clouds will ever lour. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor-gleam : Fame an idle restless dream : Peace, the tenderest flower of spring ; Plea a the Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own : Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts, save the flower. For the future be prepared, Guard wherever thou canst guard ; But, thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care : Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Hiun whose wondrous work thou art; Keep his goodness still in view, Thy trust and thy example too. , Stranger, _go ! heaven be thy guit e ! Quod the Beadesman of Nith-side. Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intended inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle 1 am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fin try ; one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts, " unhousell'd, unanointed, un- aneall'd. " Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : The world were bless 'd, did bless on them de- 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 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 tcill do wait upon I should ; We own they're prudent, but who feels they 're good ? Yew 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 ma much by telling me that he is unfortunate. J shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell. TO THE SAME, Mauchline, 10th August, 1788. MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend— my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ay rshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment like the faithful com- mons of Great Britain in parliament assembled, answering a speech from the best of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of \ Mrs Burns, Madam, is the identical woman When she first found herself f< 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 He her company and their house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- age, got a warrant to put me in jail, 'till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky rever.-.e of for- tune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- burgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declar- ed. Her happiness or misery was iu my DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. I can easily fancy a more agreeable corapa nion for my journey of life, but, upon m honour, I have never sein the individual in Circumstanced as I am, I could never hi got a female partner for life, who could h; entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. without probably er tailing on me, at the same time, expensive liv, ing,fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectatiot with all the other blessed boarding-school a< quirements, which (pirdannez moi, maiiaim) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost universally per- !S cf the would-be-gentry. rade the n I like your way in your church-yard lucu- brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respect- ing health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain b looked for in fancied circumstances and studi .d paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by Tne, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now l"taik of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing to jou at large. A page of post is on suc.i a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. TO THE SAME. EMsland, \GthAugvsl, 17SS. I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only genius to make it quite fehenstonian. "Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ! Why sinks my soul beneath, each wintry sky?" My increasing cares in this, as yet, stra' ge country — gloomy conjectures in the dark visla of futurity — consciousness cf my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — I could indulge these reflections, 'lill my hum- our should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that would corrode the verv thread of life. To counterwork these baneful fe. lings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sove- reign balm for my wounded spirit. 1 was yesterday at Mr 's to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind; from the lady of the bouse cute flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated on* or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a professional man was expected : I for once went agonizing over the belly of my con- science. Pardon me, ye, my adored house- hold gods, Independence of Spirit, and Integ- rity of Soul! In the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a collect ; on of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song en the harpsichord, begin- ning " 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 verv best verses:" she took not the smallest notice of them : The old Scottish proverb says, weli, " king's caff is better than ither folk's corn. " I was going to make a New Testament quota- tion about " casting pearls;" but that would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a wo- a of s, e and taste- After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. 1 do not speak of the select- ed few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected many, whese nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called "The L'fe and Age of Man, be- ginning thus, " 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God, and fifty three, Frae Christ was boru, that bought lis dear, As writings iestifie. " I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time, his highest enjoyment was tositdewn and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of 27w Life and Age of Man. It is thin way of thinking— it is those me- Dcholy truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men— If it "s a mere phantom, existing only ia the heated ^agination of enthusiasm, * What truth on earth so precious as the My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophizings the lie. "Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? No : to find them iu their precious importance and divine effi- cacy, we must search among the obscure re- cesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear madam, you are now more than pleased with the Lngth of my letters. I return to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and it quickcus my pace to think that there will BURNS. —LETTERS. Ill be a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest. No. LX. TO R. GRAHAM OF FINTRY, ESQ. SIR, . , , When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why be wished to be in his service, he answers, •' Because you have that in your face which I could like to Call master. ' ' For some such reason, sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a supervisor, and to day I give in his certificate, with a request for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Pro- priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late ap- pearance on the stage of life, in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I couid only fight for existence in that miserable man- ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued him. 1 know, sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be appointed to a division, where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. Then first she calls the useful many forth Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth. Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-apron 'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net : The caput morluum of gross desires Wakes a material, for mere knights and The ordered system fair before her stood, Nature well pleased pronounced it very good I 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 scat- ter ; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms a thing, and christens it — a poet. Creature, though oft the prey of c The squ.r martial phosphorus is taught to flow, kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks the unyielding mass with grave Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls. e and sor- When bless 'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow, A being form'd t' amuse v his graver friends, Admired and praised — and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh 'd at first, then felt for her poor Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a sta?idard tree to find ; And to support his helplpss woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great ; — A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid laudmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverb 'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were bless 'd, did bliss on them de- 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 1 should — We own they 're prudent, but who feels they 're good? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguish 'd— to bestow I Whose arms of love would grasp the human Come, thou who fivest with all a courtier's grace ; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinksmy 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 Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their legging pros*. lis DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit l 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 But ffrovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clamorous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front ; Oblige them, patronize their tiusel lays, They persecute you all your future days ! Ere "my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny list, assume the plough again; The pie-ball \i jacket let me patch once more ; On eighteen pence a- week I've lived before. Though, th inks to heaven, I dare even that last shift, I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That placed by thee, upon the wished-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse mav imp her wing for some sublimer flisht."* TO MR P. HILL. Maucrdine, 1st October, 17SS. I have been here in this country about three days, and all that time ray chief reading has been the "Address to Lochlomond. " you were so obliging as to send to me. Were I Impannelled one of the author's jury, to de- termine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my verdict should be ** Guilty ! a poet of Nature's making ! " It is an excellent me- thod for improvement, and what I believe every poet does, to place some favourite classic author, in his own walks of study and compo- sition, before him, as a model. Though your author had not mentioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive me, if 1 venture to hint, that his imitation of that immortal bard, is in two or three pi: rather more servile than such a genius as required.— e. g. I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has looked into natnre for himself: you meet with no copied description. One particular criti- cism I made at first reading : in no one in- stance has he said too much. He never flags * This is onr poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintry. It is not equal to the second, but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author to be suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural history or of chemis was wanted to enable him to" execute the c ginal conception correctly. in his progress, but like a true Poet of Nature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple, -and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his piniou : only, I go not altoge- Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase* in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized by every-duy language, for so sub- lime a poem ? is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration cf a comparison with other lakes, is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must sweep the " Winding margin of an hundred miles. " The perspective that follows mountains blue — the imprisoned billows beating iu vain -the wooded isles— the digression of the yew tree — " Ren Lomond's lefty cloud-cuveicped head, " inst oar wkcle L;gt.O.:: k Body, for si a ;'- r oppre lad aim r forefathers did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I cannot enter ink) the merits of the cause, but I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as ab'e and as en- lightened as the English convention was ia 1SS3 ; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, asdalj aDd sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong headed House of Stuart. To conclude, sir ; let every man who has a fear fur the many miseries incident to hnmani. ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Eu- rope, and unfortunate beyond historic prece- dent; and let every Briton (and particularly every Seotsmao), who ever looked with reve- rential pity on tne dotage of * This letter was sent to the publisher of tome newspaper, probably the publisher of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. TO MRS DUNLOP. Elisland, 17 Ik December, 1788. MY DEAR ROKOT7AED yBIEND, Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. Almost — blind and whol.y deaf," "are melancholy news of hu- man nature ; but when told of a much loved and honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and strongly entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing habits and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on you, le t it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what vou have lately seen at Morel, am Mains. But be that as it may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the two grat.d considerations for which I live: if miry ridges, and dirty dung- hills are to engross the best part of the func- tions of my soul immortal, I had belter been a rock or a magpie at once, and then I should not have been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs : cot to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. —If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a \isit will be uo great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, madam, for I will make my ihreatec- ings good: I am to be at the new-year-day fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I witl came and see you. Your meeting, which yon so well describe, with your old sjbcolfeljow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world ! — i'hev spoil these -'social offsprings of the heart. 5 ' Two veterans of the "men of the world'' would have met, with little more heart- workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, I "Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive. There is anold'sou^ and tune which has often ! thrilled tbroueh mv soul. You know I am an | enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give > you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Light be the turf on the breast of the Hsa- ven-in=Dired poet who composed this glorions | fragment ! Tnere is more of the fire of native I genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern : English Bacchanalian?. Now I am on my j hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please me mightily. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonr.ie lassie : The boat rocks at" the pier o' Leith ; Fa' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, f Here follows the s :ng of AM tag syne BL'RXS LETTERS. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, Tbs flittering spears are ranked read; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and blood) : Eut it's not the roar o* sea or shore, Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard^afsr," It's leaving thee, n-y bounie Mury. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO BAD HEARD HE HAD B£E>* MAKIX3 A BALLAD ON HER, LNCL05LN0 THAT BALLAD. MAPAJI, December, 1788. I understand my vtry woithy neighbour, Mr Riddt), has informed you thit I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something so provoking in the idea of being the burden .->f a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns cf pa- Sience and meekness, could have resisted the curios'tv to know what that ballad was ; so rcy worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended ; and re- duced me to the unfortunste alternative of leav- ing your curiosity ungratitied, or else disgusting you with fooliah verses, the unfinished produc- tion of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have heard or read 6omewhere of a gentleman, who had some genius, much eccentricity, and very consider- able dexterity with his pencil. Iu the acciden- tal groups of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character in a more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely he said as a nota bene to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 'What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is mv muse to me : and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness cf my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person " after my own heart, " I positively feel what an orthodox protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspira- tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an ^Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object ■which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age: but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally striking and unaC'ected, by heavens! though I had lived threescore years a married man, and threescore years before I was a married man, my imag: nation would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done such poor ju.tice to such a subject. TO SIR JOHN WH1TEF0RD. SIR, December, 17SS. Mr M-Renzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and, (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, sir, in ona or two instances, been patronized by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by , friends to them and honoured acquaintances to me : but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevo- lence and goodness of heart has interested him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am con- vinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is net the manoeuvre of a needy, sharping author, fastening on these in upper life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed the situation 'of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure palliate that prostitution ot heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. - 1 do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but believe a careless, indolent inattention to eco- nomy, is almost inseparable from it ; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the nay of those windfalls of fortune, which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to iniagi e a more helpless slate than his, whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a scholar, gives him some preten- sions to ihe pcLilesse of life — yet is as peor cs For my part, I thar.k Heaven, my star has been kincer ; learning never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- pendent fortune at the plough-tail. I was surprised to hear that any one, who pretended in the least to the manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. 'With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, sir, for the warmth with which you inter- posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim,, caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, and integrity tot j fellow-creatures, I Lope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to make you for your goodness but one— a return which. I am persuaded, will not be uuaccepta- ble—the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for jour happiness, end every one of that ' lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela- tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blowl DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. No. LXYII. /ROM MR G. BURNS. Mossgiel, 1st January, 17S9. DEAR BROTHER. I have just finUbed my new-year's-day break- f ast in the usual form, which naturally makes ine call to mind the us)s of former years, and the society iu which we used to begin them ; aud when I look at our family Tirimilwilni. " throush the dark postern of lime long elapsed,'" I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how pood the God of Seasons is to us ; and that however some clouds seem to lower over the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all wil' Your mother and sisters, with Robert thi second, join me in the compliments of thi season to you and Mrs Burns, and beg you will remember us in the same manner to Willia the first time vou see him. I am, dear brother, vours, GILBERT BURNS. TO MRS DUNLOP. EUhland, New-Year day Morning, 17S9. This, dear madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the apostle James's description — The prayer of a righteous man availeth muck I In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings ; every thing that obstructs or dis- turbs tranquillity and self- enjoyment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail huma- nity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of iife and thought, which is so apt to reduce.our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This "day ; the first Sunday of May ; a breezy, blue-skyed noon some lime about ( the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sun- ny day about the end, of autumn : these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holi- I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, *« The Vision of Mirza ;" a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable of tixiug an idea to a word of three syllables: "On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefa- thers, I always Keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, 1 ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. " "We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls, so them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing-, or struck with that, which, cu minds of a different cast, makes no extraordi- nary .impression. I have some favourite flow ts in spring, among which are the moun- tain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of £rey plover, in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like ihe enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the pas- sing accident ? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things— man's immaterial and im- mortal nature— and a worid of weal or woe beyond death ap great regard, Sir, your most obedient servant, P. C TO MRS DU-VLOP. Eilislcmd, 4'A March, 1 789. Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capita). To a man, who has a home, however humble or remote — if that home is lise mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the busile of Edinburgh will soon be a business of si^keuing di.-gust. should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim—*' What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some state of pre- existenee, that he is ushered iDto this state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his puny fist, and I am kicked iuto the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of pride ?" I have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was,) who was so out of humour with the Ptolemean system of astro- nomy, that he said, had he been of the Crea- tor's council, he could ha\e saved him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not de- fend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present hu- man figure, that a man, iu proportion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out bis horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his Majesty 's liege subjscts in the way of" tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the precise spherical angle of reve- rence, or an inch of the particular point cf respectful distance, which the important crea- ture itself requires : as a measuring- glance at its towerin? altitude would determine the affair like instinst. You are right, madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr C , I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- cea?ed friend's Enjlish pieces. I am prodigi- ously hurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances ; and would have offered bis friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall till up a paragraph in some future letter. In the meantime allow me to close this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine . . . . . I give you them, that as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or two a. orations I have ventured to make in them, be any real improvement. Like the fair plant that from our touch with- Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, And all you are, my charming , seem. Straight as the fox glove, ere her bells disclose, Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. Your form shall be the image of vocr mind : Your manners shall so true your soul express, That all shall long to know the woTth they guees » BURNS.— LETTERS. Congenial hearts shall greet with kindre Ami even sickling en\ v must appro\e.: No. LXXIII. TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. REVEREND SIR, 1789. 1 do not recollect that I have ever felt a seve- rer pang of shame, than on looking at the date cf jour obliging letter, which accompanied Mr Mylue's poem. I am much to blame : the honour Mr Mylne lias done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy circum- stance, of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better return. I have, as you hint, thought of sen ling a copy of the poem to some periodical publica- tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid that, in the present case, it would be an im- proper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- tion of nonsense under the name of Scottish Eoetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems ave so dunned, and daily do dun the public, that the very name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr M. 's poems in a magazine, &e. be at all prudent, in my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever; and Mr Mylne 's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which fate has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself), always keep in eye his respectability as a man and as a poet, and take no measure that, be- fore the world knows any thing about him, would risk his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; and the way in which I would proceed with Mr Mylne's poems, is this :— I would publish, in two or three English and Scottish public papers, any one of his English poems which should, by private judges, be thought the most excellent, and mention it at the same time, as one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by subscription, for the sake of his nu- merous family : — not in pity to that family, but in justice to what his friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most effectual manner, to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. * These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, are the production of the lady to whom this letter is addressed. TO DR MCORE. sir, Ei. island, 23d March, 1789. The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr Neilson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs your assi-tance. and wheie you can effectually serve him :-Mr Neilson is" on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, on some little business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your instructions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling, &c. for him, when lie has crossed the Channel. I should not have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to serve such a character, gives yon much plea- sure.* The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs , of . You probably knew her personally, an honour of which i cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In January last, en my road to Ayrshire, I had put up al Bailie Wigham's in-Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn iu the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and 1 were both much fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as my friend .the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs , and poor 1 am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes- tuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened. Pegasus, twelve miles further on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 1 would de- scribe what 1 felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good lire, at New Cumnock, had so far re- covered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the inclosed ode. I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr Creech ; anil I must own, that, at last, he has been amicable aud fair with me. No. LXXV. TO MR HILL. EUisland, 2d April, 1789. excuses, my dear Dibiiopolus DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAE 7. (God forgive me for murdering language !) that I bave sat down to write you on this vile ; paper. It is economy, sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. Ii you are going to borrow, apply to to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I ■write to one of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally in- tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cellar. O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens ! thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxious weary feet: — not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry ■worshippers of fame are, breathless, clamber- ing, hanging between heaven and hell : but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- sufiScient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds bis immediate court of joys and pleasures ; ■where the sunny exposure oi' plenty, tnd the hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and na- tives of paradfse! — Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into the refulgent, adoredpreser.ee! — The power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling nurs- ling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his peculiar countenance and protection! H daily bestows his greatest kindness on the un- deserving and the worthless — assure him, that I bring ample documents of meritorious de- merits ! Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, be any thing— but ;he horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! But to descend from heroics I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions, the cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr Robert Cleghorn, in Saugh ton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings worth of any thing you have to sell, and place it to my account. The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun, under the direction of Cap- tain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it going on at C'oseburn, under the auspices of Mr Monleith of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his infant society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that subject; but, one of these days, I shall trouble you with a J commission for " The Monkland I'Tiendlj Society" — a copy of The Spectator, Mii-ror, and Lounger; Man of Feeling;, Man of the World, Guthrie's Gtogi-aphical Grammar, with some religious pieces, will likely be our first order. When T grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At present, every guinea has a five guinea erraDd No. LXXVI. TO MRS DUNLOP. EUMand, 2d April, J 789. I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing aud reading these give half the pleasure to jou, that communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox; but how long that fancy mayhold, I cannot say. A few of the lines 1 have just rough "sketched, as fol- SKETCH. How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice b.end their black and their white ; How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- g : If these mortals, the e not, not I, 1st the critics go whistle. should mw for a patron, glory, ice may illustrate vhose name and whose nd honour my story, lors, first of our wits; lucky hits : With knowledge so vast, and wilh judgment No man with "the half of 'em e'er went far With passions so potent, and fancies 60 bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quits right ; Good L d, what is man ! for as simple he looks Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; With his depths and his shallows, bis good and his evil, All in ail he's a problem must puzzle tlw BURNS. ^-LETTERS. On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours ; Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you know him ? Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will show hiua. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a sys- One I particular, truth, should have Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly descri Have you found this, or t'other ? there s more "in the wind, As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll lind. No two virtues, Nor even two d Though like as whatever relation they claim, I as was ever twin brother to bro- the one shall imply you've the On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- nour of assuring you, in person, how sincerely No. LXXVII. /TO MR CUNNINGHAM. MY DEAR SIR, Ellisland, 4th May, 1789. Your duty free favour of the 26'h April I received two days ago : I will not say I perus- ed it with pleasure; that is the cold com- pliment of ceremony ; I perused it, sir, with delicious satisfaction. — In short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by express proviso in (heir postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they should order it free ingress and egress to and froui their bags and mails, as an encouragement and mark of dis- tinction to supereminent virtue. I have just put the last hand to a little poem ■which I think will be something to your taste. One morning lately as I was out pretty early in the fields sowing some grass seedsj 1 heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- tation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess >ny indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when they all of them have young ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying, for our sport, individuals in the animal crea- tion that do not injure us materially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of vir- tue. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye, May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; That wonted torn), alas ! thy dying bed, The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; The playful pair crowd fondly bj thy side ; Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now pro That life a mother only can bestow ?* Oft as by winding Nilh, I musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 'hapless fate. Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would not be an im- provement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. C is a glorious production of the au- thor of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the C F are, to me, - have a good mind to make verses on yon all, to the tune of " three good fellows ayont the No. LXXYIII. [The poem in the preceding letter, had also been sent by our bard to Dr Gregory for his criticism. The following is that gentle- man's reply.] FROM DR GREGORY. DEAR SIR, 'Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. I take the first 1 isure hour I could command, to thank you for your letter, and the copy of verses inclosed in it- As there is real poetio merit, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and "tie happy expressions, in them, I think they 11 deserve that you should revise them care- fully and polish them to the utmost. This I ure you can do if you please, for you have great command both of expression and of rhymes : and you may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much correctness and high polish enhance the value of such compositions. As you de« Ui diamond caei:-:lt liehaey. pretty good sub- sire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you Uiy most rigorcvs criticisms en your verses. I ■wish you wou':d give me another edition of then), much amended, and I will sei.d it to Mrs Hunter, who, I am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me like- wise for^myself. and her too, a copy (cs much amended as voa please) of the Water F .:.-." Loch Turit' The Wcunded Hai ject ; but the measu chosen for it is not a good one ; it does not Jt:w well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost by its distance from the first ; and the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were jou, I would put it into a different stanza yet. Stanza 1. —The execrations in the first two lines are strong or coarse ; but they may pass. " Muraer-ajming, " is a tad compound epithet, and not very intelligible. •' blood- stained, " in stanza iii. line 4, has the same fault : BUedins bosom is infinitely better. You have accustomed j ourself to such epithets, and have no notion how stiff and quaint they ap- pear to others, and hew incongruous with poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, " Why that blood-stained bosom gored, " how would you have liked it 't Form is neither a poetic, nor a aignified, nor a plain common word: it is a mere sportsman's word; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetry. " Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent, " in this sense, is a nursery worn ; but bclh may pass. S/cjra 4. — " Who will now provide that life a mother only can bestow, " will not do at all: it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do you mean '« provide for that life which the mother had bestowed and used to provide for?" There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, •' Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow, " in the title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and Tulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. *' Shot" is improper too. On seeing a person (or a sportsman) wound a hare : it is needless to add with what weapon ; but if you think otherwise, \ou should say, icitr. a Let me see you when you come to town, and I will show you some more of Mrs Banter's poems.* * It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more distineuished by its gcod sense, than by its freedom from ceremony. It is impossi- ble not to smile at the manner in which the poet may he supposed to have received it. In fici it "np;ears, as the sailors say, to have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he wrote soon after, he says, " Dr G is a good man, but he crucifies me. "— And again, «« I believe in the iron justice cf Dr G ; but like the devils, I believe and tremble." However, he profited by these eri reader will find, by comparing this first edition of the poem, with "that published afterwards. No. LXXIX. TO MR M 'ALLEY, CF DUMBARTON. BEAR SIK, 4th June, 17SP. Though 1 am not without my fears respecting my fate at that ffrand, universal inquest of right and wrong, commouly called The Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- vagabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth— I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for which I remain, at;d, frcm inability, I fear, must remain your debtor; but;.: _ the celt, I assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember the obligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, *' Hale and weel, and living ;" and that yonr charming family are well, and pro- mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- tion to the company of performers, whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bring- ing into action for the succeeding age. With respect to my welfare" a subject in which you once warmly and effectively inter- ested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- ing my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by the delightful" windings of the Nitb, on the margin of which I have Luilt my humble domicile, praying for seasonable wea- ther, or holding cr. intrigue wih the Muses; the only gipseys with whom I have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with . '.vs, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences of former days, will of course fall undei the- oblivious in- fluence of some good-natured statute of celestial proscription. In my family devotion, which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to my household fo'iks, I am extremely* fond cf the psalm, ** Let not the errors of my youth, ' ' etc and that other, '^Lo, children are God's heritage, " &rc. in which last Mrs Burns, who, by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. TO MRS DUXLOP. Eilicland, 21s* Jutie, 17S9. BEAR MADAil, Will you take the effusions, the miserable ef- i , fusions of low spirits, just as they flow bum i their bitter spring. I know not of any parti- ; cular cause for this wcrst cf all my foes beset- ' ; ting me, bat for sometime my soul has been : . beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of t evil imaginations and gicamy presages. Honday Evening. I I have just beard give a sermon. I He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I ! revere him ; but from such ideas of my Crea- j tor, good Lord deliver me ! Rsii^icn, my BURNS.— LETTERS. m honoured friend, is surely a simple business a* it equally concerns the ignorant and lb learned, the poor and the rich. That there i an incomprehensibly great Being, to whori I owe my existence, and that he mint be in t i tnately acquainted with the operations an progress of the internal machinery, and conse quent outward deportment of t which he has made ; evident propositions, eternal uistiuction betwe* consequently that I am an that from the mind, a> well iun'-ab:e creature ; g nature of the human [he evident imperfection, in the administration of , both iuthe natural and moral worlds, ttiere must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's re- flection. I will go farther, and affirm, that froiu the sublimity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine ana precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of ma:.y preceding ages, though, to appearance, he himself was the obscurest and most illiter- ate of our species: therefore, Je a us Christ was from God. "Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of Oihers, this is my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual iu it, this is my mea- sure of iniquity. What think yon, madam, of my creed ? I trust that 1 have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye of oue, whose good opinion I value almost next to the approbation ot my own mind. FROM DR MOORE. Clijord Street, 10th June, 17S9. DEAR SI a, I thank you for the different communications vou have made me of vour occasional produc- .ions in manuscript, all of which have merit, and some ot them merit of a different kind from what appears in the poems you have pub- lished. You ought carefully to preserve all vour occasional product. oiu, to correct and im- prove them at your leisure: and when you can 6elect as nianv of these as will make a volume, publish it either at Edinburgh or London, by eubscripliou : On such an occasion, it may be in my power, as it is very much in my inclina- tion, to be of service to \ou. If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that in \our future productions you should aban- don the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure and. language of modern English The stanza which vou use in imitation of Christ's Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome repe:ition of •* that day," is fatiguing to Eng- lish ears, and I should thiuk not very agreeable to Scottish. All the fine satire and humour of your Holy Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed the whole to them. The sunie is true of some of jour other poems. In your Epistle tc J. S , the stanzas from that beginning with this line, '-This life, so far's I understand, '' to that which ends with, «« Short while it grieves," are easv, flowing, gaily philosophi- cal, and of Horalian elegance — the language is English, with a /etc Scottish wolds, and tome cf those so harmonious, as to add to the beauty : for what poet would r.ot prefer gloaming \o twilight. I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- casional*} polishing and conecling those veises, which the uiuse dictates, jou will, within a jearortwo, have another volume as large as the hrst, ready for the press; and this, without d;\erting you from every proper attention 10 the sludv ana practice of Husbandry, in which I understand \ou are very learned, and which I fancy you will choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry amuses vou from time to time as a mistress. The former, like a prudent wife, must not show ill humour, although you retain a sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsey, and pay her occasional visits, which in no manner alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but tends on the contrary to promote her interest. 1 desired Mr Cadell to write to Mr Creech to send you a copy of Zeluco. This performance has had great success here, but I shall be glad to have your opinion cf it, because 1 know you are above saving what you do not think. I beg you" will tiler my best wishes to my very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who I under- stand is your neighbour. If she is as haDpv as I wish her, she is happy enough. Make ""my compliments also to Mrs Burns, and believe me to be, with sincere esteem, Dear Sir, yours, &c. No. LXXXH. FROM MISS J. L . sir, Louden-Hvuse, Vlih J„lr, 1789. Though I have not the happiness cf being per- sonally acquainted with \ou, yet amongst the number ot those who have read and admired your publications, may 1 be permitted to trou- ble you with this. Vou must know, sir, I am somewhat in iove w .th the iv.uscs, though I cannot boast of any favours they have deigned to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life has been very much against me as to that. I have spent some years in and about Eccie- fechau (where my parents reside), in the station of a servaut, and am now come to Loudon- House, at present possessed by .Vrs H : she is daughter to Mrs Duniop of Duulop, whom I uiideistmid you are particularly ac- quainted with. As I had the pleasure of per- using your poems, I felt a partiality for the author, which I should not have experienced had you been in a more dignitied station, i wro.e a few verses of address to you, which I did not then think of ever presenting : but as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, h) bringing me into a family by whom you are well known and much esteemed, and where perhaps I may have an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, in hopes of your future friendship, lake the liberty to transcribe them. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAHY. Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, The pride o' a' our Scottish plain : Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, And notes sae sweet t Old Ramsay 's shade revived again In thee we greet. Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muse, Seeni'd lang shut up as a recluse ; To all she did her aid refuse, Since Allan's dav : Till Burns arose, then did she choose To grace his lay. To hear thy sang all ranks desire, Sae weel yoc strike the dormant lyre J Apollo with poetic fire Thy breast does warm ; And critics silently admire Thy art to charm. Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, But into huuii.n nature keek, And knots unravel : To hear their lectures once a-week, Nine miles I'd travel. Thy dedication to G. H. An unco bonnie hamespun speech, Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach A better lesson, Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech Like beggar's messin. When slighted love becomes your theme, And women's faithless vows you blame ; Y\ ith so much pathos you exclaim, In your lament ; But glanced by the most frigid dame, She would relent. The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; And weel ve praise the whiskv eill : In vain I blunt my feckless quill, While echo sounds from ilka hill, To Burns 's praise. Did Addison or Pope but hear, Or Sam, that critic most severe, A plougbboy sing with throat sae clear They in a rage Their works would a : in pieces tear, And curse your page. Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, The beauties of your verse to paint, My rude unpollsh'd strokes but taint Their brilliancy ; Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint, And weel may me. The task 111 drop with heart sincere, To heaven present my humble prayer, That all the blessings mortals share, May be by turns, Dispensed by an indulgent care To Robert Burns. Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in this ; my hand trembles while I write to you, conscious of my unworthiness of what I would Biost earnestly solicit, viz. yonr favour and friendship : yet hoping yon will show yourself possessed of as much generosity and good- nature as will prevent your exposing what may justly be found liable to censure in this measure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe myself, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, P. S.— If you would condescend to honour ne with a few lines from your hand, I would ake it as a particular favour, and direct to me t Loudon-House near Gnlslock. No. LXXXIIL FROM MR London, 5!h August, 17S9. MV DEAR SIR, Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon abilities which you possess, must render your correspondence very acceptable to anv onel I can assure you, I am particularly proud of your partiality, and shall endeavour, by every "me- thod in my power, to merit a continuance of jour politeness. When yon can spare a few moments T should be prtud of a letter from ycu, directed for me, Gerrard Street, Soho. I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the instance of your attachment to my iate' in- estimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was par- ticularly intimate with myself and relations.* While I recollect with pleasure his extraordi- nary talents and many amiable qualities, it afi'ords me the greatest consolation, that I am honoured with the correspondence of his suc- cessor in national simplicity and genius. That Mr Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding many favourable representations, I am yet (o learn that he inherits his convivial powers. There was such a richness of conversation, such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, that when I call the happy period of our intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in a state cf deiiriuml I was then younger than him by eight or ten years ; but his manner was so felicitous, that he enraptured every person around him, and infused into the hearts of the young and old, the spirit and animation which operated on his own mind. I am, dear Sir, yours, ke. No. LXXXIY. TO MR , IM ANSWER TO THE E0BEGOING. i this particular sea- ' The erect'on of a monument to hii EL'RXS LETTERS. 125 •on, and the indolence of a poet at all times and seasons, will, 1 hope, plead my excuse for neglecting so long to answer jour obliging let- ter of the fifth of August. That you have done well in quitting your laborious concern in . . . . I do not doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty- ones, and your health is a matter of the last importance; but whether the remaining pro- prietors of the paper have also done well, is what I much doubt. The . . . . , so far as I was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, ihat I can hard- ly conceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the same degree of excellence ; but if there was a man who had abilities equal to the task, that man's assistance the proprietors hare lost. When I received your letter I was transcrib- ing for , my letter to the Magistrates of the Canorgate, Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in consequence of uiy petition ; but now I shall send them to Poor Fc-rgusson ' If there be a life beyond the grave, which 1 trust there is; and if there be a good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, where worth of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native sordid matter : where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of aa idle dream : and where that heavy virtue, which is the ne- gative consequence of steady dulness, and those thoughtless, though often destructive follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had never been ! Adieu, my dear Sir : so soon as your present views and schemes are concentred in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you : as your welfare aud happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to Yours, &c. No. LXXXV. IT MRS DUNLOP. Eilisland, 6lh September, 17S9. DBAR MADAM, I have mentioned in my last, my appointment to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older ; aud likewise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs J. L 1 a very ingenious, but modest com. position. I should have written her as she re quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 1 have heard of her and her compositions in this country : and I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her ; I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter-writing j and except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens ex- tremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated to write, aa I would sit down to beat hemp. Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, struck me with melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. Would 1 could write you a letter of comfort ! I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition, that should equal the Iliad. Re- ligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort I A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- tence; a proposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that 1 was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all hu- man belief, in all ages, 1 was shocked at my I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever geea them ; bat it is one of my favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, ia the language of the book of Job, " Against the day of battle and of war, " — spoken of religion. •« 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our mom- : 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 pur- 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the Dis itBi affliction, or repels his dart : Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless I have beei. very busy with Zeluco. Tha Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as 1 can. Zeluco is a most sterling per- formance. Farewell: A Dieu, Is Ion Dieu, je cowf commevde 1 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. No. LXXXVL jTROM DR BLACKLOCK. Edinburgh, 2itk Aega t, IT: 9. Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, Both for thr virtues and thv art : If art it ma"; be call 'd in thee, "Which nature's bounty, large and free, With pleasure on thy breast difiuses, And warms thy soul with all the Muses. Whether to laugh with easy grace, Tit; numbers move the sage's face, Or bid the softer passions rise, And ruthless souis with grief surprise, 'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt, Through thee her organ, thus to melt. Most anxiously I wish to know, "With thee of lute how matters go ; How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health What promises thy farm of wealth ? "Whether the Muse persists to smile, And all thy anxious cares beguile ? Wh-ther bright fane; keeps alive ? And how thy darling infants thrive ? For me, with grief and sickness speut, Since I my journey homeward bent, Spirits depress "d uo more I mourn, But vigour, life, and health return. No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, I sleep all night, and live all day : By turns my book and friend enjoy, And thus my circling hours employ ; Happy vfhile yet these hours remain, If Burns could join the cheerful train, With wonted zeai, sincere and fervent, Saiute ouce mere his humble servant, THO. BLACKLOCK. No. LXXXVIL TO DR BLACKLOCK. Ellisland, 21st October, 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vaunti^I And are ye hale, and weel, and cantit ? 1 kenn'd'it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you aye as weei's I want ye, And then ye'Udo. The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! And never drink be near his drouth ! He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter; I lippeu'd to the chiel in trojth, And bade nae better. And tired o* sauls to waste his lear on, E'en tried the body.* But what d.'ye think, my trusty fier, ■§ I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, Ye '11 now disdain me, And then my fifty pounds a-year Will "little gain me. Ye elaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wba by Castalia's wimplin streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty iimbies, That Strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men. I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies s Ye ken ycursel my heart right proud is, I needna vaunt, But I'll sead besoms — thraw saugh woodies, Before they want. Lord help me through this warld o' care ! I'm weary sick o*t late and air ! Not but 1 hae a richer share Than reony ithers ; Eut why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers I Come, Firm Resolve, tak thou the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! And let us mind, faint heart ne'er vtan A lady fair : Wba does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do moir. But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fireside clime My compliments to sister Beckie ; And eke the same to honest Lucky ; — I wat she is a daiutie chuckie, As e'er tread clay ! And gratefully my gude auld coekie, I'm yours for aye. ROBERT BURNS. No. LXXXVIII. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FTNTRY. 5TR, 9t/t December, 17S9. ave a good while had a wish to trouble yoa h a letter, and had certainly done it long ere t — but for a humiliating something that )ws cold water on the resolution, as if ona should say, •* You have found Mr Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on. And ho!v study ; * Mr Heron, author of the History of Scot- land, lately published ; and among various othrr works, of a respectable life of ou poet himself. BURNS — LETTERS. interest he is so kindly taking in your con- cerns, ycu ought by every thing in your power to keep alive and cherish." Now though, since God has thought proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though mv being under your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet and an honest man, you first interested yourself in my welfare, and princi- pally as such still, you permit me to approach I have found the excise business go on a great deal smoother with ice than 1 expected ; owing a eood deal to the generous friendship of Mr Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between ; but I meet them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent them to a London Newspaper. Though I dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-cove- nant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard cf Dr M'Uiii, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical hook. God help him, poor man ! Though he i = one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense o? that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The inclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some con- ceits in it, though I am convinced in my con- science, that there are a good many heavy The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard run match in the whole general election. * I am too little a man to have any political attachments : I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both parties : but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who is a character that one cannot speak of with patience. Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. * This allrdes to the contest for the bo- rough of Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensberry's interest and that of Sir James Johnstone. No. LXXXIX. TO MRS DUNLOP. EMisland, ISih December, 1789. Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you every thing pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state cf which is mo-.t conducive to our happiness — or the most productive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged to give up, for a time, my excise books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a- week over ten muir parishes. What is Man ! ^fo-day, in the luxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence; in a few days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of auguish, and refusing or de- nied a comforter. Day follows night, and night conies after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life, is a some- thing at which he recoils. " Tell. us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity Disclose the secret What 'lis you arc, end we must shortly be ' A little time will make us learn 'd as you are. Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in conscious existence! When the last gasp of agony has announced tiiat I am no more ro those that knew me, and the few who loved me: when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to ba the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time a troddeu clod, shall I yet be warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy rlamens, is "there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories of another world beyond death : or are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane ; what a flattering idea, then, is the world to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffettings of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely strug- gled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend of my early life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and could serve -ne. Muir ! thy weaknesses were the abberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing generous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a human form, it was thine !_ There should I with speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my with truth, honour, constancy, and love. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY Jesus Christ, thou ainiablest of characl< I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond palmed on credulous mankind. I trust th thee, "shall all the families of the earth be blessed, " by being yet connected together i better world, where every tie that bound hi to heart, in this state of existence, shall far beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain that what are called ner- /ous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, I cannot thjuk ; and but to you I would not venture to write any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympa- thize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired in more than half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw into the lire, were he able to write any thing Letter, or indeed any thing- at all. Kumour told me something of a son of yours who has returned from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news of James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as I promise you, on the since- rity of a man, who is weary of one world and anxious about another, that scarce any thing could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. if you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvve miserable TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the statistical account, trans- mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in Nitbsdale. I beg leave to send it to yon, be- cause it is new and may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic pub- lication, jou are the best judge. To store the minds of the lower classes •with useful knowledge, is certainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to society at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reiiection, is giving them a source of innocent and laudable amusement ; and besides raises them to a more diguilied degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot n species of circulating library, oa a plan so simple as to be practicable in any corner of the country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice of every country gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that part- of his own species, whoai chaaoe has thrown into the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his attention. Mr Riddel got a number of his own tenants, and farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among themselves. 'I hey entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for three years ; with a saving clause or two, incase of removal to a distance, or of death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings, and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With their eutry^ money, and the credit which they took -on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a tole- rable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase, was always decided by the majority. At every meeting, all the books, under certain tines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- duced ; and the members had their choice ot the volumes in rotation. He whose name stood, for that night, first on the list, had hia choice of what volume he pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his choice after the first ; the third, after the second, and so on to the last. At next meetirg, he who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting, was last at this ; he who had been second was first j and so on through the whole three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves s and each man had his share of the common slock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under Mr Riddel's patron- age, what with benefactions of books from h:m, and what with their own purchases, they had collected together upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily, be guessed, that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the books, however, of this little library, were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's His- tory of Scotland, Hume 's History of the Stuarts, the Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Men of Feeling, Man of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An-* 'rtivs, <$-c. A peasant who can read and enjoy uch Looks, is certainly a much superior being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very little removed, except in shape, from the brute be drives. - Wishing your patriotic exertions their st> much merited success, 1 am, * The above is extracted from the third vo- lame of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. It was inclosed to Sir John by Mr Riudel himself in the following letter, also printed ' SIR JOHN, • I inclose you a letter, written by Mr Burns, as an addition to the account of Dnnecore par- ish. It contains an account of a small library which he was so good, (at my desire) as to 6et on foot, in the barony of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its utility has been felt, particularly among the fWinger class of No. XCT. TO MR GILBERT BURNS. Eilisland, 11 iJi January, IT! whether doing, snfieilng, or fo»besrinj uay do miracles by persevering. Ill fight DEAR BROTHER, I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not in my present frame of mind much uppetite for exertion in writing. My nerves „{.£ ; n a state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both fcodv and soul. This farm has undoii enjoyment of myself. It : - " rli hands. But let it go it out and be off with it. We have gotten a set of very decent playei here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, v%r me bv the manager cf tue company, Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New-y ear-nay evening I gave hiir - 1 following prologue, which he spouted audience with applause. No song nor dance I bring from yon great That queens Last, though not least, in love, ye youthful Angelic form?, high Heav.n's peculiar care! To you old Bald p-.te smooths his wrinkled And huail ly begs you'il mind the important-* To o r leave, With gratefu And howsoe'ei pride we - e I was clear of II is o'er our taste -the more's the Though, by the bye, abroad why will you " roam ? Good sense and teste are natives here at home : But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you ail a good new ye-r ! Old Father Time depute,, me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : The sage grave ancient cough 'd, and bade me •• You're one year older this important day," If wiser too— he hinted some suggestion. But 'twou'd be rude, y.u k..o\v, to ask the question ; And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word — •" THINK ." Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope V.T.o ihi k to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, Jn hi- slv, dr\, sententious, proverb way! He bids" you" mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the rrst blow is ever half the battle ; That though some by the skirt may try to Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, people, 1 think, that if a similar plan were established, in the different parishes of Scot- land, it would tend greatly to the spefdy im- provement of the tenantry, trades people, and •work people. Mr Burns was so good as to take the whole charge of this small concern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor to this li« tie society, who will long have a grntet'ul sense of his pu':..ic spirit ai-.dexeriious for their improvement and information, ' I have tbe honour to be. Sir John, ' i'ours most sincerely, 'ROBERT RIDDEL.' To Sir John Sinclair, tfUlbster, Ba>t. No. XCIT. to mrs duxlop. B'lisland, 251A January, 1T50 It lias been owing to anremittisg hurrv business that I have not written !oyou, mass lot g --re now. My health is greatly better, i I no a begin once and er.joymeut v Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind Setters": but why will yen u.<,*o me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in my own eyes! When 1 pique myself on my independent spirit, 1 hepe it is nether poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with the honour you bare dor.e me, in making me your compeer in friendship r.nd liiendiy correspondence, that 1 cannot. wil! nit pain, and a degree of morlirJcation, D8 the real "inequality between our Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, de-.r madam, in tbe'good news of Anthony. Not quly your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a ncble, warm-hearted, raanlv young fellow, in the little I hado. his acquajiu- ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no mere. After weathering the dreadful c tas- trcphe he so feelingly describes in his ii.'»:-j. and after weathering many hard gales ot iur- uine, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth, but i.e -.'.as the son of obscurity and misfortune.* He * Falconer was in early life a seal use a word of Shakspeare.'on beard a n: war. in w ..led the the satire >. il'cn pin C-iir.pbeil t^ok him as Lis se r.iul delighted in giving him in-truction when Falconer afterwards acquired cd< 130 was one of those daiing adventurous spirits, which Scotland, Leyond any other country, is remarkable for producing." Little does* the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart : — " Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, What land I was to travel in, Or what death I should die. " DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Old Scottish songs art ; study and pursuit of i that subject, allow ii!zas of another old s a sure will please you. an I a to give vou e ballad, whi The catastrophe of me piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes with this pathetic " that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! that my cradle had never been rock'd ; But that I had died when I was young ! " O that the grave it were my bed ; My blankets were mv winding sheet ; The'clocks and the worms m\ bedfellows a' ; And O sae sound as I shoJld sleep !" 1 do not remember in all my reading to hare met with any thing more truly the language of misery, than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little god-son * the small-pox. They""are rifi in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges nim to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little ches' and a certain miniature dignity in m as his scholar. The editor had this infWtta'ion from a surgeon of a man of war, in 177 7, who knew both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself prished soon after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as" 1770 or 1771, yet in the b ography prefixed by Dr Anderson to his w. rks, in the complete edition of the Poets of Great Britain, it is said, "Of the familv, 'birth-place, and education of William Falconer, there are no memorials. " On the authority already given, it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of the towns on the coast of Fife, and that his parents, who had suffered some misfor- tunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of Eng- land, where they both died, soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of which he entered on board a man of war. These last circumstances are however less ssrtain. * The bard's second son, Francis. the carriage of his head, and glance of his fiae black eye, which promise the undaunted gal- lantry of an independent mind. I lhoueht to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promiseyou poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. No. XCIII. FROM MR CUNNINGHAM 2Sih January, 1790. jme instances it is reckoned unpardonable to quote any one's own words; but the value I have for your friendship, nothing can mote truly, or more elegantly express, thau " Time but the impression stronger makes, Having written to you twice without having heard from you, I am apt to think my letters have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed upon the chapter of accidents turning up against me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I may with truth add, the more important ailairs of life: but I shall continue occasionally to inform you what is going on among the circle of your friends in these parts. Iu these days of merriment, I have frequently heard your name proclaimed at the jovial board under the roof of our hospitable friend at Steuhouse Mills, there were no " Lingering moments number'd with care. " I saw y nir Address to the Keic-year in the Fumfries Journal. Of ycur productions I shall say r othing, but my acquaintances allege that whei your name is mentioned, which every man of celebrity must know often hap- pens, I am the champion, the Mendoza a^ all snarling critics, and narrow-minded rep- tiles, of whom a. few on this planet do craid. With best compliments to your wife, and her black- eyed sister, I remain, yours, &rc. No. XCIV. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Ellisland, 13^ February, 17C0. I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued frieiid," for writing to" \ou on this very un- fashionable, unsightly sheet — " My poverty but not my will consents. " Put to make amends, since of modish sb post ed half my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpoiite scoun- drel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Piae-apple", to a dish of Bohea, with tha BURNS — I scandal-bearing help-mate of a village priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with the ruby- nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-p*duing exciseman — I make a vow to inclose this sheetful of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt paper. 1 am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought to have written to you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I lOtfi not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace ihe Duke of to the powers of , Hun my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to \ou: should you doubt it, take the following fragment which was in- tended for you some time ago, and be convinced that I can anlithesize sentiment, and circumro- lute periods, as well as any coiuer of phrase in the regions of philology. December, 1789. MY DSAB CUNNINGHAM, "Where are you ? And what are you doing ? Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a friendship as he takes Up a fashion ; or are you, like' some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of indolence, ladeD with fetters of ever-increasing weight ? "What strange beings we are * Since we have a portion of conscious existence, equally capa- ble of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rap- ture, or of suffeiir.g pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life; whether method, economy, and fertil- ity of expedients be not applicable to enjoyment; aud whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which renders our litle scantling of happiness still less ; and a piofuseness, an in- toxication in bliss which leads to satiety, dis- gust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent competency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these gooa things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend oilier eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for the dis- honest pride of looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive, in humble stations, &c. &c. Tuesday, 16 th. Luckily for me, I was prevented from the dis. cussion of the knotty point at which I had just made a full stop- All my fears and cares are of this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to tear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist, but 1 fear, every fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- ger. ng arguments against the immortality of man; but" like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing frightens me much; that we are to live forever, seems too good tiews to be true. That we are to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without satiety or separation — how much should I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was cer- My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr Cleghorn soon. God bless him and ail his concerns ! And may all the powers that preside over conviviality and friendship, be present with all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, Mr Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could also make one. — 1 think we should be Finally, brethren, farewell ! "Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things are kind, think on these things, and think on ROBERT BURNS. Sunday, 14iA February, 1790. Cod help me ! I am now obliged to join "Night to day, and Sunday to the week. " If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am past redemp- tion, and what is worse, . to all eter- nity. I am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold SLUe, Marshall on Suiiclificalion, Guthrie's Trial of a saving Interest, i)-c. but "There is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician there, " for me ; so I shall e'en turn Armiuian, TO MR HILL. Ellisland, 2d Ma-ci. ""90. At a late meeting of the Monklai "endly Society, it was resolved to augment tht library by the following books, which you are to send us as soon as possible: — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Filing, Man of the World, (these for my own sake 1 wish to have by the first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformat lion ; Roe's HUlory of Uu- Rebellion in '1715 ; any good History of liie Rebellion in 1745 ; A Display of the Secession Act and T'es'imony, by Mr Gibb; Hermt/'s Meditations; Btver'idge's Thoughts ; and auother copy of Watson 's Body of Divinity. I incite to Mr A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay some money he owed me into vour hands, and lately 1 wrote to you to the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- ther one or other of you. In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very much. An Index to ths Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Sla- tides now in force, relative to ihe Excise, by Jellinger Symons : I want three copies of ihia book; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, -DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. get it for me. An honest cocntry neighbour cf mine wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger the better, but second handed, for he does not them up, second-handed or cheap, copies cf Oiu-ay's Dramate Works, Ben Joruon's, Dry- den's, Confrere's, Wyeheiley't, Vanbrugh's, Cibber's, or any Dramatic Works of tbe more modern — Maddin, Garrick, Feole, Co- man. or Sheridan. A good copy too of Hotiere, in French, I much wanU Any other good dra- matic authors in that language I want a'so ; but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, CJrneilie. and Viltarre too. I am in no hurry fcr all, or any of these, but if you accidentally meet with them very cheap, get them for me. And cow, to qu.t the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is I trust if now and then not so elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My good-wife too has a charming "wood-note wild;" now I am out of all patience with thi* Tile wcrid, for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene- Tolent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly ■Btanees, 1 co not think that avarice of the good things we chance to have, is born with tis ; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity cf study- ing seltishuess, in order that we may exist ! Still there are, in every a?e, a few souls, that 1 . . r ■ " .■ .- 1 - _ ■■ : :; " - - ' .-. . ' - . -• r ' selfishness, or even to the neees caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate uyseK this side of my disposition and character. God knows I am no saint ; 1 have a whole host of fellies and sins to answer for ; but if 1 eould, and I bel:eve I do it as tar as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu! TO MRS DUNLOP. EOisland, 10 !h April, 1790. : now, my ever-honoured friend, enjoyed a very hi^ii luxury, in reading a paper of the Lounger. " You know my national pre- judices. I had often read and admired the Spectator, Adeenturer. Rambu . I a certain relief, that they were bo thoroughly and ei .. .t are ail the boasted advantages which my country reaps from tbe Union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and even her Tery name ! I oi;en repeat that couplet of my favourite po*», Goldsautfa — ceietrated , man who Nothing can recor.c;!' rre to the « r.sh court," 8tc And lam out of all patience to see that equivocal cbari; ter, Hastings, impeached by "the Commons of England. " 'leil roe, my friend, hi this weak prejudice ? i my conscience such idea;, as, »« my country ; her independence ; her honour ; the illustrious names that mark the history of my native la:.d, " ie 1 believe these, tmong your men of the World— men who in fact guide for the most part and govern our wor;d, are looked on as so many mouifceatious of wronglieadecness. ILey know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, with almost all the cbie s tales- men that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right and wrong, they on y mean proper and improper ; and the.r measure of conduet is, not what they oxgkt, but what they dare. lor the truth of" ibis 1 shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of men, an ablest men that ever iived- Earl of Chesterfield. In fa conid thoroughly control h s they interfered with his interest, and who could completely put on the appearance of ■s ft'teu as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead nations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, and poiished without e blemish, tbe standard of human excellence ? 1 h:s is certainly the staunch opinion of taen cf the world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give tbe Stygian doctrine a loud ne- gative I However, this mnst be allowed, that, abstract from man the idea of an exist- ; je measure proper and improper. -■.siliens of the heart, are in that case, of scareelj iLe import and va^ue lo tbe world at large, as harmony and discord in the modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a lioe ear fcr music, though it may sometimes give the pos- sessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser organs of the nerd, yet, considering :he harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned stale of being, it is odds but the individual would be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by the true judges of society, as it would tbeu stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. You must know I ba^e just met with the Mirror aud Lounger for the first time, and I uite in raptures with them : I should be it op uiou cf some of the papers, cue I have just read, Lotmger i ~Sl. 61, ost me more honest tears than anything I ha\e read of a lo.vg time. M'Kenzie has Leeu called the Aucisou of the Scots, and in At -istn would not be hurt at the "s exquisite ? certainly i undoes him in the tenter and the pathetic. His Jd^n if Feeling (but I am not counsel-learned in the laws of ism,) I estimate as the first performance s kiud I ever saw. From what books, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more congenial to generosity and bene- volence; in short, more of all that cr.ncbit-s the soul to herself, or end« BURNS.— LETTERS. than from the simple affecting tale of poor IKrirv. Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie'a writings, I do not know if they are the fittest leading for a young mau who is about to set cat, as the plirase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think, madam, that among the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for such there certainly are), there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no Use, na>, in some de- gree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly important business of makir.ii»s ; when she was in such ill he; md 1 l of a consumption. Alas! that so much beauty innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the bud. Her's was the smile of cheerfulness— of sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance esponded with the purity aud elev of her .ad. How does your friendly muse ? I am sun she still retain^ her affection for you, and ilia you have many of her favours in your posses sion, which I have not seen. I weary niuc! to hear from you. I beseech you, do not forge I mo3t sincerely hope all your concerns in life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys fhe blessing of jrood health. All your friends here era well, among whom, and not ike least, is r acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, s far a let a man be ; but with these I a happy. When you meet with rny very agreeable friend, J. Sjme. give him for me a hearty squeeze, and bid Cod bless him. Is there any probability of your being soon ia Edinburgh ? TO DR MQ ORE. Dumfries, Excise-Office, HUiJuly, 1790. SIR, Coming into town this morning, to attend my duty in this office, it being collection-day, "l met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of leisure through the day, amid our horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as , as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry graee-before- meat,cr as long as a law-paper in the Douglas- cause ; as ill-spelt as country John's billet- doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering .circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it will put jou to no expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you »ny thanks for your most valuable present, ZducOj. In fact, you are in some degree Dlameable for my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for ray opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my overweening fancy, than a formal criticism on tue book. In fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollet, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring the business to bear; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of Job — "And I said, I will also declare my opinion. " I have quite disfigured my copy of the took with my annotations. I never take it up, without at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, parentheses, &c. wherever 1 meet with an ori- ginal thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkably well turned period, or a character sketched with uncommon preci- Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- ing out my "Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. I have just received from my gentleman, that horrid summons in the book of Revelations — " That time shall be no The little collection of sonnets have e charming poetry in them. If indeed I am debted to the fair author for the book, not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated au of the other sex, I should certainly have v ten to the lady, with my grateful ac-knowli ments, and my own ideas of the compare excellence of her pieces. I would do this 1 not from any vanity of thinking that my marks could be of much consequence to Smith, but merely from my own feelings a author^.doing as I would be done by. D1AM0KD CABINET LIBRARY. TO .MRS DUNLOP. r>BAK MADAM, Sth August, 17 90. Ifter a long day's toil, plague, and care, ] ic down to\vrile to you. Ask me not why! bowing, scraping "Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a litue my troubled soul. Sorely has it been braised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! TO MR CUXNLXGHAM. EUisland, Blh August, 1790. Forgive me, my once dear, and ever deaj friend, my seeming regligenee. You canuo; sit down, and fancy the"busy life I lead. I laid down my goose feather to beat mj brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannam at a family christening : a bride on the market-day before'her marriage; a tavern-keeper at an election dinner, &c. &c — but the resemblance that hits my fancy besi is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, whc roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and whc would not choose) to bind down with ths crampets of attention, the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of Independence, and, from its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. Ana is not this a " consummation devoutly to be wish- ed? » " Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; Lord of the lion heart, and eagle-eye J Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Xor heed the storm that howls along t] sky!" Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduction of Smollei's Ode to Independence : If you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great. To shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creamre formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well formed ss thou art — cams into the No. CI. FROM DR ELACKLOCK. Edbibvrgk, 1st September, 1790. How does my dear friend ? — much I languish to hear, His fortune, relations, and pJI that are dear : With love of the Muses so strongly still smit- I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; Bui from age and infirmity, indolence flows, And this, much I fear, will restore me lo . and worth, Who scon a performance intends to set forth ; A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, Which will weekly appear, by the name of the Bee. Of this from himself I inclose you a plan, And hope you will give what assistance \cu Entangled with business, and haunted with In which more or less human nature must share, Some moments of leisure the Muses will With some rays of your genius her work may Whilst the flower whence her honey spoutu* neously flows, As fragrantly' smells, and as vig'reusly grows. Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- And add, your promotion is here understood ; > free from the servile employ of ex- We hope si you commence super- leisure, and free from You then, mi control, May indulge the strong passion that reigns your soul. But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; Devoted cold death's and longevity 's prey. From verses tho' languid my thoughts ms unbend, Tho' still I remain j cur affectionate friend, THO. ELACKLOCK. * The preceding letter explains the feelings under which this was written. The strain of indignant Invective goes on some lime longer in the style which our bard was too apt to in- dulge, and of which the reader has already seen so much. BURNS — LETTERS. No. CII. EXIRACT OF A LETTER FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. Edinburgh, Uth October, 17S0. I lately received a letter from our friend B , — what a charminjr fellow lost to society — born to great • abiliti pill ! heart and I .med morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed- stiil 1 am persuaded he is happy ; not l.ke the gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the remembrance of *• the days of other years. " I saw Mr Dunbar put, under the cover of your newspaper, Mr Wood's Poem on Thom- son. This poem has suggested an idea to me which you alone are capable to execute : — a ^•jong adapted to each season of the year. The »ask is difficult, but the theme is charming : should you succeed, I will undertake to get Jiew music worthy of the subject. What a fine field for your imagination, and who is there alive can draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself? It is, by the way, surprising that there does not exist, so far as I know, a proper so7ig for each season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one autumnal song, Harvest Home. As your muse is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your pocket for every season. For my suggestions, ]f I be rude, correct me; if impertinent, chastise me; if presuming, despise me. But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain of insincerity, then am I not thy Faithful friend, &c. TO MRS DUNLOP. November, 1790. "As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country. " Fate has long owed me a letter cf good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this in- stance I most cordially obey the apostle — -*' Rejoice with them that do rejoice" for me to sing for joy is no new tlnng ; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. I read your letter— I literally jumped for joy — How could such a mercurial creature as a poet, lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend. I seized niy gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, stride— quick and quicker— out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over niv joy bj retail. To keep within the bounds •f prose was impossible. Mrs Little's is a 195 omplv- more elegant, but not a more sincere < ment to the sueet little fellow than I, extem- pore almost, poured out to him in the following verses. See the poem — On the Birth cfa Post- humous Chud. I am much flattered by your approbation of my Tarn o* Shanter, which you express in yo'ur former letter, though, by the bye, you load me in that said letter with accusations heavy and many; to all which I plead not guilty ? Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, ycu have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly ; as to the punctuation, the printers do that themselves. I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to send vcu by the first opportunity : it is too heaw'to .end by post. I beard of Mr Corbet lately. He, in conse- quence of your recommendation, is most zeal- ous lo serve me. Please favour me soon with an account of your good folks ; if Mrs H. is recovering, and the young gentleman doing No. CIV. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. EUislcnd, 23d January, 1791. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend ! As many of the good things of this life, as is consistent with the usual mix- ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 1 have just finished a poem, which you Yvill receive inclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales. 1 have, these several months, been hammer- ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farther tban the following fragment, on which, plta-=e give me your strictures. In ail kinds of poetic composition, 1 set great store by your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poe- try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do on yours. I mean the introductory couplets as text OX THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO. Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; Nor envious dea'h so triumph 'd in a blow, As that which laid the accomplished Burnet low. Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; In richest ore the brightest jewel set I In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, As by his noblest work the Godhead best is DIAMOND CABINET LIERARY. Frinoes, whose cumb'rcus pride was worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit 1 And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake o( And not a muse in honest grid L e n a No. CY. TO ME PETER KILL. lllh January, 1791. T.-ke ihese two guinecs, and place them over against that . account of jours, which has gagged my mouth these live or sis months ! I can as littie write good things s>s apologies to the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse of* making three guineas do the business of five! Not alt the labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian Londage were such an insuperable business, sucti an task! ! Poverty ! thou half- sister of death, thou cousin- german of hell! where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of ihy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerabie ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years aud wretchedness, implores a little— little aid to support his existence, fr.m a stony-hearted sou of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and in- sulted. Oppressed by ihee, the man of senti- ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensiliiit., ink pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see, in suffer- ing silence, his remark neglected, and his person despised, w follies ar.d extravagance, are spirit aud fire ; :oi:soq;.er.t wants, are the embarrassments ) honest fellow ; and when, to remedy tb.3 ter, he has gained a legal commission to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peace- at;ons, he returns, perhaps, laden with joiis cf rapine and aiurderj lives wicked especled, and dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy, prostitute, who has shivered at the of carnal prostitution, is left neglected and in- sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coronettd rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation: she, who, without the same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. Well, divines may say of it what they his i tud applai , shall : Not villi s it only the ' omplain .art e lually under l of uufortana i> rod. Wil g to thee, 6 ecu leruned a fool for his -; ;iJ . an, despised and shi III: is a needy retch : and when 1 ci; led necessities irvti hi in to dishones t piT.Ctic he s aLhorred >cieaut, end 6 the justice Of ntry. But f r other-,- ': s is the lot of e :;.. u of tanillj sad foj u; e. His early but I ) the find, what phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital slui Loth are wonderfully relieved by their respec- No. CVT. FROM A. F. TYTLEE, ESQ. Edinburgh, Uih March, 1791. DEAR SIK, Mr Kill yesterday put into my hands a sheet of Grcse's AiitiC'-Hic?, containing a poem of yours, eniitkd Tarn o' Shunter, a tale. The *ery high pleasure I have received from the perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands the warmest acknowledgments. Hill teils u.e he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I cannot resist theielore putting on paper what 1 must have told vou in person, had I met with vou after the recent perusal of your tale, which is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if unuischarged, would reproach me with in- gratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted of higher enjovmeut from any work of genius, than I have received from this composition ; and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never written another syllable, would not "have been sufficient to have transmitted your name down to posterity w ith high repa- tation. In the introductory part, where vcu paint the character of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have delineated nature with a humour and naivete, that would do honour to Matthew Prior; but when you describe the unfortunate orgies of the witches' sabbath, and the hellish scenery in which they are ex- hibited, you display a power of imagination, that Shakspeare himself could not have ex- ceeded. I know not that 1 have ever met with a picture of mere horriLle fancy than the " Coffins stood round like open presses, That showed the dead in their last dresses And by some ileviiish cantrip slight, Each in his cauld hand held a light." ' A knife a father's throat had mr.ugled. Whom his aiu sou of life bereft » * ..-.fi£ •,:.' slack iv L'ickeJU* BURNS LETTERS. And here, fiflrr the two following lines, •' Wi' u:airo' horrible and awfu', "&c. the de- scriptive part might perhaps have been Letter closed, than the four lines which succeed, which, though good in themselves, yet as they derive all their merit from the satire they con- tain, are here rather misplaced amoug the cir- cumstances of pure horror.* The initiation of the young witch is most happily described — the effect of her charms, exhibited in *' - dance, on Satan himself- the apestrcphi •'Ah, little thought thy reverend grannie ! ' the transport of Tain, who forget and enters comoletelv into t he s of hieh irit of scene, are all fei excellent composition. The only fault it pos- sesses, is, that the winding up, or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate to the inter- est which is excited by the descriptive and characteristic painting of the preceding parts. —The preparation is line, but the result is not adequate. But for this, perhaps, you have a good apology — you stick to the popular tale. And now that I have got out my mind, and feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 1 owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by an advice: — You have proved your talent for a species of composition, in which but a very few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on — write more tales in the same style; you ■will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivete of expression, you have a bolder, and more vigorous imagination. f am, dear Sir, with much esteem, Yours, &c. No. CVII. TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with, could have p evented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own favourite poem, and that an essay in a walk of the muses entirely new to hiin, where consequently his hopes and fears were in the most anxious alarm for his success in the- at- tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delici- ous vibration that ever trilled along the heart- strings of a poor poet. However, providthce, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two after I received jour letter, my horse came down with me, and broke my right arm. As this is the hist service my arm has done me since ite disaster, I find m o do n e th.r,. •al t ,::„k you for this additional instance of yoi age and friendship. As to the fauits you detected in the piece, they are truly there: one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out j as to the falling off in the catas- not easily be remedied. Your approbation, sir, has given me such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic composition, that I am already revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it will give me an additional opportunity of as- suring you how much I have the hoaour to be, &c. No. CVIII. TO MRS DUNLOP. Ellislar.d, 7th February, J 791. When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my horse, I have beeu a cripple some time, nnd that this is the first day my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing; you will allow that it is tco good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful siltnee. I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable ease : as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is able to compose on the rack. I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet of lUonboddo. I had the honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard that so amiable and accompl shed a piece of God'9 works was no more. 1 have as yet gone no farther than the following fragment, of which please let me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that any new idea on the business is not to be ex> pected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to this last, you wilt judge from what follows : — (Herefc'doiL-s the Eegy, $-c. adding ttts'oerse.) I have proceeded no further. Your kind letter, with your kind remem- brance of your god-son, came safe. This last, madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As (o the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy T have of a long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, and vet never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his I am truly happy to hear that the * * little floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the " mother plant" is rather recovering her drooping head. ! ' Soon and well may her "cruel wounds" be healed '. I have written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get & little abler you shall hear farther (10m, Madam, yours, Sec, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. TO LADY W. M. COXSTAELE.. ■DGIBS A PKE5£>CT CF A VAZ.V- iBLB SSlTf-BOX, VTITH A fJM 71- TVRE OF 2LARY QDEBH OOF SCOTS] . H rBS MTLADr, Nothing less than the unlucky accident of haviug lately broken my right arm, could hare prevented me, the moment I received your ladyship's elegant present by Mrs Miller, from returning you my warmest and most grateful ■ eats. I assure your ladyship, I or.ly be more sacred. In the moment" of poetic composition, the box sha.1 be my inspiring £-:.. _s. \\ hen I would breathe the compre^ hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness C' Bikers, I s hall recollect your ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy "in the distresses in- cident to Humanity, I shall remember the un- fortunate ifary. MBS GRAHAM OF FTXTBY. Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the i-z z-:Z. zz..zc. surjir-e- .:-.- ::_■ .;_;.. poetic success, I know not : but it has pleased me beyond any effort, of my muse for a good while past ; on that account 1 inclose it parti- cularly to you. It is tree, the purity of my motives may be suspected. 1 am already deeply indebted to Mr G *6 goodness'; and, what in the usual troys of Men, is of infi- nitely greater importance, Mr G. can do me service of the utmost importance in time to - : : 1 ;=.:- - . : r : ._.::: I may occasionally pick a better bone than 1 nsed to do, I know 1 must live and die poor; but I will indulge the nattering faith that mj ; . -■..-_• :■■'.'.:. ■ - : and without any fustian affectation of spirit! 1 can promise and affirm, that it must oe no or- dinary craving of the latter shall ever make me do any thing injurious to the honest f-me of the former. Whatever may be mj failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may '-7 r- -- -- : :;;::':;:.-.-::.-:;L::.-, : _ -."_ independent mind ! It is no fault of mine - : .-a to dependence ; nor is it Mr G 's ehiefest praise that he can com- mand iufl&ence ; but it is Lis merit to bestow, aot only with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with thank- fulness, and remember with undiminished gra- ItMfa Xo. CXL FROM THE KEY. G. EAIRD. sra» London, 8th Februcri , 1791. I trouble you with this letter, to inform voa that 1 am in hopes cf teing able Tery scon to bring to the press a new edition (long since talked of) of Michad Brace's Poems. The pructs of the edition are to go to his mother - helpless. The poems are to be published by subscription ; and it may be possible, I think, to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the assistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, which I have got from the mother of the poet. But the design I have in view in writing to you, is, not merely to inform you of these facts, it is to solicit the aid cf your name and pen in support of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce is already high with every it nil i if -., and 1 shall be anxious to guard against tarnishing his character, by allowing any new poems to appetr thru m; For this purpose, the .VbS. I air of, have been submitted to the revision of some whose critical ta.enis I can trust to, and I mean still to subm.t them to others. May 1 beg to know, therefore, if yen will take the trouble of perusing the AiSS. — of giving your cp nion, and suggesting what cur- ._ - .-. e . :.-. li.-.rz.. ::.;. . r i:-_t: i '_ = ..:;. ;....- to ycu as advisable ? And will you aliow us to let it be known, that a few lines by you will be added : ._r volume ? 1 know the extent of this request — It is bold to make it. But 1 have this consolation, that though you see it proper to re: a will not blame me for having mace it; Juu will see my apology in the motnre. May I just add,"that Michael Bruce is one .:. ■..;._ _ - : . -._._ ,:.-.— _.- . = •. z. z . in . -. you would" not, 1 am convinced, blush to be found; an i as I wouid submit every line of his that should now be published, to your own criticisms, you would be assured that nothing derogatory either to him or you, would be ad- mitted in that appearance he may make in future. You have already paid an honourable tri- bute to kindred genius in Fergussou — I fondly ... 7 f :.._: r ._..;.-::_:---... ;.._ -.= . ; your patronage. I wish to nave the subscription papers cir- culated by the 14th of March, Bruce "s birth- day ; which, I understand, some friends in ■cotlacd talk this year of observing - at that time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place a humble stone over his grave. Ibis, at least, I trust jou will agree to do — to furnish, a few couplets, an it.scription for it. On those points may I solicit an answer as early as possible ; a short delay might disap- point us in procuring that relief to the mother, hich is the object of the whole. ' 7 - : .' cover, to the Duke of Ath-.e, Louuon. P. 5. — Have ycu ever seen an engraving published here some time ago from one of your poems, " lAcs pale Orb." Ifyouhav* BURN? LETTERS. 189 pot, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to TO THE REV. G. EAIRD, IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. Why did you, my dear sir, write tome in such a hesitating style, on the business of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and hare I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is heir to ? You shall hare your choice of all the unpublished poems I have ; and had your letter had my direction so as to have reached me sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- ment), I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. 1 only ask, that some prefatory advertisement, in the book, as ■well as the subscription bills, may b".ar, that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work for mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part c» the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings (any body but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), that by way of Boiue balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vUta of retrospection. No. CXIIL TO DR MOORE. Ellisland, 2Slh February, 17 I do not know, sir, whether you are a scriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If you are, the inclosed poem will not be altoge- ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to tend me a dozen copies of the proof- sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have in view : it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for ell your goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still employed in the way you wis.h. The Eleey on Captain Henderson, is a tribule to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics : they can be of service to their friends after they have past that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical ; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox text, 1 forget where in Scripture, says, «« whatsoever is not of faith, is sin:" •o say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to so- ciety, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by his creatures with thankful delight. As almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonder- fully pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Reliqucs of English Poetry. By the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledo- nian prejudice^ obliged to you for your gloriou9 story of Buchanan and Targe. *Twas an un- equivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not. I have just read over, once more, of many timeE, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me particularly above the rest ; and one, or two, I think, which, with humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- scribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strong- ly depict the human heart, is your and Field- ing's province, beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted j but, unhappily, his dramatis verso)ice are beings of some other world ; and however they may captivate the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper minds. As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself rank- ed on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Gleiicuirn ; the patron from whom all my fame and good fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful attach- ment to him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined witii the thread of my existence ; so soon as ihe prince's friends had got in (and every dog, you know, has his day), my getting forward in the excise would have been an easier busi- ness than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an elevation in life as I could wish, 1 shall, if I am favoured so much of the disposer of events as to 6ea that period, fix them on as broad and indepen- dent a basis as poss ble. Among the many- wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best. Better be the head of the commonality, as the tail o' the gcnhi; But I am got on a subject, which, however interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the houou? to be, youra, &c. HO DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very yourg lady, whom I had No. CXIV. FROM DR MOORE. DEAR SIR, London, 29 In. Maixh, 1791. Your letter of the 28th of February I received only two days ago, and this dav I had the pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr Biird, a: the Duke of Athole*s, why had been so oblig- ing as to transmit it to me, with the printed verses on AUmoay Chinch., the E'ezy on Capt. Henderson, and the Epilaph. There are many poetical beauties in the former: what I parti- cularly admire are the three striking similes from " Or like :he snow falls in the river, 1 and the eight lines which begin with «■ By this time he was cross the ford ; " two lines from •■ Coffins stood round like open presses, ' As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- sists in the very graphical description of the ob- jects belonging to the country in which the poet writes, and which none but a Scottish poet could have described, and none but a real poer, and a close observer of Nature, could have so described. There is something orig'ml, and to me won- derfully pleasng, in the Epitaph. I remember you once hinted before, what you repeat in \our last, that you had made some remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I should be very glad to see them, and regret you did not send them be.'ore the iast edition, which is just published. Pray transcribe them for me, sincerely I value your opinion very highly, and pray do not suppress one of those in which you censure the sentiment or expression. Trust me it will break no squares between us — I am not akin to the Bishop of Grenada. I must now mention what has been on ray mind for some time: I cannot help thinking you imprudent in scattering abroad so many copies of your verse;. It is mcst natural to give a few to confidential friends, particularly to those who are connected with the surj-jt, or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but this ought to be done uucVr promise :.-t io give other copies. Of the poem you sent me on Queen Mary. I refused e\ery" solicitation for copies, but I lately saw it in a new-paper. My motive for cautioning you on this subject is, that 1 wish to engage you to coLec: a 1 year . •_-. not alreadj priated, and after ttey hsvs Lea reconsidered, and polished to the utmost of your power, I would have yon publish them by another subscription; in pi-j. moling of which I will exert myself with plea- In your future compositions, I wish you would use the modern English. You kite shown your powers in Scottish sufficiency. Although in certain subjic's it gives additional zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- lish j and why should you write only for a part of the island, when you can command the ad- miration of the who.e. If you chance to write to my friend Mrs Dun- lop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately re- membered to her. She must not judge of the warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the number of my letters ; I hardlv ever write a line but on business : and I ao not know that I should have scribbled all this to you, but for the business part, that is, to instigate vou to a new publication ; and to .ell you that when you think you ha\e a sufficient number to make a volume, you should set your friends on getting subscriptions. I wish I could have a few hours' conversation with you— I have many things to say which I cannot write. If I ever goto Scotland. I will let you know, that you may meet me at your own house, or my friend Mis Hamilton's, or both. Adieu, my dear Sir, ore TO THE REV. ARCHD. ALISON. r Dumfries, UA Feb. 1791. SIR, t me down £ You must, by this time, have one of the most ungrateful of i the honour to present me with a book which does honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, aud I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fad is, you your=e ; f are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your teliir.g roe that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual ene- my of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the look -out of a critic, and to draw up for.-ooth a ceep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did not even know the first prin- ciples. I own, sir, that at first glance, several if your propositions siartied me as paradoxical. TliKt the martial danger of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, he rose, and sublime, "than the twinkle twangle at a jews- harp ; tha! the aelicat- flexure of a rose- twig-, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than ihe upright stub of a burdock; and that from something innate and indepen- dent of ail association of ideas ; — these I bad set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until .-: my faiih. In short, sir, except Ey.c'id's E'emc t.ts of Gtemelry, which I made a sr.ift to unravel Ly my fa. her 's fireside, in iiis vsijier evej^nga of the" iksi saa» BURN S LETTER S. ion I held the plough, I never read a book which pave me such a quantum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas as your •« Blssays on the Principles of Taste. " One thing, sir, you must fopgive my mention- ing as an uneom';non merit in :he work, I menu the lansuage. To clcthe abstract philosophy in elega'nce of style, sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; but \on have convinced me that they are quite compatible. I inclose ton some pottic bagatelles of my l-.te composition. Tbe one in print is my first essav in the way of telling a tale. lam, Sir, &c. No. cxvr. EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MR CUNNINGHAM. \2th March, 1791. If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me ha e them. For ray own part, a thing that I have just c imposed, always appears thronarh a double portion of that par.'ial medium in which an author will ever view his own work-. 1 believe, in general, novelty has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfreq lently dissipates and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor pitient, as usual, with an aching heart. A striking in- stance of tilts might be adduced, in the revolu- tion of many a hymeneal hon-ymoon. Hut lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrileffious'.v intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, which will appear, perhaps, in Job .son's work, as well as the former. ^ ou niU't k ow a beautiful Jacobite air. There'll n ver b? peace til Jamie comes tian.e. When political combustion ceases to be the ob- ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of hi your fancy, your canno' imagine, my dear friend, how rnuch you would oblige me, if, by the charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are past." to the few friends whom vo'u indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock has intimafd I he near approach of "That hour o' night's black arch the key- So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep and delectable your dreams I Apropos, how do \ou like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on the tapis? I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be : For far in the west is he I lo'e best, The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! Geoci night, once more, and God b'.ess you ! TO MRS DUNLGP. Eilis'and, IVl, April, 1791. more able, my honoured friend, to i, with my own hand, thanks for the ances of your friendship, and particu- r kind anxiety in th;s iast disaster l;.rh f.r >V. £ s hadii e tor n H«>. By yon castle wa\ at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey : And as he was singing, the tears fast down There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in ja s, 'Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars: 1Vui, that might, per- haps, be as well spared; Lut then (hey ail so show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, that 1 despair of ever excell- ing. Mrs Burns is geitu g stout again, and laid as Instil) about her to-da\ at breakfast, as a r< aper from the corn ridge. That is the pe- culiar privilege and bWssing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred among the nay and heather. We cannot hope for that i ighly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which i= found among the femalo world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the f^nious cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that where it can be h,.d in its native heavenly puri- ty, unstained by some one or other of the man- ly .-hades cf affectation, an i unalloyed by soma r alio SL-.JCl Ilea-* en, purchased a t ie ex ly good ! But as th afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank cf life, and totally denied to such a humble with the next rank of female c: | a figure and face we can pro of life whitever; rustic, nat t pot 142 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. fected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked wavs of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world: — and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- ing sweetness of apposition, and a generous ■warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing with a mor^-than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitution, wnich your high ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of love y woman in my humble w..!k of life. This "is the greatest effort my troken arm has yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how cher petit Mc/isieur comes on with his small- pox. Way Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him I TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 111A Jiaie, 1791. Let me interest yon, my dear Cunningham, : behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with this. He is a Mr Clarke of Moffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is accused of harshness to ... . that were placed uuder his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is uiy friend Clarke, when a booby father pre sents him with his booby son, and insists or. light. ng up the rays of sciatic?, ia a. fellow's head, whose skull is "Impervious and inaccess- ible by any o'.her way than a positive fracture with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it sa- vours of impiety to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. The pattons of Moffat school are, the minis- ters, magistrates, and town council of Edin- burgh, and as the business comes now before them, let ms beg my dearest friend to do every thing in Lis power to serve the interests of a IIS and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect ana esteem. You know some good "teliows among the magistracy and council, but par- tieelarly, you have much to say with a reve- rend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to pro- duce. 1 need not name the historian of Charles V.* I teil him, through the medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr Clarke is a geutlemau who will not disgrace even his pa- tronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is fall- ing a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and Goo help the children of de- pendence! Hated aud persecuted mies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceot ally, received by liter friends, with disrespect aud reproach, under the thin d.sguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. O to be a sturdy savage, stalking jn tfle pride of his in- dependence, amid the solitary wild? of his des- erts, rather than ia civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the ca- price of a fei.ow -creature ! Every man has his virtues, and no man is without his failings ; and curse on that privileged plaia-dealiug of friendship, which in the hour of mj calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hanu without at the same time pointing out those failings, and apportioning them the.r share in procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls'ye, and such ye think yoursehes to be, pass by virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my tollies : the first will witness in my breast tor themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. Ana since deviating mere or less from the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear the consequences of those errors. I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent m my sinning. To return in this rambling letter to the sub- ject I set cut with, let me recommend my friend, Mr Clarke, to your acquaintance and goodotsces ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. I long much to hear from you. Adieu. FROM THE EARL OF EL' CHAN. Drybursh. Alley, 17ft June, 1791. Lord Buchau has the pleasure to in\ile Mr Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September ; for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr Burns should, leaving the N.tb, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm — and, wan- dering along the pastoral bunks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the devious walk, till be finds Lore Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry burgh. Ihere the com- mendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his tamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. J his poetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minio's, followed out by his accomplish- ed grandson, the present Mr Gilbert, who, having been with Lord Buchau lately, the project was renewed, and will, they hope, be executed in the manner proposed. •- Di B»! ion was uncle to Mr Cunningham., No. CXX TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, SIT IORD. Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- ings, when I would thank your lordship for BURN S LETTERS. the honour you have done me in inviting me to make one at the coronation of the bust ot Thomson. In my firsl enthusiasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I overlooked every obstacle, and determined to go : but I fear it will not be in my power. A •week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is what, I much doubt, I dare not venture on. Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- sion: but who would write after Collins ? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and despaired.— I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to be, &c. No. CXX1. FROM THE SAME. Dryburgh Abbey, \8lh September, 1791. SIR. Your a.ldress to the shade of Thomson has bee; well received by the public : and though J should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus tc ride with you off the field of your honourabli and useful profession, yet I cannot resist ai impulse which I feci at this moment to sugges to your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellcn subject for her grateful song, in which thi peculiar aspect and manners of cur countn might furnish an excellent portrait and land scape of Scotland, for the employment of happy moments of leisure and recess, from your mere important occupations. Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- tures of rural innocence and happiness in your native country, and were happily written in the dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home being suited to descriptive poetry, except where colloquial, may escape the disguise ot a dialect which admits of no elegance or dignity of expression. Without the assistance of any god or goddess, and without the invocation of any foreign muse, you may convey in epistolary form the description of a scene so gladdening and picturesque, with all the concomitant local position, landscape, and costume ; con- trasting the peace, improvement, and happiness of the borders of the once hostile nations of .Britain, with their former oppression and misery, and showing, in lively and beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is naturally dis- posed to overflow in gratitude in the moment of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the names of Glencairn, Miller, and your other eminent benefactors ; which, from what I know of your spirit, and have seen of your poems and letters, will not deviate from the chastity of praise, that is so uniformly united to true taste and genius. No. CXXI1. TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. MY LADY", I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your goodness has allowed me, of sending you any thing I compose in my poeti- cal way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter- mined to make that the first piece I should do myself the honour of sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the inclosed had 1 thy yo , I bei . at your lad) ship's feet. As all the world knows my obligations to the late Ear! of Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remembrum-e of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship's memory, were not the "mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude perish with me : — If, among my children, I shall have a sen that lias a heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a iamily honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glencaim! I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, I would, iu some way or other, give it to the world.* TO MR AINSLIE. MY DEAR AIXSLIK, Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Cart you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest f the hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who has been guilty of ihe sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? Miserable perdu that I am. I have tried every thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every cnick of the clock as it slowly — slowly numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, them, are ranked up before me, every one at his neighbour's backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish on his back to pour on my devoted head— and there is none to pity me. "My wife scolds me ! my busiuesi 144 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. torments me, ana my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow When I tell you even . . . has lost its power to please, yon will guess something of my hell within, and all around me. — I began Llibai.ks ciut f^iibracs, but the stanza fell unenjoyed and unfinished from my listless tongue; at last I luckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, and I felt something for the first time since 1 opened my eyes, of plea- surable existence. Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write you. How are you, and what are you doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connection's sake, do not address to me supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be call- ed out by and bye lo act one ; but at present, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to an excise divis'.on of L.25 per aim. better than the rest. iVIy present in- come, down money, is L. 70 per ami. you would be giad n No. CXXIV. FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFCORD. Near Mat/bole, \6lk October, 1791. SIR, Accept of my thanks for your favour with the Lament on the death of my much esteemed friend, and voir worthy patron, the perusal of which pleased and affected me much. The liii 1 have always thought it most natural to Btippose, (;.nd a strong argument in favour of curable and virtuous man labouring under bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns of fortune in this world, that there was a hap- pier state beyond the grave ; where that worth and honour which were neglected here, would meet with their just reward, and where tem- poral misfortunes would receive an eternal compense. Let us che; departed friend ; and modi th.it loss we have ed; km 2 for our :' grief for ng that he •whence I am just returned. Yonr letter was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I observed by the date, it had lain for some d.-.\s. This was an additional reason for me Jo have answered it immediately on receiving it ; but the truth was, (he bustle of business, engagements and confusion of one kind or an- other, in which I found myself immersed all the time I was in London, absolutely put it out of my power. But to have done with apo- logies, let me now endeavour to prove myself in some degree deserving of the very flattering compliment you pay me, by g ving \cu at least a frank and candid", if it should not* be a judi- cious criticism on the poems ■sou sent me. The ballad of The Whittle is, in my opinion, truly excellent. The old tradition which you have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- nalian composition of any I have ever met with, and you have done it full justice. In the first place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For " The hands grew the tighter the more they v f „ ci Remember me 10 your wife, and with everj good wish for the prosperity of you and ycui family, believe me, at ail times, Your most sincere friend, JOHN WHITEFOORD. No. CXXV. FROM- A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. Edinburgh, 27ihNov. 1791. You nave much reason to blame me for neglect- ing tili now to acknowledge the receipt of a most agreeable packet, containing TkeWhistle, a ballad; and Tite Larmiii; which reached ine abojt six weeks ago in London, from "Tho' Fate said a hero should perish inlignr, fc'o up rose bright Phcebus and down fell the knight. '* In the next place, you are singularly happy in each the sentiments and language snitable to bis character. And, lastly, you have much meri' in the delicacy of the panegyric which you have contrived to throw on each of the dramatis ]:crsor,ce, perfectly appropriate to his character. The compliment to Sir Kobert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. In short, tins composition, in my opinion, does you great honour, and I see not a line or a w'ord in it v.hich I could wish to be altered. As to The Lome?it, I suspect, from seme expressions in your letter to me, that you are mere doubtful "with respect to the merits of this piece than of the other, and I ow n I thir.k you have reason ; fcr although it contains some beautiful stan?as, as the first, "The wind blew brliow," &c. the fifth, " Ye scalter'd birds :" the thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. yet it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior to several of those you fcave already published in the same strain". My principal objection lies against the plan of the piece. I think it was unnecessary and impro- per to pnt the lamentation in the mouth of a fictitious character, s.n aged bard. —It had been much better to have lamented \ cur patron in \our own person, to have expressed your genuine feelings fcr his loss., and to have spoken tbe language of nature rather than thai of fiction on the subject. Compare ibis with your poem of the same title in your printed volu'm.-, which begins, thev ■pnic Orb I and ob.-e \e what ii is that forms the charm of that ccmno = iticn. It is that it speaks the language of truth and of nature. The change is, in my opinion, injudicious too in i:;is respect, that an aged bard has much less need of a patron and protector than a voting one. I have tbns given BURNS. -LETTERS. you, with much freedom, my opinion of both the pieces. I should have made a very ill re- turn to the compliment you paid me, if I bad given you any other than my genuine senti- ments. It will give me great pleasure to hear from you when you lind leisure, and I beg you will beli.ve me ever, dear sir, yours, &c. TO MISS DAVIES. It is impossible, madam, that the generous ■warmth and argelic purity of your youthful mind, can have any idea of that moral disease under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a lorpitude of the moral powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- science.— In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, madam, could have made me so long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed 1 had one apology — the bagatelle was not worth present- ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of these ardent feel- ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- tween our wishes an! our powers? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest, impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladly would I have said — ' 4 Go, be hap- py ! I know that your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom ac- cident has placed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But there ! ascend that rock, Independence, and look justly down on their littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your indignation, and the fool- ish sink before your contempt ; and largely im- part that happiness to others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow ! " Why, dear madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I lind myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of ad- ding one comfort to the friend I love J — Out upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are ad- ministered so ill ! They talk of reform !— good Heaven ! what e. reform would 1 make an the sons, and even the daughters of mer Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places where misbegotten chance has perked Ihem up, and through life should they skulk, ever haunted by their native irisignifi- the body marches accompanied by But the hand that could give I would lib#- rally fill ; and I would pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and generously Still the inequalities of this life are, among men, comparatively tolerable — but there is ti delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, capri- cious distinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an origi- nal component feature of my mind. No. CXXVIL TO MRS DUNLOP. EllMand, 17th December, 1781. Many thanks to you, madam, for your good news respecting the little floweret and the mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have been heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and then !Wrs Henri will find her little darling the representative of his late parent, in every thing but his abridged existence. I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustr'ous line, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. Scene, — Afield of LaWe — lime of the day, even* ins — t/u: wounded and dying cf the victorious army are svppostd to join in the following SONG OF DEATH. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy No terrors hast thou to the brave ! Thou strik'st t' e poor peasant— he sinks in tb.9 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame I In the field of proud honour — our 6words in our hands, Our king and our country to save — While victory shines on life's last ebbing 0, who would not die with the brave I us DIAMOND CARLXET LIBRARY. The circumstance that save rise to the fore- going verses was, looking'over, with a musical frieuc, M 'Donald's collection of Highland airs ; I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oraii an Aois, or, The Song of Death, to the measure of which I have adapted iny stanzas. I have of late composed two cr three other little pieces, which ere y.u foil orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at old uioiher earth all night, shall have shrunk into a mcdest crescent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for i : .s coounende t No. CXXTCIL TO MRS BUWLOP. oih January, 1792. Vol! see my hurried life, madam ; I can only command stsrts of time ; however, I a-ri glad cf one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. I h^ve corresponded with Com- missioner Graham, fcr the Board had made me the subject of their animadversions ; and no-.v I havethe pleasure of informing you, that all is set to rights in that quarter. Sow, as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to but hold ! I was pray ing most fervently in my last she?!, and I must not so soeu fall a swearing in this. Alas ! hew little do the wantonly or idly officious think what miscfa malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, at a difference there is . ii asie wthj candour, benevo- lence, generusiry , kindness — ia ail the chari- ties, slid all the virtues ; betwe; i human beings a>d another. For instance, *heam : ablee ixed with in the of D .their generous hearts — their ur contaminated, dignified minds— their informed aiid polished understandings — what a contrast, when compared — if ^ucb comparing were not downs • . sac Bge — with the scul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the dfs rucion of an hoi.est man that never offend- ed him, and wi h a gr.n of s.-.Utfacticn see the unforlui.aie being, h:s faithful wife, and prat- tling innocents, ;uia<-J o*sr to beggary and ru u ! Your ei-p, my ce-.r madam, arrived s.t."e. 1 bad t^o worth) fellows din ng wilii me the oiher day, when I, with great formality, pro- duced my whigmeleere cup, and told thrin that it bad been a family-piece amoog tha descendants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm, that tbey insisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; and by feud bye, never did jour great .. ! lore completely to rtst than fur a e inr cup i:; • two iiic.ids. Apropos, this is the season of wishing you, mj dear friend, a..u bless me the huin- TO MR WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. a yet many returns uf the pooa things attend you and yours, wherever tiiey axe scai'.ercd c\-.r : Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion too. What a ta-k ! to you — who care no more for the herd ef animals called young ladies, than you do for the herd of animals called young gentlemen. To you — who de- spise and detest the groupings and combina- tions of fashion, as an idiot painter that seems industrious to place staring fools and unprin- cipled knaves in the foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs Riddel, who will take this let er to town with her and send it to you, is a character that, even in y cur own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correet, and often elegant, are much beyond the common run of the lady-pottesses of the day. She is a great admirer of your book, and hear- ted with you, ■:• you, as she is just . . - J her that her best n desire her near relation, and your intimate Cra - bave jou at his house as :Lere ; and lest you mirht think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought a 3 i:i which very much be=ets yourself; — dikes oi sea, =:;e is apt to make no more a secret cf it, than where she I will not present you with the unmeaning cowpliments of the season, but I will send \oa ■ wishes and most ardet that fortune may never throw your to the mercy of a kna\e, or set your character on the judgment cf a fool, but that, upright where men'of letters shall say, H. , v. ho did honour to science! and men (.f worth shall say, Here human nature 1 TO H2 W. MCCL 792. 20^. A&rmry, 1 O thou, wisest sxeng the \ blaze of prudence, full moon of «.'.;.-- chief of many counsellors ! How iufiuiteiy w thy puduie-heided, rattle-headed, • BURNS — LETTERS. 147 ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- eminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou looke=t benignly down ou an erring wretch, of whom the zig zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple copulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of iiuxions ! Way one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that father of proverbs and roaster of maxims, tl at antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen! Amen ! Yea, so be it ! For me I I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing: From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political heresies I look up to thee, as doth a load through the iron-barred lucerne cf a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- tion of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills i* As for him, his works are perfect ; never did the pen of calumny blur the fair paee of his reputation, cor the bolt cf hatred fly at his dwelling. Then mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, thine like the constell lion of thy intellectual powers. — As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the poweis of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did the vapours of impurity stain the un- clouded serene of thy cerulean imaginaiicn. O that like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then should 1 lie down and rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be exer- cised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality J tby devoted slave, j- No. CXXXI. TO ME CUNNINGHAM. 3d March, 1792. Since I wrote to'you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had lime to write you farther. When I say that I had net time, that, as usu- al, means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to lejve me a live minutes fragment to take up a pen in. Ihauk heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- w ards with the renovating year. Now 1 shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I daresay he thinks I have used him unkindly, and * Mr Nicol. + This strain of irony was excited by a lcUcr of ,Mr Nico!*^ containing good advice. I must own with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired old Highland air called The Sutor's Dccklcr t It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashionable circles by Wajcr Robertson cf Lude, who was here witU Thsre is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pres- ent from a depar;ed friend, which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which Infancy would make a very de- cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bearing cu it ; will you be so obliging as in- quire what will be the expense of such a busi- ness ? I do not know that my name is matrix culated, as the heralds call it, at ail ; but I >lii.;J a s for nself, s i kr.< shall be chief of the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to support- ers. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, secundum avian, my arms. Ou a Held, azure, a holly lush, seeded, proper, in base : a shepherd's pipe and crook, salt.er- wise, also proper, in cliief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two mottoes, round ihetopofthe cres\ Wcod-notes wild. At the bottom of ihe shield, in the usual place, Bctltr a tree buth than ».ae bield. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stockand Horn, and a Cluh, such as \ou see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the Gen- tle Shepherd. By ihe'bye, do you know Allan ? He must be a man of very great genius. Why is he cot more known ? Has he no patrons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy"' on him? I once, and but once, got a glance of that coble edition of ihe noblest pastoral in ihe world, and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral coi-ume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart so ? 1 think that were I as rich aslke sun, I should be as generous as the day ; lut as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-l.me quality to the pos- sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea of such merit as Wr Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or governor-contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth sheller and cherish unpro- tected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that ruerit will richly repay it No. CXXXII. TO MRS DUN LOP. AtiKan Water Feet, 22J August, 17T2. l'I I lame me for it, madam— my own cor ^c, htxeknird and weather-beaten as i'. is DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY In watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- lies, indolence, &c has continued to blame and punish me sufficiently. Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I couid be so lost to gra- titude for many favours ; to esteem for much •worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaintance, and,I hope and am sure, of progressive increasing friendship — as, for a single cay, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what they are doing and about to do with my much loved friend and her wide scat- tered connexions, and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can ? Apropos, (though how it is apropos, I have net leisure to explain,) do you know that 1 am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? —Almost ! said I — I am ia love, souse I over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, Love, owing to the intenr.inziA-:o>:r> ca::lxi:t lij;ka:iy. No. CXXXIV. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, 24tf September, 1793. 1 have this moment, my dear madam, yours of the twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, your news, &c are out of my head when I read and think on Mrs H 's situatiou. Good God ! a heart-wounded, helpless young "woman — in a stranjre, foreign land, and tha land, convulsed with every horror that car harrow the human feelings— sick — looking lor.-! mforter ih, four weeks, mined to make me tl band. However, if as let me have them She, too, 5 deter irl, I s hal leader of a ven will be so obliging he proportion of three be so much the m spared with the pleased. to show a set of boys that will do honour to cares .and name : but I r.m not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune Apropos, jour little god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, has completely mastered his brother. .Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest crea- ■- prising ■ we get into prattle r heart God bless you and your * This much-lamented lady w south of France with her infant s died soon after. TO MRS DUNLOPV SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OJK AIRS H— , HER DAUGH- TER. I had been from heme, and did not receive your letter until my return the other da v. What shall I say to comfort vou, my much- valued, much-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with yen ; consolation, ! have none to offer, except that which religio I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- quisition to his family 1 cannot say that 1 give him joy of his life !»s a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed life I As to a laird farming his own property"; sowing his own corn in hope; and reaping it, in spite of brittle -weather, in gladness ; knowing that uone can say unto him, "what dost thou?' —fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks rejoicing at Christmas; and begetting sous am daughters, until he be the venerated, grey- haired leader of a little tribe— 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. Wei!, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs B until her nin< months' race is run, which may, perhaps, be it hildren of a: ther family, they 1 which they hear, s< , of -children of affliction I siou ! and" like every nd feel in a serious, ich the world has dea. The world kes the irk, aud proceeds to the next novel oceur- Alas, madam ! years ? What is our joys gradually expire and leave night of misery; like the glr out the stars out ' night, and leaves in the howling w; I am iiiterrrpted, and must 1 shall soon hear from me agajnt hich blots from the face of nhcut a ray of comfort, No. CXXXYI. TO MRS DUNLOP. Dumfries, 6th December, J 792. I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop-house. Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have reason to congratulate our- selves on accessions of happiness ! I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet 1 scarcely lock over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abvssof uncertainty, end shudder with apprehensions for our own fate. Sut of how different an importance are the lives of different individuals ? Nay, of what im- portance is one period of the same life, more than another ? A few years ago, I could have lain down in tha dust, *♦' careless of the voice of the morning ;" and now, not a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, lose both their '« strdf and shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately "got an addition ; Mrs B. having given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage m Thomson's Edward and Eiianora, nuRNS.-Lr: : i liens. As I am got in the -way of quota) ions, I shall five you another from (he same piece, pecu- liarly", alas, too peculiarly apposite, my dear madam, to your present frame of mind : «' Who so unworthy but m:y proudly deck While Qua:ks of state must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Right/, of Man • Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. The lligkts of Woman merit some attention. First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — The tender flower that Kits its head, elate, i Helpless, must fall before the blast of f*te, ! Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, your shelter ward th' impending The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the helm This virtue shrinks and in a corner lies, Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, How cheap a thing were virtue '. " I do not remember to have heard you men- tion 'Ihomsou's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of tiiese is one, a very favourite one, from his Alfred, «« Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life ; to life itself, "With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. ' ' Probably I have quoted some of these to ycu formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 1 am apt to be gui ty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the former are extremely apt to run into one another ; but in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. 1 must still give you another quotation, which lam almost ture i have given \ou before, but I cannot re- sist the temptation. The subject is religion — speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says. I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the reform- ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 1 am a ■placeman, you know; a very humble one in- deed, Heaven knows, but sail so much so as to gag n jot I have taken up the subject in anothf and the other day, for a pretty actress's night, I wrote an address, which 1 w you on the other page, called The /Jfg/ai* of THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. Our second Right — but needless here is camion ; To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. Fach man of sense has it so full before him, Iie'J die before he'd wrong it— 'tis decorum. 'there was, i.'tdeed, in far less polish 'd days. A time, when rough rude man had naughty Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a Now, well-bred men— and you are all well- Most justly think (and we are much the either spirit, wit, nor i For Right the third, our last, our best, our That right to fluttering female hearts the Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- Most humbly own— %is dear, dear admiration ! - '.at bles,'o sphere alone we live and move ; e taste that life of lite — immortal love — es, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, nst such an host what flinty savage dares m awful Beauty joins v, i h* all hei charms, > is so rash as r.se in rebel arms ? It truce with kings, and truce with con- With bloody armaments and revolutions ; * ' majesty your first attention summon, ca ira I The Majesty of Woman ! N». CX5XVIT. TO MISS R , OF YORK. MADAM, 21s/ March, 17C3. Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the" il< od, is this in particular, that when they met with any Lo y after their own heart, they had J5S DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. A charming long prospect of many, many hap- py meetings -with them in after-life. Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an indivi- dual whose acquaintance is a reul acquisition, there are ail the probabilities against \ou, that jou shail never meet with that valued charac- ter more. On the other hand, brief as the miserable being is, it is no-e of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom ycu hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so against jou, that in the overtakings, turn- ings, andjostiings of life, pop, at some un- lucky corner eternal y comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take those to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he has some kind of short-haud way of taking down oer thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- ing Miss JB ; how much I admired her abilities, and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear madam, I must entertain no hopes of the" very great pleasure of meeting with you again. Miss U tells me that she is tending a jacket to you, and I beg leave to s;nd y^u the inclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real truth, the bonnet is a mere prete'nce, that I may have an opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem 1 have the honour to be, to. No. CXXXYIIL TO MISS C MADAM, August, 1793. Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- vented my doing myself the honour of a second visit to Arbiegland," as I was so hospitably in. vited, and so positively meant to have done. — However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- fore the busy mouths of harvest begir. X inclose you two of my late pieces, as some *ind return 'for the pleasure 1 have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one •with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, madam, I know will not allow. 'What is said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry; none ever oe=pised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be melan- choly. There is not, among all the martyro- logies that ever were penned, so rueful a nar- rative as the lives of the poets In the com- parative view of wretches, the criterion is not ♦>hat 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 mere delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of pas- eions than axe the usual lot of man; implant ; in him an irresistible impulse to some idle va- ! gary, such as arranging wild flowers in fan- tastical 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 prnhs oflucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures j that lucre can purchase ; lastly, till up the '. measure of his woes by bestowing on him a ; spurning sense of his own dignity, and you . have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, madam, I need not recount the | fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbal- ance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching ' pcetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in ! ail ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the pa'.iis of prudence, involving them in difficulties, bait- ing them with poverty, branding ther imv, and pluagiii lex" of ruin; jet i i that all happin< iLei s the n i the whirling ss on earth is not worthy that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of paradisaical bliss, is but the glitter of a northern sun, rising over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the name- less raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of Man ! No. CXXXIX. TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. SiK, December, 1793, It is said that we take the greatest liberties with cur greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever 1 owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are sis guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shil- ling to man— or woman either. But for lhes» dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligation* your hospitality has laid me under, the con- sciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against ; but to owe you money too, was more than 1 could face. I think I once mentioned something of a col- lecrion of Scotch songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together, f could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and live or six glances of them will probably more than suffice yon. A very few of them are my own. When you are tired of them, please leava llum with Mr Clint, of the Ring's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world ; and I shall be sorry that any unfor- tunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of paias. * Scottish hank notes. BURKS.— LETTERS. . £ am thinking to send my Address to some peri- odical publication, but it has not got your sanction, so pray look over it. As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, w? dear madam, let me beg of you to give us, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret; to which please add, The Spoiled Child— you will high- ly oblige me by to doing. Ah, what an enviable creature you are 1 There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits— " To play the shapes Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, Those rapid p'ictures, thai assembled train Of fleet ideas never join'd beftre, Where lively wil excites to gay surprise ; Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every But as you rfjoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. No. CXLL TO A LADY, IK FAVOUR OF A PLAYER 's BENEFIT. You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benetit night. That night is faxed for Friday first ; the play a most interesting one. The way to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know Mr G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. K-e has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: lie is a poor and modest man ; claims v\h:ch, from their very silence, have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that from the indolence of those who have ihe good things of this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the author ana director of Nature, by far the most enviable is to be able "To wipe away ali tears from til eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, whogotothe;r graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy ! But I crave your pardon, madam j I came to beg> not to preach. EXTRACT OF A Ui'llEU TO MR 1794. ! I am extremely obliged to you for your kind i mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr S showed me. At present, my situ- I aticn in life must be in a great measure sta- tionary, at least for two or three years. The statement is this : I am on the supervisor's list ; and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be appointed of course ; then a friend might be of service to me in getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about a hundred and twenty,, to two hnndred a-year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every spe- cies of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list ; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A collectorship varies much, from bttter than two hundred a-year to near a thou- sand. They also come forward by precedency on the list, and have, besides a handsome in- come, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competence, is the summit cf my wishes. It would be the prudish afl'ectation of silly pride in me, to say that I do not need or would not be indebted to a political friend ; at the same time, sir, I by- no means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situation on your benevo- lence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur « here the good offices of a gentle- man of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I vi r " peta, ud sux ilh the same frankness y"as I now do myself the honour myself, &C No. CXLIIL TO MRS DEAR MADAM, I meant to have called on yon yesternight, hut as I edged up to your box-door, the first ob- ject which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the condit.ons and capitulations you so oblig- ingly offer, 1 shall certainly make my weather- beaten rustic phiz a part of your box furniture on Tuesday, when we may" arrange the busi. ness of the visit. Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, cr unmeaning folly in- cessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, hov* far exalted above such adoration ! — permit me, t but for rarity's sake, to pay you the thou nit st amiable, and most e dished of diamond ca:;i:;et l:: TO THE SAME. I will vrait on you, niy ever-valued friend, bat whether in the'moruiug I am not sure. Sun- day clc-e- a period of our c;rst revenue busi- ness, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until neon. Fine employment fcr a poet's pen I There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-korss cs'css: ■what enviable dogs they are ! Kound, and round, and rou:.c they go. Mundell's ox that drives his cotton mil!, is their exact prototype — without an idea or a wish beyond their cir- cle : fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- tented ; while here I sit, altogether Ivovero- berish, a d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torp. r ; my soul Gounci.:g and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild Sneh, caught amid the horrors cf winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — "And behcid, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!" If ray resentment is awakened, it is sure to be where it dare no: squeak: and if — . . . ial wisdom and bits re frequent R. B. TO TEE SAME. I have this moment got the song from S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoiled it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him any thing again. I have seiit jou Werfcr, Irulj harry to have any the smallest opportunity of cbligiug you. 'Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I w's at \Y : and that once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of "me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on him, couid only have envied n;y feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, end never more shall write or speak on it. One thing I shall proudly say, tLat I can -- Mrs — - a higher tribute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her. TO THE SAME. I hive often ee- :omplished of women ; even wrh all thy little laprices ! No. CXLYII. TO" THE SAME. MADAM, I return your common-place beck. I !iav* perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose Iheii If it is true that • * offences come only from the heart, " before you I am guiltless. To .rem, and priz - s u of w — if these are criu In a face where I used fo meet the kind com- placency cf friendly confidence, now to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench "that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, that while de-kaut-en-haK rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tent'enc_, to rouse a stubborn something in his besom, * which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt iher poignancy. "Wi.h the profour.dest respect for your abili- ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable man- ners ; and "the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, madam, year most devoted humble sen ant. No. CXLVIII. TO JOHX SYME, ESQ. You know tfcet among other bigb dignifies, rou have the honour to be my supreme court >f critical judicature, frcm which there is no ippeal. I inc'.ose you a song which I c the his e I saw y of : n gom; : grw that I and manners ci" those great fo!ks whom I have now the honour to call my acquaintances> the fair.i'.y, tksr; is r.r'.i'. 'r.g charms me mere than ]\Jr O". "s unconcealalle attachment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, mv dear Syme, meet with a mau who owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr O. ? A fine furtane ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident amiat'.e dispositions, and an ingenious upright mind, and that informed too, much ttyoiid the usual run of young fel- lows of his rank and fortnr.e ; and to all this, such a woman '. — Lot cf her I shall say nothing at all, in despair cf saying any thisg adequate : in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice I BURN 3. - to what wei'.'.d be tits Feelings on seeing, in the scene I hive drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good ileal pleased with ray perform- ance, I in ray first fervour thought of sending it to Mrs O , but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of that secviihy which my soul abhors. * No. CXLIX. TO MISS . MADAM, Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me trouble you with ibis let- ter. Escept my ardent and just e=teem for yoorr- - you, the friend of my soul, and his amhible connex- ions 1 The wrench at :ny heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone fiom me, never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and the cutting refl-ction of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight • These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary- anguish. However, you, also, inr.y be offend- ed with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me. is nut the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, r.nd against direct malevolence lean be on my guard; but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly ? * I hive a favour to request cf you, madam, and of your sister Mrs , through your means. You know, that, at the wish of my late friend, I made a collection of all m\ trifle's in verse which I had ever written. They are many of thsm local, some of them puerile ai;d silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live, when the hate of those who "watch for my halting,'' and the con- tumelious sneer of those whom accident has made my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts. Will M f3 have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me ? As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed ; and lhat cir- cumstance, indeed, was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer posses, and I hope that Mrs ' B goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will *- The song inclosed was the one beginning " wat je wha's in yon town. " IB whom she or.ee 1 have the honour No. CL. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 25i/i February, ]r04. O.nst (lion minister to a mind diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed on a tea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide hsr course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive to the tortures ot suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou dis- turb me in my miseries, with tbv inquiries after me ? For these two months I heve not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab ertgme, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my exstenee. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin cf 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 e reprobate spirit listening to the seutenca that dooms ii to perdition. ' Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I na\e exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A lieart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscnriot preaching the gospel : he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but bis own kep' its na-ive incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, ara : d the wreck oi misfortune and misery. Th? one is composed of the different modifica- tions of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by then .mes of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however ths sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human sou! ; those tenses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- pression, which connect us with, and link us to. those awful obscure realities — an all-power- ful and equailv beneticent Cod ; and a world to come, beyonddeatli 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 i do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty Jar, to lead the ua- diseerning many, or at most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind eau never know any tiling of, and with which (hey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irrelig'on, nny more than I would for bis want of a musical ear. I would regret that be was shut out from what, 156 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. to me and to others were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son shou.d happen to be a man cf feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart : and an im- agination, delighted with the painter, and wrapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of life, lie looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is wrapt above lii.'s sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, ana bursts out into the glori- ous enthusiasm of Thomsonj ' ■ These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee." And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights, and I abk what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal lo them ? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- ing, and approving God. MADAM, I dare say this is the first epistle you ever re- ceived from this nether world. 1 write jou from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know ; as I took my departure in the he-t of a fever of intoxication, contracted at yo'jr too hospitable mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine, for the space of niuety-uine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days ; and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. " Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- low of ever- piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night »o much injured, I think it Would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apo- logy.—Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to Llame me ; and the other gentlemen were par- takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of die greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners— do make, on my part, a miserable d— d wretch's best apology to her. A Airs G , a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour ; this makes me hope that 1 have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.— To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O, all ye powers of decency and decorum '. whis- per to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me — but — Regret ! Remorse 1 Shame ! ye three hell- hounds that e^er dog mj steps and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! Forgive the olt'euces. and pity the perdition of, madam, your humble slave. TO MRS DUNLOP. 15th DecembiT, 1795. MY DEAR FF.IE>"D, As I am in a complete Deeemberiih humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sym- pathize in it : these four mouths, a sweet little giri, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less threatened to termi- nate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of hus. band and father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequent- ly give me. I see a train of helpless, little folks; me and my exertions al their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; ever, in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such things happen every day —gracious God! what viould become of my little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. AfatLer on his death-ted, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while I— but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject ! To leave talking of the matter so gravely » I shall sing with the old Scots ballad- BURNS LETTERS. m •• O that I liad ne'er been married, I would never bad nae care ; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, Taej cry, crowdie, everuiair. Crowdie! ance ; crowdie! twice; Crowdie ! three times in a day : An ye crowdie ony mair, Ve'li crowdiea'my meal away." December 2ith. We have had a brilliant theatre here, this season ; ouly, as all other business has, it ex- periences a stagnation of trade from the epide- mical complaint of the country, want of cash.. I mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- casional Address, which I wrote for the benefit- night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows : — ADDRESS. So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes, Said, nothing like bis works was ever print- ed ; And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of "I know your bent — these are no laughing Can you- but Miss, I own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — With laden sighs, and solemn rounded seu- Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- Paint Vrngrance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o er a guilty land!" I couid no more — askance the creature eye- D'ye think, said I, this fuce was made for cry- I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall know it ; And so, your servant—gloomy Master Poet. Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, That Misery's another word for Grief: I also think—so may I be a bride ! That so much laughter, so much life en- joyed. Thou man of crazy care and ceiseless sigh, Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'it to that sorest task of man alive— 'lo make thr-e guineas do the work of live : Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam witch ! Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs ha^i Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope — thy ueck — Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the Peerest to meditate the healing leap : Wouldstthou be cured, thou silly, moping elf, Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder— that's your grand spe- cific— Thi-- my r eept i ) lie; they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author, The Man of Feeling, "May the great Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and biunt the arrow that brings them rest!" Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper ? is not the Tatk a glorious poem ? The religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature: the religion that exalts, that en- nobles a man. Were not you to send me your Zeluco in return for mine ? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criti- I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters ; I mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which from time to time I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to destroy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 1 cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. TO MRS DUHLOP, IN LONDON. Dumfries, 201k December, 1795. I have been prodigiously disappointed in thii London journey of yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter; in the next place, I thought yon would certainly take this route ; and now I know not what is become of you, or whether this may reach you at ali. God grant that it may fine" you and yours In pros- pering health and good spirits. Do let ro# henr from \o;i the soonest possible, 153 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. As I hope to get a frank froui my friend Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose cr poesy, sermon or song. In this last article, I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publi- cation of Scottish songs which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and w here I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter P.n- dard.es over the English. I wrote the fol- lowing for a favourite air December 29. Since I began this letter I have been appointed l in the capacity of supervise. '" "' e load of tusine what with that busi; could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and dur- ing the illness of the present incumbent ; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form ; a consummation devoutly to be wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. This is the season r New-year 's day is now my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fervently ofi'ered up for you! May life to you be a positive blessing while it iusts, for your own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of year friends '. V»~La: a transient business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a young man ; and I already begin to feel the ri^id fibre and stiflen- ing joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. "With all my foilk's of youth, and, I fear, a Jew Tices of manhood, still I congratulate royseif on having had, in early days, religion strongly impressed on my mind. 1 have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what'ereed he believes ; but I look on the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lct-I felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- tion for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a never-faiiing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave. Jannary 12. You will have seen oi;r worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this*- I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say, for the hundred and fiftieth tune, his View vf Scy warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. "When you go fori to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may PJeasure ever be of your party ; and may social joy await your return : When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native Seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- come, meet you at your gates '. May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, ROBERT BUCX9. POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS : ' Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, "When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure ; His hair, his size, his month, his lags, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter *d, braw brass collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : But tho' he was o' high degree, The fient a pride.na pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressin', Ev'u with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, bawsent face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his towzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurL Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; Wi' social nose whyles snun'd and snowkit ; Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; f CuchulliVs dog iu Ossian's Fingal. Whyles sccurM awa in lang excursion. An' worry 'd ither in diversion; Until wi damn weary grown. Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression, About the lords o' the creation. I've aften wonder 'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you havej An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : He rises when he likes himseP ; His ilunkies answer at the bell ; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draws a bonnie siiken purse, As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeka. The yellow letter 'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin', Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the Ian' : An' what poor cot-folk pit their painoh in, I own its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Cassar, whyles they're fashi A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like, HimseP, a wife, he thus sustains, A sm^trie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape. An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, \n' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger 5 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They 're maistly wonderf u ' contented ; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in such a way as this is. But then to see how ye 're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeeki< I L— d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notio'd on onr Laird's court day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snpsh ; He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maunstan', wi' aspect humble An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble 1 They're nae sae wretched 's ane wad think ; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The'view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're *ye in less or mair provided ; An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, fheir grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; The prattlin things are just their pride That sweetens a' their hre-side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies uuco happy ; Thev lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs : They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi 1 kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new'taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, When rural life, o' every station, L'nite in common recreation : Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds ; The nappy reeks wi' maiiiiing ream An ' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will : ' The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young ones rantin' thro' the house, — My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi ' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. Are riven ontbaith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' ^reed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himself the fa ? ter n favours wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins thrang. a-parliamentin'j For Britain's guid his 6aul indentin' — CffiSAR. Ilaiih, lad, ye little ken about it : For Britain's "zuid '—guid faith, I doub. it ! ■ Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead hiro, An' saying aye or no's they bid him : At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; " may Le, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, mak a tour, and tak a whirl, To learn bon ten and see the warl'. There, at Vienna, or Versailles, le rives his father's auld entails ! Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitar's and fecht wi' nowt ; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : en bouses drumly German water, mak himsel' look fair and fatter, ' clear the consequential sorrows, Love gifts of Carnival Signora's. For Britain's guid .' — for her destruction ! " x "' dissipation, feud, an' factioj. Ll'ATH. ech man ! dear sirs : is that the gate j waste sae mony a braw estate I we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last ! would they stay aback frae courts, . ' please themselves wi' counira sports, wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotler ! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' biilies, Fient haet o' them 's ill hearted fellows ; Except fcr breakin' o' their timtner, " speakin' liphtly o' their limmer, shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, Master Ccesar, 5ure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure I Vae cauld or hunger ere can steer them, The very thought o't need na fear them. CiESAR. _d, man, were ye but whyles where am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them. 's true, they need na starve or sweat, j' winter's canld or simmer's heat; y've nae sair wark to craze their banes, fill auld age wi' gripes sn' granes : But human bodies are sic foois, a' their colleges an' schools, That when nae real ills perplex them. They mak enow themselves to vex them. An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them, A country fellow at the pleugh, s acres till'd, he's right eneugh j BURNS — POEMS. A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzeus done, she's unco weel ; But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown warn o' waxk are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races,. Their gallopiu' through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches : Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters ; But hear their absent thoughts o' ilher, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an plaitie, They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. By this the sun was out o' sight : An' darker gloaming brought the night : The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : When up they gat an shook their lugs, Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; And each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day. SCOTCH DRINK. Cie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair ; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care ; There let him bouse, and deep carouse Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, ' Let other poets raise a fracas, 'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an* stories wrack us, An* grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O Thou, my Muse t guid auld Scotch Drink ; Whether thro' wimpling worms tbou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faein, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name. An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o grain 1 On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food ! Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; But oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', Wi' rattlin' glee. Thou clears the head o' djited Lear ; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair Afs weary toil ; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy silver weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee diap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts : But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fired. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in I Or reekin' on a New-year mornin' In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drapsp 'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker ! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare '. to see the fizz an' freath I' the lugget caup ! Then Burnexcin* comes on like death At ev 'ry chap. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an* studdie ring and reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. How fumbhn' cuifs their dearies slight, Wae worth the name ! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. How easy can the barley bree Cement the quarrel ; It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Ala>e ! that e'er my Muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; But rnonj daily weet their weason Wi* lquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's seasoD, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, Fell source o' inonie a pain an' Lra h ! Twins raonie a poor, dovlt, drunken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland v Ye, chief, to you my tale" I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! It sets you ill, Wi' litter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruutle wi " a gluuch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch Wi' honest men. O Whisky ! soul o' plays an pranks ! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless crank: Are my poor verses ! Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a—s ! Thee, Ferintosh J sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an barkin' hoast, May kill us a' ; For loyal Forbes' charter' d boast Is ta'enawa'l Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the Whisky Stalls their prize ! Haud up thy ban', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky S iU, An' rowth o' rh\me to rave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IX THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. Dearest of Distillation ! last and best How art thou lost ! Parody on Mili Willie ; An' inony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-petlle, Ye '11 see't or !ang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in cank'rous mood, Her lost Militia fired her bluid ; (Oeil ua they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she's like to'rin red-wud About her Whisky. An' L— d if ance the-, pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the street.-, An' rin her whittle to the hiit, I* the first she meets ! For G— d sake, Sirs ! then speak ber fair, \.n' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed* An' strive wi' a' your wit an lear. To get remead. Yon ill tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox t May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! E'en cowe the caddie! An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, An' drink his health in auld Nome Tinncdc's* If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commvtatio}i broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon rnixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; She's just a deevil wi' a rung ; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, i' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, May still your Milher's heart support ye : Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap ycur fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face. In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt Sf Jamie'? Your humble poet sings an' prays While Rob his name u POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starved slaves, in warmer skies, See future wines, rich clustering rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But blithe and frisky, she eyes her freeborn martial bovs, Tak afF their W"bisky. What tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms t When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth dishonour amis In hungry droves. * Sir Adam Ferguson. f The present Duke of Montrose * A worthy old Hostes3 of the Author's i ifauchline, whe-e he sometimes studied Politic - (1S0O.) ' over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink, Their bauldest thought' To sta Till skelp— a shot— they' To si DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. i han* ring: swither s aff, a' throwther, But brin? a Scotsman frae his Iii.l, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An ' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill 'iwa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubting;, te Death comes, with fearless eve he sees Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies h'.m ; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es I' faint huzzas. Sages their solem may steek, An' physically causes seek, But teil me WTi'sky's name in Greek, ' I'll tell the reason. Sco!la7id, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho' vshvlesye inoistify your leather, Till whore you sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam ; (Freedom and Whisky ganj- ih^gither I) Tak aii yoi THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret hung with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation : A mask that like the gorget show'd Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for .-. mantle large and bread, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy-a-la-mode. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face was fair, I walked fonh to view the corn, An' snuff the caiisr air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin', The hares were birpling down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chautiu' Fu' sweet that day. As lightsoraely I glow To see a scene sae g; Three hizzies, early a Cam skelping up the II. ' do: d abroad he road, ay; black, Fu' guy that day. The Iwa appear'd like sisters Iwiu, In feature, form, an' claes : Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thinj An' sour as ony slaes ; The third j — ~— , ame up, hap-sta p-an'-leap, As light as ony laminie. An' wi' a curchie low d.d toop. As soon as e'er she saw Fu' kind that day. IV. Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass I think 3 e seem to ken m 've seen that boi But yet [ eauna name ye Quo' she, an' laughin' as he spak, An' tak' s me by the banc s, " Ye, for my sake, ha'e g 'en the fee Ofa'th A screed s ome day. "My name is Fun— your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye ha'e j An' this is Superstition here, An' that's HypoeHsy. I'm gauu to Holy Fair, To spend an hour in dattin' ; Gin ye'l) go there, yon runkled pair V\ e w ill get famous laugh in' 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' scon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a weary bodie, In droves that day. VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cotters : There swankies young, in braw braid claitb Are springiu' o'er the gutters. The lasses skelpin' barefoot, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang Au'faris baked wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Biack Boin.et throws, On ev'ry side they're gatheriu', Some carrying deals, some chairs an' s An' some are busy bletherin', Right loud that day. Here stand a fend the show'rs, An' screen our co intra Gentry, There race ■ Jess, an ' twa three whoresj Are blin rin' at ih 3 entry. Here sits a raw of ti Wi' heavin' breast and bars neck. An' there a batch of wabster ladsj BURNS.-POEMS Blackguardia' frae K. For fun this day. Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their claes ! Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, Anither sighs an' prays : On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin' on the lasses To chairs that day. XI. O happy is the man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him ! Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, He sweetly does compose him ! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom Unkena'd that day. XII. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation ; For speels the holy door Wi' tidings o* damnation. Shculd 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' wi' thumpin' .' Now meekly calm, now wild in wralh, He's stampin' an' he's jumpiu' ! His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how tbey fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters On s a day ! XIV. But hark ! the tent has changed its voice ; There's peace and rest nae langer; For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. opens out his cauld harangues On practice and on morals ; An' affthe godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. XV. What signifies his barren shine Of moral powers and reason ? His English style, an' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antoninc, Or some auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day. XVI. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum : For , frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum s. •" * See, up he's got the word o' Cod, An' meek an' mim has viewed it, While Common-Sense hasta'en the road, Ail' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast that day. XVII. Wee neist the guard relieves* An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes And thinks it auld wives' fables : But, faiih, the birkie wants a manse So cannily be hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit and sense, Like haffiins-wajs o'ercomes him At times that day. XVIII. Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills, And there the pint stoup clatters ; While thick au' 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. XLX. Leeze me on drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pings 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, biythely bent To mind baith saul and body, Sit round the table weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're makin' observations; While some are cozie i* the lieuk, An' forming assignations To meet some day. But n Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts His piercing v. ords, like Highland sword9 Divide the joints an' marrow ; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our very saul does harrow + Wi' fright that day XXII. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Filled fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-staae ! The half asleep start up wi' fear, And think they hear it roarin', When presently it does appear, *A street so called, which faces the lertl a Shakspeare's llamlet. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. XXIII. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How mony stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furnis an' benches ; An* cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. XXIV. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, The lasses they are shyer. The auldguidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays And gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething • Sma' need has he to say a grace Or nielvie his braw cluithing ! O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel* How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck hee), Let lasses be affronted On sic a day. XXVI. Now CliukumbeU, wi' rattlin' tow, Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, the best they dow. Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith, an' hope, an' love, an' drink, They're a' in famous tune, For crack that day. XXVII. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses ! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are 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, Mav end in houghmagandie Some ither day. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd, Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. i Is just as true's the Deil's in hell Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel* 'Samucklepity. The Clachan yill hod made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took lent aye To free the ditches ; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye Frae ghaists an' witches. Tho rising moon began to g^ow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; :ount her horns, wi* a' my pow'r, I set mysel' ; But w hether she had three or four, I couldna tell. is come round about the hill, And todlin down on WiLie's mill, Setting my staff wi' a* my skill, To keep me sicker ; Tho' leeward whyles, against my wiU, I took a bicker. ere wi' ivmethinz did forgather, That put me in an eerie s wither : * * awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, haDg ; A three-taed leister on the ither, Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, , For lient a wame it had ava ; And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. « Guid e ' quo' I ; « Friend ! hae ye been But naething spak : At length, says I, * Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ? ' It spak right howe,— 6 My name is Death, But be na fley'd. '—Quoth I, ' Guid faith, :e maybe come to stap my breath ; But tent me, billie ; I red ye wee! tak care o' skailh, See there's a gully ! ' * Gutdman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, I'm no desisn'd to try its mettle ; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out owre my beard,' 1 Weel, weel !* 6ays I, ' a bargaii Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we We'll ease our shanks an' tak a sea Come gie's your r This while f ye hae been mony a At mony £ be'i a house". ' Bui '.bis that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, * This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. f An epidemical fever was then raging in that countrv. dps I ^L ffi BURNS. —POEMS. * Ayi a J>' au0 ' ^ e » an ' shook bis head, • Its e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An ' choke the breath : Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Deaih. ' Sas thousand years are near hand fled, Sin' I was to the hutching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me ; Till ane Horabook's* ta'en up the trade, An' faith he'll waur me. « Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Bachanf An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin' An' pouk my hips. • See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierced mony a gallant heart : But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f— t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. • 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, I threw a noble throw at ane ; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; But deil-ma-care, It just played dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. ' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail runt. ' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I nearhaud coupit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. ' Even thera he canna get attended, Altbo' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At ance he tells't. ' An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. * Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ; Or mite- horn shavings, tilings, scrapings ; Distilled per ee ; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippins, An' mony mae. « Waes me for Johnnie Ged's Hole I now ;' Quo' I, ■ If that the news be true ! ' His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, Sae white an' bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; They'll ruin Johnnie ! ' The creature grained an eldritch laugh, An' says, 4 Ye needna yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be tilled eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a' be trenched wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year, ' Whare I killed ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. ' An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wool bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her bead, When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. ■ A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An* pays him well ; The lad, for twa givd gimmer pets, Was laird himsel*. ' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame ; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care ; ' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; Thus goes he on from day to day. Thus dues he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't : Yet stops me o' my lanfu' prey, Wi' his damu'd dirt. ' But hai k ! I'il tell you of a plot, Though dinua ye be speaking o't ; "" lail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin' ; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairiu' J* * This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, v fessionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula j bui by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Phy- fician. f Buchan's Domestic Medicine, J The grave-digger. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Some wee short hour ayont the heal, Which raised us haith ; I took the way that pleased mvsel', And sae did 'D.alh. THE BRIGS OF AYR: A PO£M. Inscribed to J. B , Esq. Air. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush : The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the bill; Shall he, nursed in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train 'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field— Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- ward. Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; When B befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throbs his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, togive, alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; Potatoe bings are snugged ua frae skai:h Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, Seal 'd uo with frugal care in massive waxen piies, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone The thundering guns are heard on every side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; Thefeather'd field'-mates, bound by Nature's Sires, (Whai And nor hi , children, in one carnage lie : poetic heart, but in'y tleeds, man's savage, ruthless deeds !) the flower in field 01 meadow Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang The hoary mc Mild, calm, s blaze, While thick the gossamor waves wantoa in the rays. "Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient tmgh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply press'd wi' care ; He left his bed, and took* his wayward route, And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether wrapt in meditation high. He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), The drowsy Dungeon-clockf had number'd And Wallace tower \ had sworn the fact was The tide-swo!n Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush 'd in Nature's closed e'e : The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering When, lo ! on either hand the Iist'ning bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings he Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air y Swift as the Gos ^ drves on the wheeling Ane on tne Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, r the r ::r p:S (That Bards are second-s'ghted is nae joke, An' ken the lingo of the spiritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they hrawly ken them,) Auld Brig appear 'd of ancient Pictish race, The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face: Heseem'd as he wi' Time had warstled lang. Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at Lon'on frae ane Adams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlyggums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxiou3 search, Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; It chanced his new-come neebor took his e'e, An' e'en a vex'd an* angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each moriish mien, He, down the water, gies him thus guide'enl— . AUI.D BRIO. I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're naesheep- Ance ye were streekit o 'er frae bank to bank ! * A noted tavern f The two steeph + The gos-hayvk, or falcou. at the Auld Brig end. BURNS.- POEMS. 173 But gin ye he a brig as auld as me, Tho' faiih that day I doubt ye'll never see ; Thsre'Jl 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 Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' star.e an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducal- Tho' they should cast the very sark and Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 0' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIO. Conceited gowk ! puft'd up w pride '. rhis monie a year I've stood the i windy ind and An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'errlow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawl- ing Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where (he Greenock winds his moorland Or haunted Garpal} draws his feeble sour* , Aroused by blustering winds and spotted thowes, In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And from Glenbuckf down to the Ratton-key,§ Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'^ tumbling Then down ye'll hurl, de'il nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves ; Windows and doors, in nameless sculptura drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The crazed creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or Mansions that would disgrace the building Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; Fit only for a doiled Monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protec- And soon may they expire, unblest with re- The L—d be thankit that v : tint the gat( * A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. + The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. ye, my dear-remember 'd ancient veal- Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- Ye dainty Deacons, an' yc douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey cleaners ; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, w hat would ye say or do '. How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- tion, To see each melancholy alteration ; And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain bram Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, Meet ower a pint, or in the Council house : But staumrel, corky- headed, graceless Gen- try The herryaient and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d— — d new Brigs and Harbours .' NEW BRIG- baud you there ! for faith ye've said than ye can mak U rngh, And through, As for your Priesthood, I shall say but littli Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared To liken them to your auld warld squad, ! must needs say comparisons we odd. 174 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. In Ayr, wag-wits, nae mair can hae a handle To mouth • a Cit zen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down the In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggiu* onre hops an' To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling wrath. Or gather'd lib'ral v ■ in Bonds and Seis- THE ORDINATION. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, p And would to Common-sense, for once be- c tray'd them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. To plea "What farther clishmaclaver might bee said, What bloody wars, if sprites had blood t il ; but all before their sight, Adown the g'litt'ring danced ight the their Tarious dresses I I Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw, I An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, ; Cf a' denominators, I Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', I An' there tak up your stations; | Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, j An' pour divine libations For joy this dav. glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soUl-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bure with Highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspired ! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the The Gen us of the stream in front appears, A venerable chief advanced in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next carae the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing ho'rn. Led yellow Autumn wreathed with nodding Then Winter's time-bleach 'd locks did hoary show, Bv Hospitality with cloudless brow ; Next follow'd' Courage with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild- woody coverts hide; Eenevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode: Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd withahazel wreath, II. Cursed Common-sense, that imp o' Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;* - aft made her yell, But O— An' This day, M« takes the flail. An' he's the boy will blaud her! He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. IIL Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gfe us four, An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For heresy is in her power, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Hamf leugh at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or Phineast drove the murdering blade, Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,§ the scaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger I' the inn that day. V. There, try his mettle on the creed, An' bind him down wi' caution, That Stipend is a carnal weed, He taks but for the fashion ; An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. An' punish each transgression ; * Alluding to a scoffing ballad which wa9 „.ade on the admission of the late reverend &i«i worthy Mr L. to the Laigh Kirk. + Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. t Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. § Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25, BURNS.— POEMS. Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gle them sufficient thresbin , Spare them nae day. VI. Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty ; Forlapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall till thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But iika day. VII. Nae maTr by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion ; An' hing our fiddles, up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a dryin' ; Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep. An' owre the thairms be try in' ; Oh, rare 1 to see our elbucks wheep, An' a' like lamb-tails fly in' Fu' fast this day. VIII. Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. Has shored the kirk's undoin', As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; An' like a godly elect bairn He's waled us out a true ane, An' sound thi3 day. IX. Now R harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever ; • Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think jou clever ; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Cr to the Netherton repair, An' turn a carpet weaver Aff hand this day M and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons : An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, | . \Yi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast, this day. XL See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, She's swingin' through the city ; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There Learning, wi' his Greekish face. Grunts out some Latin ditty s An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. XIL But there's Morality himsel', Embracing a' opinions ; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peelin' onions ! Now there- they're packed aff to hell, XIII. happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter I Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter : VJ< , R , are the boys, That heresy can torture: They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, An' cowe her measure shorter By the head some day. XIV. Come bring the tither mutchkin in, An' here's for a conclusion, To every New Light* mother's son, From this time forth Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a spunk, an' every skin, We'll rin them aft' in fusion Like oil, some day. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR • On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver 2. "And they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall. ' ' Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf! An' should some Patron be so kind, Ashless you wi' a kirk, I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lover's raptured hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, every heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Stot ! Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And, in your lug, most reverer.d James, To hear you roar and rowte. Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. And when ye're numbered wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — ' Here lies a famous Bullock '. ' * New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenu- ously. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led the embattled Seraphim to war. Miiton. O thon ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, SataD, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed nnder hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches. Hear me, auld Haugie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be ; I'm sure sma' pleasure it cangie, E'eu toade'il, To skelp a Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; Far kend and noted is thy name : An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far ; An' faith '. thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin Tirling the kirks ; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens you like to stray ; Or where auld ruined castles gray, Ye fright the nightly v When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklenlin' light, Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, Ayont the lough ; Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi* waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quuick— qu&ick- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings. Let Warlocks grim, an' wiiher'd hags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; For oh ! the vellow treasure's ta'en By witching skill ; Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord» An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' nighted Trav'llers are allured To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies, Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; The bleezin', cursed, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Masons' mystic word an' grip. In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun utop, Or, strange to tell ! The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell J lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird In shady bower : Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' played on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'.') An' gied the infant world a shog. 'Maist ruined a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang belter folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke. An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs and blotches did him gal), Wi' bitter claw, An* Iowsed his ill-tongued wicked scawl, Was warst ava ? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that'day Michael* did you pierce, Down to this time. Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose cr rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I kei ye're thhsfcifi' A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin', To your black pit j * Vide Milton, book vi. BURNS.- POEMS. But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! O wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 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 POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOirRNFU' TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether. Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsled in the ditch; There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoj* he camedoytin by. Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : He saw her davs were near-hand ended, But wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! He gaped wide, but naething spak ! At length poor Mailie silence brak : 4 O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear ihem to my Master dear. « Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will : So may his flock increase and 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 fit 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 gate3 Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I To slink through 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 : ' My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, bid him breed him up wi' care '. An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some having in his breast, An' warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi yowes at hame ; An' no to rin an' wear his clools, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. - « An' neist rrty yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string 1 O' may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit moorlani 1 . toop ; But aye keep mind to moop an' in ell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! « An' now, mj bairns, wi' my last breath, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither. POOR MAILTE'S ELEGY. Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' »aut 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 Mai lie '3 dead ! 's no the loss o' warl's gear. That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or niak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Maiiie dead. Thro' a' the town she trotted by him' A lang half-mile she could descrv him ; ' Wi' kindly bleat when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, la..ely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie 's dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread ; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. ^ A neebor herd-callan. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed ! A bonnier fleesh ue er cross'd the clips Thau Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape I It maks guid fellows eirn au' gape, Wi' chokln' dread ; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For 31 ail: e dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! An* wha on Ajr your chanters tune ! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed I Ills heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. TO J. SYME. Friendship ! mysteriou: Sweel'ner of life, and & 1 o.Te thee much I .Blair. Dear Syme, the sleest, paukie thief, 'i bat e'er attemptea stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts ; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. every , I swear by sun an' moon, :ar that b.tiiks aboon, ue twenty pair o' shoon, Just gaun to se ry ither pair that's done, Mail taeu I'm you: That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To msik amends far scrimp:: stature, Sue's turu'd you aff, a human creature i)a her first plau, And in her freaks, on every feature, She's wrote, tbe Man. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, " .y u^nuie noddle's working prime, tUj fancy yerkit up su'jlime V\ i' hasty summon ; iiae ye a leisure moment's time To hear what's coxiu' ? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; Some rhwue (vain thought !) for needru' cash, Suiue rhyme to court the country clash, An' raise a din ; 1- Jr me an aim I never fash; 1 rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, I ! is fated me the russet coat, _^' damned my fortune to the groat : But iu requit, Ui5 bless'd me wi' a random shot O' cjuutra wit. But stUl the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries * Hoolie ! I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Ye'il shaw your folly. ' There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought ihey had insured their debtors, A' future ages ; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages. • Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thraug, An' teach the laneiy 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 twk' 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 anee that rive-an'-forty's speel'd. See crazy, weary, joyless eild, " Wi* wrinkled fiice, Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, Wi' creep'ui' pace. When anee life's day draws near tl gloamin', Then furewell vacant careless roansin* ! An' farewell cheerfu' tankards foamin', O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at the expected warning To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the .leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swat, They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain 5 BURNS — POEMS. With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; Keen hope does every sinew brace : Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey : Then cannie in some cozie place, They close the day. An' others, like your humble servan'. Poor wights ! nae rules or roads observin' : To r)ght oe left, eternal swervin\ They zig-zag on ; Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starviu', They aften groau. Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— But truce with peevish poor complaining! Is Fortuue's iickle Luna, waning ? E'en It! her gang, Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, « Ye Pow'rs ! ' and warm implo * Tho' I should wander terra o'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o' rhymes. • Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards : Gie line braw claes to fine life-guards, An' inaids of honour : An* yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. * A title, Dempster merits it ; A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent per cent ; But gi'e me real, sterling wit, An' I'm content. • While ye are pleased to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be"t water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face, To say the grace. An anx'ous Behint my lu i my lug, or by my beneath misforti Ijouk Sworn foe to s :l's I may : - ..', care, an' prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless blooded, calm and cool, Compared wi' you— O fool '. fool ! fool ! „ , How much unlike I lour hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Nae hair-brained sentimental traces In your unlettered nameless faces ; In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, Hut gravinimei solemn basses Yc hum a\vay. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise» Nap ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin' squad: I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road — Whilst I_but I shall haud me there— Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. [On reading, in the public papers, the Lau- reate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] :o your rv birth day y< a J eStj ! - Guid mo: May h. A humble poet wishes My hardship here at youi On sic a day as this is, ■s sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang the birth-day ' r levee, rin-aay dresses Sae fine this day. II. see ye're complimented thrang, By raony a lord an' lady, God save the King' 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye ; The poets, too, a venal gan°-, Wi' rhymes weel turned an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, merring steady, On sic a day. • But aye For me ! before a III. onarch's face, i^vcn mere 1 wmna flatter; or neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor : le nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's inome vvaur been o' the race, An' aiblins ane been be:ter Than you this day. IV. lis very true, my sov'reign king, My skill may well be doubted : But facts are chiels that wil 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 ue day. a ding DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. V. For be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or 6re, To rule this mighty nation ! But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. VI. An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister ; Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture X' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges ; But God sake ! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, rey Liege ! may freedom geek Beneath your high protection ; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, An' gie her for dissection ! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth -day. IX. Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! WTiile nobles strive to please ye Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies ye ! Thae bonnie baimtime, Heav'n has lent Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate seme day ib sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell yo'ur Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi 1 swellirg s I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brack Diana's praes, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. 1 There, him* at Agincourt wha sh *<■(■> Few better were or braver ; I And yet wi' funny queer Sir Job.D,f He was an unco shaver For monie a day. XII. i For you, right rev'rend Osnabrug, ' Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, I Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, 'Ih»n, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, Or trouth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her ; A glorious galleyt stem an' stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then. heave aboard your gTapple aim, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n make you guid as weel as bra An' gie you lads a-plenfy : But sneer nae British boys awa', For kings are unco scant aye ; An' German gentles are but sma>, They're better just than want aye On onie day. God bless vou a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro' It may be bitter sautet; An' I hae seen their coggie feu, That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST. § sun had closed the winter day, curlers quat their roaring play, hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, ile faithless snaws ilk step be'.ray Whare she has been. XI. So. ye may dousely fill a throne, * King Henry V. f Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspeare. ± Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. § Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath. Loda r vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation. BURNS POEMS. And whan the day had closed his e There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and e'ed the spewing reek, That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin' ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin'. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mused on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae-thing, But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account ; While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-scrkit, I started, mutt 'ring, blockhead ! coof ! And heaved on high my waukit loof, To swear by a' yon starry roof, Or some rash aith. That I, henceforth, -would be rbyme-proof Till my last breath— When click ! the string the sneck did draw An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ) An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin' bright, A tight outlandish Hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht! The infant aith half-form't was crush't J I glowr'd as eerie 's I'd been dusbt In some wild glen ; When sweet like modest worth, she blush't, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs, Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token : An' come to stop those reckless tows, 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 fiow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else cam near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw A lustre grand ; And seem'd to my astonish 'd view, A well-known laud. Here, rivers :n the sea were lost ; There, mountains to the skies were tost : Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam ; There, distant shone Art's lofty toast, The lordly dome. [ere Doon pcur'd down his far-fetch'c floods ; re, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore ; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, In ancient borough rear'd her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race, To every ncbler virtue bred, And polish 'd grace. By stately tower or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With feature stern. Mv heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race * heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dyed steel In sturdy blows ; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their southron foes. His Country's saviour,* mark him well ! Bold Richardton's + heroic swell; The chief on Sark §' who glorious fell, In high command ; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptred Pictish shade || Stalk 'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray'd In colours strong ; Bold, eoMier-featured, undismay'd They strode along. * The Wallaces. f William Wallace. $ Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to he immortal preserver of Scottish indepen- dence. Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought, anno 1448. That glorious vic- tory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. (J Coilus king of the Picts, from whom the listrict of Kyle is said to take its name, lies niried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown. f Barskiir.ming, the seal of the late Lord Justice-CUjfc. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. (Fit haunts for friendship or for love In musing mood,) An aged judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good. With deep-struck reverential awe,* The learned sire and son I saw, To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, This, all its source and end to draw, That to adore. Brydon's hrave 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. DUAK SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair, A whispering 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 ! No longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low I come to give thee such reward Aa we bestow. ' Know, the great genius of this land Has many a li^ht, aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart : Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art. Or, 'mid the venal s To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand. •And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetic rage « Hence Fullarton the brave and young j Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His "Minstrel lays ;" * Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professtr Stewart. j Colonel Fullarton. • To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, The Artisan ; All choose, as various they're in The various man. 1 When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; Some teach to meliorate the pla ; n, With tillage skill : And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o'er the hill. * Some hint the lover's harmless wile : Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; Some soothe the laborer's weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Seme, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, ™" nark the embryotic trace Of rustic Bard; And careful note each op'ning grace, A guide and guard. ' Of these am I— Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. Held ruling pow'r, I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. ' With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond on thy little early ways, Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lays Of other times. [ saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. « Or when the deep-green mantled earth Warm cherish 'd ev'ry flow 'ret 's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. ■ WTien ripen 'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, v thee leave their evening joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. Vhen youthful love warm blushing strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, g-ht thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flams. BURNS — POEMS. * I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, By Passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven. •I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loved, (he ways of simple swains, Till now o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the pride of L'oila's plains, Become thy friends. ' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone's art ; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. • Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows : Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. « Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; And trust me, not Potosi's mine. Nor kings' regard , Can give a bliss o'ermatchiug thine, A rustic Bard. ' To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect ; And trust the Universal Plan Will all protect. ' And wear thou this,' — she solemn said. And bound the holly round my head ; The polished leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither : The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight ^ May hue some pyles o' caff in ; a fellow-creature slight O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebour's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, Supply 'd Wi ' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter. II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's dcc-r For glaikit Folly's portals : I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistake^ Their failings and mischances. III. Ye see your state -wi' theirs compared. And shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard. What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave} Your better art o ' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convuNe, 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 giowr Debauchery and drinking: O would they stay to calculate, Th' eternal consequences ! Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses ! VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear ioved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination But let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brothpr man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kermiu wrang, To step as.de is human; One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring— its various bias • Then at the balance let's be mute, We never ean adjust it ; DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Dei] ! Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? Or R i again grown weel To preach an* read ! ' Na, waur than a' ! ' cries ilka chiel, 4 Tain Samson 's dead ! ' Kilmarnock lang n ;:.t a grane, Aa' deed her bairns, man, wife, and we In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tarn Samson's dead ! The brethren of the mystic level. May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revej, Like ony bead ! Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tarn Samson's dead. "When winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock ; When to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed ; Wha will they station at the cock ? Tam Samson's deu.d ! He was the king o' a' the cere, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar, Bat now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately s And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kenn'd for souple.tail, And gleds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead .' Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' : Ye cootie moorcocks crousely craw ; Y r e maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw, Witbouten dread ; Your mortal fae is now awa', Tam Samson's dead ! * When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, ' the last of his fields J ' and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint, the author com- posed his elegy and epitaph. f A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, Stanza II. % Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, Stanza IX. While pointers round impatient bnrn'd Frae couples freed ! ? VrrP.„r„'d! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the turns came down like waters An acre braid ! Now every auld wifegreetin', clatters, Tam Samson 's dead ! Owre mony a weary hag he limpit An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit Wi ' deadly feid ; Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi ' weel-aim'd heed : ' L - d, five ! ' he cried, an' owre did stagger ', Tam Samson's dead! Ek hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has writ, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson 's dead ! There low he lies, in lasting rest : Perhaps upon his mould 'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed ; Alas ! nae mair he '11 them molest ! Tam Samson's dead. When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his niem'ry crave O pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead ! Heaven rest his saul, whare'er he be ! Is the wish o ' meny mae than me : He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man, want we ; Tam Samson's dead '. THE EriTAPH. Tam Samson's weel- worn clay here lies, Y r e canting zealots, spare him I ' hones: worth in heaven rise, Ye '11 mend or ye won near him. PER CONTRA. 1 --"..:= % - ^' w=~ c>^^^y~: M -^#ST '■■■ " I BURNS POEMS. For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gull Tarn Samson's livin'. HALLOWEEN. * [The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the man- ners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea. santry in the West of Scotland. The pas- sion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.] Yes ! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. I. Jpon that night, when fairies light, On Cassilis Downans + dance, Or owre the lays, hi splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Colean the route is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams '. There up the cove j; to stray an' rove Amang the rocks and streams, To sport that night, II. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimp) in', clear, Where Bruce § ance ruled the martial ranks, An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendiy, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, au' pou their stocks, An' baud their Halloween Fu' blithe that night. * Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands ; particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anni- •f- Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. | A noted cavern near Colean-house called The Cove of Colean; which, as Cassilis Dow- nans, is fumed in country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. § The famous family of that name, the an- cestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, wore Earls of Carrick. III. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when their tine ; Their faces blithe, fa' sweetly kythe Hearts leal, an' warm, aa' kin' ; The ladssae trig, \vi' wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an* some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearls gang startin' Whyles fast at night, IV. Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their stocks \\ maun a' be sought ance They steek their een, an* graip an' wale, For muckle anes and straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell afF the drift, An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, An* pou't, for want o' better shift, A ruut was like a sow-tail, Saebow't that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; The very wee things todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An* gif the custoc 's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi* caimie care, they've placed them To lie that nignt. VI. The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' To pou their stalks o corn j*J But Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn ; He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl 'd a' the lasses ; But her top-pickle maist was lost, When kiuttlin* in the fause-house** Wi' him that night. E || The first ceremony of Halloween, is pull- ing each a stock, or plant of kail. They uiust go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the 6ize and shape of the grand object of all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird or earth stick to the root, that is tocher, or for- tune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and the Christian names! of the peo- ple whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in que-tion. ^i They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage bed any thing but a maid. ** When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by- means of old timber, &c. makes a large apart- ment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind; this he calls a fause-house. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. VIL The auld gu id wife's weel-hoordet nits'* Are round an' round divided, And monie lads and lasses' fates, Are there that night decided : Some kindle couthy, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly : Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, An' jump out owre the chitnlie Fu' high that night. Till. Jean slips in twa wi' tentle e'e ; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel' : He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, As they wad never niair part ; Till fuff ! he started up the lum, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that n ; ght. IX. Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi ' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compared to Willie ; Wall's nit lap cut wi' pridefu' fling, An' her ain fit it brunt it ; While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, "f was just the way he wanted To be that night. Nell had the fause-house in her mia % She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join. Till white in ase they're sobbin' : Nell's heart was danciri' at the view, She whisper'd Rob to look for't: Rob, stowlins prie'd her bonny mou, Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night. XL But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel': She thro" the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then. An' darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue cluer throws then, Right fear't that n hr. * Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the tire, and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. + Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the old one: and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread, demand Wha h'auds ? i. a. who holds ? an an- swer will be returned from the kilu-pot, by naming the Christian and sirname of your fu- ture spouse. XII. An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin'; Till something held within the pat, Guid L — d J 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 talk in' To spier that night. XIII. Wee Jenny to her graunie says, " Willyegowi'iiegraunie? I'll eat the applei at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnie :" She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She noticet na, an aizle brunt Her braw xrv. " Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportiu', As seek the foul Thief ony place. For him to spae your fortuue ! Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ; Great cause ye hae to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' lived an' died deleeret On sic a night. XT. •* 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 : The simmer had been cauld an' wat, An' stuff w An ' aye a ' I'justo egat, XYL " Our stibble rig was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fellow ; He's sin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That lived in Achmacalla : He gat hemp seed, § I mind it weel, An' he made unco light o't ; ± Take a candle, and go alone to a looking- jlass ; eat au apple before it, and some tradl- ions say, you should comb your hair all the ime ; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over our shoulder. § Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful f hemp-seed ; harrowing it with any thing you an conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, < Hemp-seed I saw thee; hemp-seed I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee. ' Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the atti- tude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, « come after me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself: in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, * come after me, and harrow thee. ' BURNS. -POEMS. 187 Bnt monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera night." XYII. Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swoor by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; For it was a' but nonsense ! The auld guid-man raught down the pock, An' out a handfu' gied bim ; Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see'd him, An' try't that night. XVIII. He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin, The graip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin : An' every now an' then be says, " Hemp-seed I saw thee, An' ber that is to be my lass, Come after me, and draw thee, As fast this night. " He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his. courage cheery ; Altho' his haif began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie : Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle ; He by his shoulder gae a keek, An' tumbled wi' a wintle, Out owre that night. XX. He roar'd a horrid murder shout, In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, To hear the sad narration : He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or crouehie .Verran Huraphie, Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; An' wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night 1 XXI. Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, To win three wechts o' naetliing ;+ But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in : * This charm must likewise be performed enperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear, may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, vse call a -wecht, nnd go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an apparition will pass thrcueh the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the em- ploy lr.ent or station ic life. She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red-cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets- Lu hopes to see Tam Kipples That vera night. xx n. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca\ Syne bauldly in she enters; A ratton ratt!ed up the wa', An' she cried, L — d preserve her ! An' ran thro' midden^hole an' a' . An' pra) 'd wi' zeal an' fervour Fu' fast that night. XXIII. They hoy't cut Will, wi' sair advice ; Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice f Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; He taks a. swirlie aald moss-oak, For some black, gruesome carlin ; An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, Till tkin in blypos cam haurlin Aff's uieves that night. XXIY. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlen: But Och ! that night amang the shawsj She got a fearfu' settlin' ! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin',. Where three lairds' lauds met at a burn, t To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that nisht. XXV. Whyles ower a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't : Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; ~\\ hyles in a wiel it dhnpl't : Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. XXVL Amacg the brackens, on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an' gae a croon ; t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stajk, and fathom it three tijne3 round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your conjugal yoke-fellow. i You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivu- let, where ' three lairds' lands meet, ' and dip your left shirt sieeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the gracd object in question, -will come and turn the sleeve as :f to dry the other side of it. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; XXVII. la order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three * are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed ; Auld uncle John, wha wedlock'3 joys Sin Mar*6-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, He heaved them on the fire, In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they didna weary ; An' unco tales, and funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery : Till butter 'd so'ns,)- wi' fragrant luut, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' arunt. They parted aff careerin' Fu' blythe that night. AULD FARMER'S NEW- YEAR MORNIKG SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIEj A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie S Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit now an'knaggie, I've seen the day, Thou could hae gaen like onie staggia Out owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, An* thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, A bonnie gray : He should been tight that daur't to raize thee Ance in a day. * 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 dish, it foretells with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. + Sowens, with butter instead of milk in them, is always the Halloween. Supper. 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 jear Sin' thou was my guid father's meere j He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An ' fifty mark ; Tho' it wa3 sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie ; Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, Au unco sonsie. That day, ye pranced wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air ! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow hut hoyte an' hobble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day ye was a jiuker noble. For heels an' win' ! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin'. When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road ! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was com't, an' I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow : At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed ; But every tail thou pay't them hallow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try 'l their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle : Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie Ian', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; Aft thee an* I, in aught hours' gaun, On guid March weather, Hae turned sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, an* fetch't, an' fliskit. But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-filled brisket, Wi' pith an'pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, An' slypet owre. hen frosts lay lang, an* snaws were deep. An' threalen'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timnier : I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep For that, or sunnier. BURNS — POEMS. Tn cart or car thou never reestlt ; The stevest brae thou wad hae fac't it : Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, Then stood toblaw; But, just thy step a wee thin? hastit, Thou snoov't awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a.' : Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; Forbje 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 jet. And think na, my anld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin', An' thy auld days mcy end in starvin', For my last fou, 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; Wi' tentie care I'll Hit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. TO A MOUSE, Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie O what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na' start awa sae hastv, Wi' murd'ring pattle ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An* justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-lorn companion An' fellow- mortal ! I doubt na, whjles, tut thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker ir. a thrave 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! O' foggage gree'i ! An' bleak December's winds ensnin', Baith snell and keen ! Thot saw the fields laid bare an' waste, Aa' wiRrj winter coimn' fast, An' cozie here beneath the blast; Thou thought to dwell, Till crash i 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 turned out, fora' thy trouble, But house or bald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld . But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresignt may be vain : The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy. Still thou art blest, compared wi ' me ! The present only toucheth'tbee : But Och ! I backward cast my e'e On prospects dear . An' forward, though I canna see, I guess an' fear. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm J How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these ? — Shakspeare. When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r; When Phcebus gi'es a short-lived glow'r 1 Far south the lift, Dim-darkening through the flakv show'r Or whirling drift : i Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, , Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked Wild-eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, [ thought me on the ourie cattle. Or silly sheep, wha bide ibis brattle 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 ? Even you on murd'ring errands toiled, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled My heart forgets, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Now Phebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary 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, smothering snows ; Not all your rage, as now, united, shows More hard uukindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumin'd man oa brother man bestows ! See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand. Sending, like blood-bounds 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 wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly u 3 e thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow, The powers ye 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 squal.d She strains your infant to her joyless 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 ; Hi-satisfied keec Nature's clamorous callj Stretch'd oa his sttaw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ruggad roof> and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch already crushed low By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? Affliction's sous are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite tb.a bliss ! * But deep this truth impressed my mind — Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BKOTHER POET.* I. January - While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving suaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In namely westlan' jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift Ben to the chimlalug, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, That live sae bein and snug : I tent less, and want less Their roomy fireside ; But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shared ; How best o' chiels are whyles in want, coofs on countless thousands rant, e ho ■-, u your h But, Davie Tho' we has little gen . We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier : ' Mair spier na, nor fear iia',f Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The lasto't, the warst o't, is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are crazed and bluid is thin, 1 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 heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ha', Has aye some cause to smile ; And mind still you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' .- Nae mair then, we'll care tlien, Nae farther can we fa' IV. What though like commoners of air We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall ? * David Siilar, one of theclub at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems in the Scot- tish dialect. •f- Ranua;. BURNS.— POEMS. Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear. With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year. On braes when we nlease, then, We'll sit and sowih a tune; Syae rhyme till't, we'll time till t, And slng't when we hae done. titles r, ronk; ,. .._j.ith like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in making muckle mair : It's no in books ; it's no in kar, 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 pleasures Could mak us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye, That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha 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 hardly 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 heaven or hell Esteeming and deeming . It's a' an idle tale I VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; Nor make our scanty pleasures less. By pining at our state ; And, even should misfortunes come, I here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth ; They let us ken ourssl' ; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ve'll get there, Ye '11 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 pleasures o' the heart, The lover an ' the frien ' ; Ye have your Meg, your dearest part, .And I my darling Jean ! It warms me, it charms me ; To mention but her name ; It heats me, it beats me, It sets me a' on flame 1 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 my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent prayer ; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care I X. 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 number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you ! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebiific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean. XI. O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin' rank an' file§ Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phffi'uus and the famous Nine Were glow'rin owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, Till ance he's fairly het ; And then he'll hitch, 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, Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe Home. O thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and ween ! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; And mourn in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. IL 192 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. I joyless view thy trembling horn Reflected in tile gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! Ah ! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace I III. No idly feign'd poetic pains, My sad. love-lorn lamentiugs claim : No shepherd's pipe— Arcadian strains ; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame; The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; The oft-attested Powers above ; The promised Father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love J IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptured moments flown * IIow have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, For her dear sake and hers alone ! And must I think it ? is she gone, My 6ecret heart's exulting boast ! And does she heedless hear my groau ! And is she ever, ever lost ! V. Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth ! Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! "Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ! Her sorrows share, and make them less ? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptured more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasured thoughts employ 'd. That breast how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroyed, And not a wish to gild the gloom ! VII. The morn that warns the approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and wee : I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and mp.ny a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phcebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. VIII. And when my nightly couch I try, Sore harass 'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if 1 slumber,"fancy, chief, Reigns haggard wild, in sore affright ; Ev'n day, all better, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. IX. O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, withboundless sway ; Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observed us fondly wand 'ring, stray : The time, unheeded, sped away. While love's luxurious pulse' beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming rar, To mark the mutual kindling eye. oh: x. scenes in strong remembrance set Scenes, never, never, to return J Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn ! From every joy and pleasure torn, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. DESPONDENCY: AW ODE. I. Oppress'd with grief, oppress 'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, 1 sit me down and sigh : O life 2 thou art a galling loud, Along a rough, a weary road, retcLe :ch I! Dim backward as I cast n._, .„ What sick'ning scenes appear ! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' Too justly I may fear ! Stiil caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom ; My woes here, shall close ne'er, Bat with the closing tomb 1 II. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon 'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same; You,, bustling, andjustling, Forget each grief and pain : Find ev'ry prospect vain. III. Kow blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, Whhin his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling reefs, Sit* o'er his aewly gather'd frails, Beside his crystal well ! Or haply, to bis ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint -collected dream ; While praising, and raising His thong hts to heaven on high, As wand'rhig, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky. IV. Than I, no lonely hermit placed Where never human footstep traced, Less fit to play the pari ; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting ar; ; BURNS. —P02AIS. But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or bale, Whilst I here must cry here, At perfidy ingrate! V. Oh t enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasui To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchanged for riper times To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others or my own : Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know tne ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active men engage I The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age! WINTER. A DIHOB. The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does bl.iu ! Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw : While tumbling brown, the burn comes d< And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless da). II. •« Tb« sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,' The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of iVlaj : The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My gnefs it seems to join, The leafless trees my fancy please. Their fate resembles mine I III. Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine 1'oltil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are thy will » Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. * Dr Yo«D£. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short but simple annals of the poor. Gray. My loved, my honour 'd, much respected No mercenary bard his homage pays; With hone=t pride I scorn each seltish end: Wj dearest meed, a friend's esteem ana praise : To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd The native feelings 6trong, the guileles* What Aitken in a cottage would have n. November chill blaws loud wi* angry sough ; The short'ning winter day is near a The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and hi* Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And weary, o'er the moor, his course doe* hameward bend. III. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee things, toddliu, stacher thro' To meet their dad, wi* ilichteriu' noise a.. » glee. His wee bit ingle, Minkin' bonr.ily. His clean hearlh-stane, his thriitie wifie'* The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labours an' his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drappir.g in. At service out amang the farmers roun* ; Some cn f the pleugh, some herd, some ten- 1 youthfu' bloom, love spurUin' in htr DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Comes harce, perhaps, (o show a bra' new on Denny fee. i -£'£, :zz::\;ii An' The =:: L. L:-r ; , *■«:: Bed ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears J The parents, partii!, eye their hopeful A..: ; •_ i'Joa forward points the v'ew ; The mother, wi' her needle an . .::: '.. :^ z:.'.L ;\ ;• ■• a.'i --. The father mixes a TLeLr master's ri* admonition due. TL Aud mind their labours *;' an ejde And ne'er, tho' oct o' sight, lo jauk or fdaji ' A:.' C : Li = -f :: :-. : z; L:n -.- ;;• I An' mind your doiy, duly, morn aa" night! Li=: ::■. ■..—.: i: ::.'. 71... ;. r::.; liiri - . ;...:_: -■--..: j r_: : The j r.=ver = .. -J-: ;„ ._; _:....._: _. L.r_ ■f ghl ! ' VII, I ;•. '.::_-'.: : - r;; :: - t. r;: Jenny, wha tens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neehor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her fa IM. Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; YV. '_._:.-... .'.. -.jz.::. : . ;;-. ::_:. ; _. "While Jenny rtsfl*»rre is afraid to speak ; Wed pleas'd ihemc Ihei hews it's me irfld worthless rake. nty gees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pieughs, and kve. joy. , scarce can weel But blate and laithfu 1 bdfaacn ; The mother wi* a woman's wiles can jpy "What makes the youth sae bashfd aa* sae grave ; ffed pieaVd :: dual be* ball -.'. respeeh 1 1 be the late. IX. O happy lore ! where lore like this is found ! O heart-felt raprares I b'iss beyond com- I've paced much this weary mortal r And sage experience bids'tne this th ' If Heaven a draught ef heavenly pleasure One Bonlial ■ due ~i'.-.z:'z'.j niaj Tis when a youthful loving re; _ et la ether's arms breathe out the tender Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — A w retch 1 a villain ! lost to lore and troth! That can.wilh studied, sir, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting ycusii? Curse on his pe.jured arts! dissembling Are honour, virtue, conscience L, there no pity, no reienticg ruth, !-:.„■- •; :_= ._:;_:. :;-_.._; : '-■ :L- : child .' Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- traction wild ? XT. Bat now the supper crown. the halesoa - paui l rk , dual c' Scotia's food: I_t ;: • ::..-'.: ii ' - - ... : : .; if '. : : That yont the haiian snugly chows h.r eood: The dame brings forth in complimeutai To grace the lad, her weel-haia'd faeb- Luck fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, wiU tell. How 'twas a tonoad au-a, s.n' lint was P i_e .-... XII. The cheerfu* supper done, wi* serious face, They, round "the ing'.e, form a circle wide; - The big ha'-Bu-ie, ance his father's His bounet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart hafiets wearing thi:. ] - e rubs thai : f* aa sweet in Z.c.-i He wales a portion •with judicious eare ; s worship God!' he says, with solemn air. xm. They ehant their artles3 Botes "euUe ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest Perhaps Dundee's wiid warbling measure; Or plain) -by of the Ct noble I heav'u-ward flame, . ; est far of Scotia's holy lays ; Compared with these, Italian trilb are BURxN'S POEMS. The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads th« sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lis Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tunc the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a laud: How he, who lone in Paimos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. The saint, the father, and the husbai prays : Hope « springs exulting on triumphant That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, IVo more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together bymning iheir Creator's praUe, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except 'he heart ! The Pow'r incensed the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apait, May hear, well-pleased, the language of And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. xviir. Then homeward all lake off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest, The parent pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heav'n the warm re- That He who stills the raven's clam'rous And decks the lily fair in flow 'ry pride, * Pope's Windsor Forest. 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 work of God!" Andcertes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottajre leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's poiup ! a cumb'rous Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, iu wickedness refined I XX. O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil, For whom my warmest wish to Heaven live* Then, howe'er crowns and coroutis be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much- loved Isle. XXL Thou ! who pour'd (he patriotic tide, That stream 'd thro' Wallace's undaunted Who dared to nob'y stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, iuspirer, guardian, and re- ward ! ) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A riRGB. I. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man, whose aged step Seem'd wtary, worn with care; His face \sas furrow 'd o'er with years, And hoary was hisltair. II. Yonng 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 care, and wees, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man ! DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. I1L The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty iordling's pride ; I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return ; And ev'ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. IV. O man ! white in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Mispending all thy precious hours; Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force give Nature's 1( That man was made tc 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 on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd p 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 man was made to mourn. VII. Many and sharp the num'rous ills, Inwoven with our frame '. More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man, Makes countless thousands mourn ! VIII. See yonder poor, o'eriaboured wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earlh To give him leave to loil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn IX. If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- By Nature's law design 'd, W hy wi§ an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? ' why am I subject io His ruelty o rhis 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 J xr. O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend* The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs re laid with thee at rest. The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure torn ; But Oh ! a blest relief to those That weary-ladeu, mourn S A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O thou unknown Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! [n whose dread presence, ere an he Perhaps I must appear ! [f I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun: As something loudly, in mj breast, Remonstrates I have done ; Thou know'st that Thou hast formed m« With passions wild and strong; And listening to their witching voice. Where human weakness has come Or frailty stept aside, Do thou Ail Good '. for such thou a In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention 1 have err'd, ! No other plea I have, Hut Thou art good ; and goodness still Del ghteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I lo.ith to leave this earthly Have I so found it full of pleasing Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin.- avenging rod. BURNS.- POEMS. Fain would I say, • Forgive my foul of- fence 1' Fain promise never more to disobey ; Bui, should my Author health again dis- Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in foily's path might go astray ; Again exalt the bruie and sink the man ; Then how should 1 for heavenly mercy pray, Mho act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who tin so oft have mourned, yet to tempta- tion 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 Those headlong furious passions to Fcr all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their lorrent in th' allowed line ; O aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine! TillZ 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, Aid firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in gnilt Shall to the ground be cast. And like the rootless stubble, toss'd Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that Cod the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and res!, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LQT THE FOLLOWING IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT- Thou Great Being ! what thou art O Thou dread Pow'r who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When from this scene of peace and love, J malce my prayer sincere. 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 ! Thy creature here before thee stands All wretched and distrest ; 5fet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, A'migbty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! free raj weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast iu death ! But if I must afflicted be. Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love aud truth, Up to a parent's wish I The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps alway I VL When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heav'n ! THE FIRST SLX 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 heaved their heads Beneath thy forming hand. Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command; DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Those mighty periods of years, WhiclTseem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight, Than yesterday that's pasC Tbou gav'st the word : Thy creature. Is to existence brought : Again thou sny'st, • Ye sons of men, "Return ye into nought ! ' Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r. In beauty 's pride array 'd ; Bat long ere night, cut down, it lies Ail wither'd and decay'd. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour : For I maun crush amang the stoare Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebour sweet, The bonny Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mar.g the dewy weet Wi* spreckVd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north, L r pon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender Gnu The flaunting flow 'rs onr gardens yield. High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield But thou beneath the random bield There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies t Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade I By lcve's simplicity betray 'd. And guileless trust, rill she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Lew i* fhe'dogt Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales b'.ow hard And whelm him o'er i Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has sirii By human pride or cunning driven Even then who mourn 'st the Daisy \ fa That fate i? thine— no distant date: Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush' J beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! All hail I inexorable lord ! At whose destruc-.ion-breathir.g word. The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, wee-ceiighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stern-reso'.v'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then lew'ring and pouring, The storm no mere I dread ; Tho* thick'ning and blaek'ning, Round my devoted head. IT. And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can aScrd, Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : No more I shrink appall'd, afraid j I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joy '-ess day ; Mj a eary heart its throbbings cease, Cold monld'ring in the clay ; ' To stain mi lifeless (ace 5 Again the silent wheels of time, Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, BURNS. -POEMS. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charged, perhaps, too true ; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY ,1786 I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end 'lhan just a kind memento ; But how the subject theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon. II. Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye ; For care and trouble set your thought, E'en when your end's attained; An a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. III. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; The real, harden 'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked : But och, mankind are unco weak, An ' little to be trusted ; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted. IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. Their fate we should na censure, For stiil the important end of life They equally may answer. A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him j A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free aff han' your story tell, When wi' a boscm crony ; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye eaa *"* critical dissectio- - But keek thro' every other man, Wi* sharpen 'd sly inspection. VL The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it ; But never tempt th* illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it : I wave the quantum o' the sin. The hazard of concealing ; But och I it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling ! VII. And gather gear by ev»ry wile. That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant ; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To baud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip. Let that aye be your border ; Its slightest touches, instant pause — Debar a' side pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere. Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev 'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to rang*, Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity ofiended ! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded! Cr, if she gie a random sting, It may he little minded : But when on life we're tempest driven, A conscience but a canker — A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven, Is sure a noble anchor. XI. youi' brow undauntiug I In ploughman phrase, « God send you cpeea, ' Still ^aily to grow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser I ON A SCOTCH BARD GOXE TO THE WEST INDIES- A* ye wha live by soups o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come mourn wi' me ! Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament h'm, a' ye ranlin' core, W 7 ha dearly like a random splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key ; For now he's ta'en anither shore, An' owre the sea. The bonnie lassies weel may miss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' mav bless htm, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wut they'll sairly misshinfu That's own the MS. 200 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. O Fortcce, they hae room to grumble ! a'eaiff some drowsy bummei, Ao nought but fyke an* fumble, ~'Twad teen nae p'.ea ; But he was g'.eg as ony wamble, Tfcal e the s .:• t;e E\le may weepers wear, An' Btaia them wi' the saut, saut tear ; Twiii mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, He wis her laureate monie a year, Thai's owre "the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nore-wast La:.£ mustering up a bitter ( . A jiiiet brak' his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, tooi a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremlle und^r Fortune's cnmaiock, Oa scarce a beilyfu' o" drommock, -roud independent stomach Could iU agree ; So row't his hurdies in a hammock, Aa' owre the sea. He ne'er was gi'en to great ■ Y:. .:. Us pouches wad na bidein : il Lc'c; was under hiding; He dealt it fin : The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him wee!, An* hap him in a cozie biel ; Yell liud hiai aye a dainty chiel. And fu' •»' glee : He wacua WTang'd the Tera deil, That's owre the tea. Fare wee', mv rhyme-corn-,:; Your native sofi was right ill willie ; But may >e boorish like a lily, H l i.^LLnihe ; 11! toast re ia my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TC A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race, Awor them a' ye tak your place, ripe, or thatr Wee! are ye word\ of a grace As lang's my arm. The eroanins trencher there ye fill, Y'our hurdies hke a distant hill, Tou pin wad heh> to menc i In time o' need. While thro' your pores the dews distil Like am Iter bead. Trenchii-g your gushing entrails bright. Like ouie ditch ; Aad then, what a glorious sight, Warm-r#ekin, ri«h ! Then horn for horn they stretch an* strive? Deil tak the h'ndmost, ca tbev drive, Are bent like drums : Then auld guidman, roaist like to r»\e, ' ■ it hams ; Is there that o'er bis French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew, Wi' perfect sconner. Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, On sic a dinner ? Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, *s feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle-shank a guid whip lash, Bnt mark the rustic, hagsis-fed, The. trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissk ; An* legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrusle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your cars. And dish ihem out the r biil o* fare, Au._ Scotland -rfar.ts nae -kicking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, Sir, in th : s narration, A fieechin, fleth'riu dedication, To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because >e're surnamed like his grace. Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I'm tired — and sae are je, Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu* lie, Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' thera mim Maun piease the great folk for a wamefu' j For me ! sae la ga I acndaa row, For, Lord be lhankit, I can plough ; And when I dmaa yoke a aaig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; Sae I stall .-a) , and that's nae flatt'rin *, It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him. Or eise, 1 fear some ill ane skelp him ; He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ve roan forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o* me) On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, He's just — nae better than he should bet BURNS — POEMS, WhuOi no his ain he winna tak it : "What ance he says he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, Till aft his goodness is abused ; And rascals wbyles lhat do him wrang, Ev'n that, he dees na mind it lang ; As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a* that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature l'e'll get the best o' moral works, Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Pouotaxi Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman iu word and deed, It's no thro' terror of damnation ; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, t&ou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Yain is bis hope, whose stay ai.d trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No— stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro a winnock frae a whore, But point the rake that (aks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the gruustane ; Ply every art o' legal thieving ; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spreai looves, an' lang, wry face ; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but yojr own ; 1*11 warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin t s of heresy and e And in thehre throws the sheath ; When Ruin with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies hin While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, Aud strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, aud heavier groans 5 Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me. My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — 1 had amaist said ever pray, But that's a word I need na say t For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm bairh dead-aweer, an* wretched ill o'l " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! Way K. 's far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till H s at least a dizen, Are frae her nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table. And seven braw fellows, 6tout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays. Shine on the evening o' his days : Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae inaif shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow I" I will n mg conclusion, But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are bless'd with Fortune's smiles and favours* I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. Your much indebted humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) That iroa-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances, I?y sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! While recollection's power is given, If„ in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear, Should recognize my master dear, If friendless low we meet together. Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brothwrt TO A LOUSE, Ha ! whare ye gann, ye crowlin* ferlle ? Your impudence protects you sairly : 1 canna say but ye struut rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye Ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. How dare you set your tit upon her, Sae tine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squatfle $ There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprat Wi' ither kindred, jurupin' cattle, In shoals and nations I Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Now haud you there, ye're out o' eight, Below the fatt'rils, suug an' tight t No, faith ye yet ! ye '11 no be right Till ye're got ou it, The rery tapmost tow 'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your noes c As plump and grey as oaie grozet ; for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, redsmeddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, Wa.d dress your drodduia 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecuat ; But Miss's fine Lunardie '. tie, How dare ye do't! O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makia', Thae winks and linger ends, I dread, Aren s uki : . O wad some power the giftie gie us, It wad frae tuonie a blunder free us, And foolish notion : What airs in cress an' gait wad iea'e And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and lowers^ Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in ihy honour'tl shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale j Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name* IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn '. Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy '. Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's" beauties on my fancy shin 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 veteran grey in arms, And mark'd with mauy a seamy scar : The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VL With awe-struck thought and pitying tear; - view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia'o kings of other years, Famed heroes, had their royal home. Mas ! how changed the times to come I Their royal name low in the dust ; Their hapless race wild wand'ring roam J Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just .' VIL Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. Whose ancestors in days or yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruined gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : E'en I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers Jed. VIII. Edina ! Scotia's darling seal ' All hail thy palaces and low'rs, Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! Frum marking wildly scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of A,)r I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD; APRIL 1st, 17S6. While briers an' woodbines budding green. An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, * * morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien', I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack, and weave ourstockiu' ; And there was muckle fun and jokin'. Ye need na doubt : ength we had a hearty yokin' At sang about. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased me best, That some kind husband had address 'd To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' tb* breast* A' to the life. BURNS — POEMS. I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, fir Roattie'a nnrlt V They tanld d Or Beattie's wark ?' twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spiert, 'lhen a* that ken't him, round declared He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae line. That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel*, Or witty catches, *Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith. Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, 'lho' rude an' rough. Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense. But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence. Yet, what the matter ? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, ' How can you e*er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, What'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 taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hanimers. A 6et 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 I Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! That's a' the learning I desire ; Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an* mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and sice, Qr bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I ean hit it ! Now, Sir, if ye hae friends er Tio' real friends, I b'lieve, are (et, if your catalogue be fou, I winna blaw about mysel ; As ill 1 like my faults to tell ; But friends, aud folk that wish me well, They sometimes roosa me, Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me At dance or fair : May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhyming ware Wi'aneanither. The four-gill ch^p, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart ; An, faith, we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa, ye selfish warly race, AVha thiuk tkat havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship should give place To catch the plack ! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom soc : al pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness wariiis. Who hold your being on the term Come to my bowl Each aid the olbers, , come to my arms, .My friends, my brothers ! But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my anld pen's worn to the grisslej Twa lines frae you wad sar me dssle, Who am most fervent While I can either sing, or whissle, Your friend and ser-a TO THE SAME. April 21, 1783. While new ca'd kye rout at the stake. An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, This hour on e'enin's edee I take. To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, F»r his kind fettor. ao-i DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Forjesket sair with weary legs, Ratilin' the corn out-owre the rig's, Or dealing thro' nmang the naigs Their ten hours' bite, My awkwart-muse sair pleads and begs, I would ua write. The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something iazv, Quo' she, • Ye ken ye've been sae busy Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; • Conscience, ' says I, * ye thowles.3 jad '. I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank ban*. But lordly stalks, While caps an' bonnets aft" are taen, As by he walks : ' Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. Then turn me if Thou please adrift Thro' Scotland wide ; Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift, In a' their pride ! ' Were this the charter of our state, * On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heaven '. that's no the gate We learn our creed. ' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankiud were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to shaw vour parts, An' thank him kindly I ' Sae I got paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, I vow I "11 close it; An' if ye winna mak' it clink, By Jove, I'll prose it !' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether la rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. Let time mak proof! But I shall scribble down some blether Just cleau aft'locf. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' c Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; Coine, kittle up vour moorland harp Wi' ffleesome touch ! For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, ' The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he 5 ' O mandate glorious and divine I The followers o' the ragged Nine. Poor glorious devils ! yet mav shine In glorious light. While sordid sons of Mammon's.li Are dark ghr. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, i Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, irp, And sing their pleasures, hopes^ and joys. In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year. She's gien me rr.onie a jirt and fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L - d, tho' I shoufd beg, Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lar.g's I dow ! Now comes the sax and twentieth sim; I've 6een the bud upo' the timiner, Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year ; But vet, despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob. am here. Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A Bailie's name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffled sark and glancin* can*, OCHILTREE. May, 17S5. I gat yonr letter, winsome Willie: Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Tho' I maun say't I wad be silly, Your flatterin' strain. uf I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire sidelins sklented On my poor rausie ; Tho' in sic phrai.-sin' :erms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to sped, Wi' Allan or wi* Gilbertfield, The braes of fame ; BURNS POEMS, (O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law's dry musty arts. My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E'nbrugh Gentry I The tithe o' what ve waste at carles, Wad stow 'd his pantry •) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles the} 're 1 ke to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed ; Itgies me ease. Anld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their la\s, Till echoes all resound aga : n Her weeUsung pra'se. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured styie ; She lay like some unkenned of isle Beside New- Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Cried Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Ooon, Nae tody sings. Th* Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line \ But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your cresf, We'll gar our streams and bumies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Goila'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' nsme 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' jinking hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' th* naked treej Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey ; Oi Winding drift9 wild-furious flee, Dark'ning (he day ! O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls in gusty storms, The lang, dark night ! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn 'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander An' no think lang, O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder A heartfelt sang '. The warly race may drudge and drive. Hog shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum o'er their treasure. Fareweel, « my rhyme-composing brither « We've-been owre lang unkenn'd to ither. Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend infernal 1 While highlandmen hate tolls and tales : While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; While terra hrma on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith aud practice. In Robert Burns. My u ■ror; POSTSCRIPT. worth a preen ; I had amaUt forgot ti Ye bade me write you what they mean By this new-light, * 'Eout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to light. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain' braid lallar.s, Like JOil In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Jus; like a sark, or pair o' shoou, 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 dcubt it, Till chiels gal up an' wad confute it. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' (he buik, Wad threap auld folk the thing inisteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. An' out o' sight, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. This was deny'd, it was affirm 'd ; The herds and hissels were alarm 'd ; The rev 'read 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* a.tlis to clours an' nicks j Aii' niL-uie a fallow gat his licks, W»* heart., crunt ; An' koine to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An* auld-lijrht caddies bure sic hands, That faith the joungsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Tili now ainaist on every knowe, Ye'll rind ane plac'd ; An* some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin* spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie 'd en By word an' write. But shortly they wi'.l cowe the louns ! Some auld-Ught herds in neebor towns Are miad't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak' a flight. An* stay a month aniang the moons An* see them right. Guid observation they will gi 'e them • An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e thei The hindmost shaird, they'll te^ch it wi' thei Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they '11 crouch I Sae, ye observe that a this clatter Is naething but a ' moonshine matter:' But thj' dull prose-folk Latin splatter » In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies keu some belter Than mind sic bruleie. Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, "*"e mak' a deril o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, en wantj , Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ; That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it. The lads in black ! But your curst n Rives t off their back. EPISTLE TO J. RAXKINE. enclosing soma poems. O Rough, rode, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun aud drinking, There's monie godly folks are thiukin', Yours dreams * an' tri Tnink, wicked sinner, whaye're skaitbin^. It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naethii:g To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or L I've sent yon here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sazg.f ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've plaj 'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' dane'd my rill ! I'd better gaen and sair'd the king At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen, An', as the twilight was begun, Thoaght nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thiukin' tiey 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 ; 1 scorn 'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee* But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, As soon's the clockin' time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, For my govfd guinea : f A eong be had promised the Author. BURNS POEM 3. Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't in Virginia. Trowtli, they had meikle for to blame ! *Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim. An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as man's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient : Meanwhile 1 am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. JOHN BARLEYCORN,* A BALLAD. There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solenu oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'dhin Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was de*.d. But the chcerfu' spring came kindly on, And show'rs began lo fall ; John Barleycorn got up again. And sore surprised ihein all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should tint wrong. The sober autumn enter'd miM, When be grew wan ad paie ; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. VII. They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. And cut him by the knee ; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. VIII. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgel'd him full sore ; They hung hira up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. * This is pnrtly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name. IX. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim ; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. X. They laid h'ini out upon the floor, To work him farther woe, And still as signs of life appear 'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones ; But a miller us'd him warst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. XII. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drunk it round and round ; And still the mere and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. XIIL John Barleycorn was a hero bold. Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. XIY. 'Twill make a man forget his woe ; Twill heighten all his joy : 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. XV. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity. Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! A FRAGMENT. When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our helm thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin.pat, And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less, in full congress, efuse our law, man. Q IjUtt. II. Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, nian : Down Lowrie's burn betook a turn, And Carleton did ca', man: But yet, w hat-reck, he, at Quebec, Moutgouiery-like did fa', man ; Wi' sword in hand, before. his band, Ainaug his enemies a', man. III. Poor Tommy Gage, within a cage, Was kept at Button ha', man , Till Willie Howe took o'er the know* For Fhiladelpaift, man; DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to dravf, man; But at New- York, wi' knife and fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. IV. Burgovne gaed up, like spur an* whip, TUl'Fraser brave did fa', man ; Then lost his way, ae inisty day, Iu Saratoga shew, man. Cornwal'.is fought as land's he dcught, An' did the buckskins claw, inau ; Bnt Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man. V. And Sackville doure, wha stood the gi The German chief to thraw, man : Poor Paddy Burke, like cuie Turk, VI. Then Rojkinjham took up the game ; Till deash aid on him ca\ man ; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man, Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring ncise* They did his measures thraw, man, Fur North and Fox united stocks, And bore him to the wa', man. vn. Then clubs an' hearts ware Charlie'* cartesj Be =«ept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, Led him a sair jtiux pas, man : ] te ^ixsalads. wi' loud placads. On Chatham's boy did ca', man; land drew her p : pe, :: • 'Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" MIL Behind the throne then Grenvilie's gone, While slee Dundas aro-j 3 'd the class Be-north the Roman wa', man : ' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, W Ins lired L^r^.i; saw, : „ jes, cry'd Would 1 ha'e fear'd tl IX. But word an' blow, North, Fes, and Co. GowffM Willie like a ba\ man, re as raise, and coost their c'.aise Behind him iu a raw, man ; An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, mail ; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' u.irt and blood IV make it guid in iaw, man. SCNG. Tuns—'* Corn Rigs are Ecr,r.:r B«neath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie : The time flew bv wi' tentless heed, Till tweeu the' late and early, WV sma' persuasion she agreed, To see me thro' the barley. IL The sky was blue, the wind was «'!,, The moon was shining clearly ; I set her down, wi' right good wi '., Amang the rigs o* barley. I kent her heart was a' my aii; ; I iov'd her mttet sincerely ; I kiss'd her owre and owre again Amang the rigs o' barley. 1IL I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was "beating rarely ; My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o* barley ' But by the moon aud stars so bright, That shone that hcur so clearh : She aye shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. IV. I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; I Dae teen merry drinkin* ; I hae been joyfu' gath 'riu gear i I hae been happy thinkin' : But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly. That happy n : ght was worth them u", Amaiig the rigs o' barley. Zona rigs an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are t c I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' fl C0MPOSK3 IX AV« »«•. T:.y.i — " I had a Horse, I had nae Xox wesllin' win^s and slaughl'ring runs, Brins- antnmn's pleasant « e The moorcock springs, on whirr. r Amang the blooming heather : Sow waring grain, wide o'er the plain, I)e!igh:s The weary fanner! And the i night i bright, wbei I rcrs at II. The partridge loves the fruitful fells : 1 he plover loves the mountains : The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains : Thro' lofty g^es the cushat roves The path .f roan to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the lincet. BURNS POEMS. Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender ; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander ; Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion : The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion 1 IV. But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear. Thick Hies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the Gelds in view, All fading-green and yellow : Coine let us stray out gladsome way, And view the charms of nature : The rustlin corn, the fruited thorn, And ev'ry happy creature. V. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly : Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thon lo me, JVIy fair, my lovely charmer '. SONG. Tune— " My N >nuie, 0. ' Behind yon hills where Sli;.char flow! Jiang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has closed, And I'll awa lo Nannie, O. An' owre the hills to Nai My Nannie's charming, sweet, a Nae artfu' wiles lo win ye, O ; May ill befa' the flalt'ring tongue 'lhat wad beguile my Nannie, i Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O t 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, ; 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 caunie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O, VII. Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; Dut I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh, An' hae nae care but Nannie, O. VIII. Come weel, come wae, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O < Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O. GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. I. There's nought but caie on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, &c II. may riches chase, II may fly them, O; An' though at last ihey catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, &c. III. Bui gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly cares, an' warly men. May a' gae tap^alteerie, O. u grow, &c. IV. For you so douse, ye sneer at this. Ye're nought but senseless asses, ; The wisest man the warld e'er saw, He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O ; Green grow, &c. V. Anld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ; Her prentice nan' she tried on man, And then she niadethe lasses, O. Green grow, Sit. Tune — " Joekie's Grey Breeks.' Ajrain rejoicing Nature seen Her robe assume its vernal hue*, Her leafy locks wave in the breere, Aii freshly steep 'd in morning dewf. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAHYi CKORl's-* And maun I still on Menie f doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winno, let a boi'y be ! ir. In Tain to me the cowslips bTaw, - In Tain to me the violets spring } In vain to me, in glen or shaw. The in a vis and the lint white sing. And maun I still, &c III. Thejnerry plonghboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the teutie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, ie, IY. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang ihe reeds the ducklings cry, Tie stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is llest but I. And maun 1 still, &c. V. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owie the moorlands whistles shill, Wi' wild, unequal wandering step I meet him on the de«y hill. And maun I still, &e. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree ; Thy giooin will soothe niy cheerless soul, 'When nature all is sad like me 1 cnoKua. And maun I still on toenie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e e ? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like d hawk, An' it winna let a body be. f * This chorus is'part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. ■j- Jleuie is a common abbreviation of Mari- amne. ^ We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of our bard, and mora especially those printed under his own direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, which is not his own composition, should be attached to these tine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the train of sentiment which they excite. Tune— " Roslin Castl* ** I. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast» Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander prest wi* care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. II. The Autumn mourns her ripening com By early Winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure skr, She sees the scowling tempest fly ; Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare. Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. in. Tis not the surging billow 's roar, » Tis not that fatal deadly shore : Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no wore to fear : But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpiere'd with many a wound These bleed afresh, those ties I tear To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. IV. Farewell, old Coila's hills an' dales, Her heathy moors uud winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing p^st unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those— The bursting tears my heart declare. Farewell the bonuie batiks of Ayr ! Tww— "GUderoy." From thee, Eliza, I must go. And from my native shoie : The cruei fates between us throw But boundless oceans roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide .My heart and soul from thee. II. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more I But the last throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, i? thy part, And thine that latest sigh I THE FAREWELL, Tune— "Good night and joy be wi' you a" I' Adieu ! a heart-wsrm, fond adieu, Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy ! Tho* I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eve, I'll mind jou still, tho' far awa*. II. Ofi have I met your social band, And *ptnt the cheerful festive night ; Oft honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light ; And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa\ III. May freedom, harmony, and love, Unite you in the grand design. Beneath th' omniscient eye above, The glorious architect divine ! That you may keep'th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray'r when far awaj'* IV. And you, farewell ! whose merits claiu Justly that highest badge to wear! Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble nan To masonry and Scotia dear ! A last request, permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a'. One round, I ask it with a tear. To him, the bard that's far awa" ! : the whole of r IT. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; [ scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; But a club of good fellows like those that a here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care -POEMS. 811 But see yon the crown, how it waves in tlb ! There, a big-belly 'd bottle still eases my care. IV. ! The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die | For sweet consolation to church I did fly } I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly 'd bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform 'd me that all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. VI. « Life's cares they are comforts'* — a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown ; Aud faith I agrte with th' old prig to a hair > For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. [A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; Way every true brother of the compass and Have a big-beily'd bottle when harass'd with WRITTEN IN FRIAR'S CARSE HERMITAGE, ON Wr.'H-SIDB. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy i>cul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour, ' clouds will always lower. ll = r III. passes the squire o brother — his • cit with his As youth and love with sprightly dunce, Beneath thy morning star advance, P.easure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptured sip, and sip it up. As thy daj gro tndhigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scai? ' Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion'd bold, Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. ir.g't Night Thoughts. 243 DIAMOND CAMKET 1©RARY. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning tbee to long repose : As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's Irue, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not, Art tbou high or low ! Did thy fortune ebb or floiv ? Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one • Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thvself mast shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heaven, To virtue or to rice is given. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting s eep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Nisrht where dawn shall never break, Tit future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before. Stra:.gf r, go'. Heaven be thy glide ! Quodlhe beadsman of Kith-side. ACRED TO THE 1 Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonour'd years, Noosing with cr.re a bursting pu Eaited with many a deadly curst View the wither'd beldam's face, Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose, See those hands, ne'er stretch M to save, Hands that took — but never ^ave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and nnblest ? She goes, but not to realms of everlasting re.t ! ANTISTBOPIIE. Pinr.derer of armies, lift thine eyes, X A while forbear, ye tort 'ring fiends,) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, Bhe, tardy, hell-ward plies. 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 thewretched vital part is driven I The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT TOS. HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FBOM ALMIGHTY GOD ! O Death ! thou tvrant fell and bloody ; The meikle devil *wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides. And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie, Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane, he's gane ! he,'s frae us tora. The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where haply, Fit v strays forlorn, Ye hills, ner.r neeiors o T the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns • Ye clills, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers ! Coa - .e join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing uumbeisJ Mourn ilka grove the cushat ken*} Ye haz'ily shaws and briery dens I Ye burnies wimplin down your glens, Wi" tuddlin din. Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty steiia> eii:: u tin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers ; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o' flowers. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Y'e maukins Yfhiddin thro' the'glade, Come join my wail. Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Ye whistling plOTer ; And mourn, ye whirring paitriete brood ; He '* gane for ever ! BURNS POEMS. Mourn, goofy coots, and speckled teals, Ye fisLer herons, watchiDg eels ; Ye duck dud drake, wi ' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Mourn, clam 'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Maug fields o* flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our eauld shore, Tell tliae far warlds, wha lies in clay. Wham we deplore. Ye houlets frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi* silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn ! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains I Oft have ye heard nij canty si rains : But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ; An* frae my eeu the drapping rains Maim ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flaw'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 oflight ! Mourn, empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling stcrnies 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 tliou cross'd that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ! Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! But by the honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger! my story's brief ; And truth I shall relate, man : 1 tell nae common tale o' grief, For Matthew was a great man. If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, manj There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man ; Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, For Matthew w as 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, mau, Lf thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam, and sue, For Matthew was a queer mau. If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Marthew dare, man ; May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS, ON THB APPROACH OF SPUING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, \nd spreads hsr sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phrebus 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 merr/ morn, Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, iu his noontide bow'r. Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest i In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall oppress 'd. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthoi i's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : rhe meanest bind in fair Scotland, May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been ; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, As blithe lay down at e'en : And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor thejre ; DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. And i Bat as for thee, thou false woman, .My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That tbro' thy soul shall gae : The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds cf 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 "ne'er wad blink on mine ■ Cod keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mothej's friend, Remember him for me ! O ! soon, to me, may summer suns Nae niair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o*er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death \ No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; I No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, a naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side : -.pyre booksellers drain him to the'hearl, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics — appall'd, I vei rhose cut-throat bandits i Bloody dissectors, worse i He hacks to teach, they u ure on the name, i the paths of fame j His heart by causeless, wanton malice By blockheads* darine into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more de.i I Hy miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig m ! Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the strife. The hapless poet flounders on through life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom tired, And fled each muse that glorious once in- Low sunk in squalid, "nprotected age, Dead even resentmer.t for his injured page, ■ e the ruthless er.tic's He heeds or feels n TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Es sip it up : Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 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' omnipotence of rule and power Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are darts. But Oh ! thou bitter stepmother 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. And thinks the mallard a sad worthless do;. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling Not so the idle mus. Not such the workia; In equanimity they never dwell, ty turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. T dread the fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust J (Fied, like the sua eclipsed as noon appears, ,-iuu left us darkling in a world of tears :) O ! bear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer i Fintia, my other stay, long bless aod spars « BURNS — POEMS. Vhro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, Aud bright in. cloudless skies his sun go downl May bliss domestic smooth his private path : Give energy to life; aud soothe his latest With many 'a filial tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and -neikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. His locks' we're bleached white wi' time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his tremblii.g harp, And as he tuu'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the coles along. " Ye seatter'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 '11 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 gone: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom : But I maun lie before the storm, And ituers 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 t Unheard, uipitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care. For silent, low on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrow share. •' And last, (the sum of a' my griefs ' ) My noble master lies in clay ; The flower amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his country's stay ; In wearv 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 tby latest lay, A»d sleep in silence avermair ! And thou, my *asr, *>est. only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest glocau *' 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 t Thou found'st rne like the morning sun That melts the fo^s in limpid air. The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. " O ! Why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen grey with time ! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, (•'all in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day ! A day to me so full of woe I O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! •* The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour hath been ; The mother mav forget the child Tliat smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me '" LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN' WHITEFORD 0» WIIITEFORn, BART, WITH THS FORE- GOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God re-ver'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earihly fear'st. To thee this votive ofV'ring I impart, *• The tearful tribute of a broken heart. " The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; His worth, his honour, ail the world ap. We'll mourn till we too go as he is gono, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. TAM O' SHANTER : A TALE. Of Brown} : s and of Bogiiis full is tlrs Buke. Gawin Douglat* Wlieu chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy ueebors, neebors meet. As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou an' unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles. That lie between us and our hanse, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shan'.tr, As he frae Ayr ae a gl>t clia canter, fAuld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, Vsr honest men and bouuy lasses.) O Tam '. hadst thou but been sae wise. As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's udviee ! She tauld thee weel tuou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken bielium ; That frae November till Oc;ober, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka welder, wi' ihe miller, Thou sat as lang as thcu had Siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith" and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at tbe L— d's house, ev'n ou Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirklon Jean u 1 Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon. Thou would'be found deep drouu'd in Doon Or catch'd wi ! warlocks iu Ihe m.rk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How rcony lengthen'u sage advices, The husband frae -the wife despises ! Eat to our tale : Ae market night, Tarn had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleeziug finely, Wi' reaming- swats, '.hat drank divinely : And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crouv ; Tam lo'ed hiia like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night crave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tain grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sw eet, and precious > The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready choius: The storm without might rail and rustle, Tam did ua mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a men sae happy, E'en drown'd himself aiuang the nappy ; As bees flee haine '* The minutes wing Kings may be ble: O'er a' the ills o* lades ut Tam was glorious, But pleasures You seize the flow r, us uiouni is sneu ; Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever : Or like tbe 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 nor tide : The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the keys That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The raltlin' showers rose on the blast : The speedy gleams the darkness swallow 'd ; Loud, deepi and lang, the thunder bellow 'd ; Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— A better never lifted leg— Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, nud fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet | SVhiies crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cores, Lest bogies catch him unawares ; Kirk-Aiioway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — By this time he was cross the ford, ^Yha^e in the snaw the chapman smoor'd : And past the birks and meikle staue, Whare drueken Charlie brak 's neck banc j And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder 'd bairn : And near the thorn, aboon the well. Where Mungo's m;ther haug'd hersel Before him L'oon pours ail his floods 1 'ihe doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; Ihe lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more r.tar the thunders roil ; en glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk Ai:oway seeni'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing — (uspirwg bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! HV tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — The swats sae ream'd in Tamniie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deiis a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish 'd, Till, by ihe heel and hand admouish'a, She ventured forward on the light ; Ajid, vow t Tam saw an nnco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dauce ; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, straihspeys, and rcelf, Put life and mettle in their neels. iunock-bunker in the east, . re sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; wzie 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.— Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last die=ses ; /.ndby some devilish cantrip sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tam was able " p note upon the haly table, murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; va span-laug, wee uuchristeu'd bairns : A thief new-cutted frae a rape, ' his last gasp his gab did gape : | Five tomahawks, wi* blude red-rusted ; j Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; A garter which a babe had strangled ; I A ku:fe, a father's throat had mangled,, Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The grey hairs yet stack to the heft Wi* mair u' horrible and awfu' Which eT'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'J, amaz'd and curicu», The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The daosers quick and quieker flew j BURNS.— POBMS. They rseKd, they set, they cross'.;, they cleek t, Till ilka carliu swat end reekit, And cuost her cuddies to the wink, Aad linkel at it iu ber bark ! Now Tain, O Tarn ! had they been queens, A' plump an' strapping, in their teens j Their sarka, instead o' creeshie limine:), Eeen snaw-white seventeen huuder linen 1 Tliir breeks o' mine, mv only pair, That ance were plush o' gu;d blue hair, 1 wad hae gi'eu them art my huidies I Fur ae blink o' the bonnie bardies J But witber'd beldams auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Loupiug and flinging on a cruuiiuock, i wonder didua turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fV brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted iu the core, iLang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! ^or uiunie a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd monie a bonnie boat, And shook bailh meikle corn an bear. And kept the country side in fear,) Her cutty sark o' Paialey ham, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was v auntie,-— Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend Erauuie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa fund Scots, (*twa> a' her riches,) Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! But here my muse ber wing maun cour : Sic flights are far beyond her power : To sing how Nannie" lap and Hang, iA sou pie jade she was an' Strang) in* how Tam stood like ane be\."i;ch'd, An' thought his very eeu eurich'd: Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd IV fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till iirst ae caper, syne anither, Tam lint his reason a' thegither, And roars oif, " Weel done Cutty sark !" And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely hid he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When pluud'ring herds as»ail their b^ke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop 1 6he starts Before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd, Wiijn «♦ Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; So Maggie ru.is, the witches follow, Wi' uionie on eidriteh screech and hollow. Ah. Tam! Ah, Tain! thou'llget ihv fairin. In he'll they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kale awaits thy coinin ! Kate soon will be a waefu* woman • Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And wiu the key-staneo' the brig ;* * It is a well known fact, that witcfies, or any evii spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream It may be proper like- wise to icsnliou to the benighted traveller, There at thera thou thy tail may taae, A running stream they darena cross. But ere the key-»Une she could make, The tent a tail she had to shake t Kor Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie press'd, And tlew ai Tam wi' furious ettle ; But l.ttle wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought art' her master hale, But left behind her aiu grey tail : The earlin caught her by the rump, An 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 inclined. Or cutty sarks run in your iniud, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, "' i o' Shanter's mure. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. Inhuman mau ! curse on thy barbarous art. And blasted be thy murder-aiining eye : Ma$ never pity soo:he thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poot wanderer of the wood and field, 'Ihe bitter little that of life remains : No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some plac of •, uted No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The shelt'ring rushes whistling o'er thy The cold earth with thy bloody bosom press'd. 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 ruifiau's aim, and mourn lb) hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OP THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAV3. While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mautle green, Or pranks the sod iu frolic mood, Or tunes Eoliaa strains between : While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Drv burgh'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, that when ha falls in with bogles, whaterejr danger may be in his going forward, there la ( much more haaard in turning bask. 4W DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow fi Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of sno FOR G. H. Esq. The noor man weeps -here G ■ r.g wretches blaiu'd : But with such as he, where'er lie be May I be sa ■'dord dP EPITAPHS. ON A CELEERATED RULING ELDER. Here souter John in death does sleen : To hell, if he's gane thilher, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'l. iiiaid it we el thegither." OX A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir sianes lie Jamie's banes : O Dea;h, it's my opinion. Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch Into thy dark dominion ! ON WEE JOHNNY. Hicjacet wee Johnny. Whoe'er thcu art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnny, In' here his body lies fu' low — For saul, he ne'er had onv. A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; Aid owre this grassy heap sing dool> And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, %Yho, noteless, steals the crowds among, hat weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a trater feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, runs, himself, life's mad career. Wild as the wave; Here pause — and, through the starting tear Survey this gTa\e. The poor inhabitant below, Was quick to learn and wise to know, And Keenh felt the friendly glow, And softer tlame. But thoughtless follies laid him low, And slain 'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul So^rs famy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkly grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, Is wisdom's root. FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend '. ')ving husband's dear remains, ' e gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human The friend of roan, 'o vice alone a foe ; "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's FOR R. A. Esq. I ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it: A chielu's amang you, taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent It If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a tine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, mark we«i_- /m?i\ f *--- K 'J> M I •i nn - 11^3 BURiVS.— POEMS. By some auld, houlet-baunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its rigsin, It's ten to ane ye '11 find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi* dcils, they say, L— d safe's ! co'.leaguin At some black art. Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, ST e gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, "Warlocks and witches ; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; But now he's quat the sportle blade. And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the — Autiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets ; Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets. + Wad'haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid: And parTitch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Before the flood. Of Eye's first fire he has a cinder : Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; That which distinguished the gender 6' Balaam's a6s ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Wee! shod wi' brass. Forbve he'll shnpe you aff, fu' gles, The cut of Adam's philibe^ ; The knife that nicket Abel's craig, He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kailgnllie.— 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'U see hin and prose 1 Now, by the powers o' verse anc Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose J Whoe'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose. Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! K Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. t Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Wsapons. TO MISS CftUIKSHANKS. L YERY YOXTSG UDr, WRITTEN ON TKB BLANK LEAF OK A BOOK, PRESKNTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-hud, young aud gay, jilooming on thy early May,' Never raay'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Eurus' pois'uous breath, Never baleful stellar lights. Taint thee with untimely blights * Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor ever Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom biushiug sti'll with dew ! May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. Richly deck thy native stem ; Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, Dropping dews, and breathing balm. While all around the woodland rings, Aud ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; Thou, amid the cirgtr'ul sound, Shed thy dying honours round. And reMgn to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. Luna, lay charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; Jut, ah '. how bootless to admire, When fated to despair I let in thy presence, lovely Fair, To hope may Le i'orgiven ; "or sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heaveu. ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER , THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 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 smiled; ' But long ere noon, succeeding cloud* Succeeding hopes beguiled. Fate oft tears the bosom chordr That nature finest strung ; So Isabella's heart was forni'd. And so that heart wsi wrung. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Dread Omnipotence, dtone, Can heal the wound he gave ; Can point the brimful <;rief-woru To scenes beyond the grave. Virtuous blossoms there shall b!o And fear no withering blast ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.* TO THE XOBI.E DUKE CF ATHOLE. My Lord, I know vour noble ear 'Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Bmbolden'd thus, I beg ycu'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, Iu flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, And drink my crystal tide. The lightly jumping ^lowrin tro its, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, Tiiey near the inargi 1 sTay ; 1", ha;, less chance '. ihey 1 :n:er lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're lest the whit'i.ing stanes aniang, Iu gasping death to wallow. :t day I grat, spite and Si eby. That, lo a bard I should be seen, Wi' half my channel dry ; Even as I was he shored me : Eui had I in my glory been, lie, kneeling, wa.d auured me. Here, foaming down the sbeivy rocks, In twisting strength I riii; There, higb/mv boiling to rent smokes. Wild-roaring o'er a linn : Enjoy ng iarze each spring ai.d well lam, although I raj 'tmysel. Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, HeM shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes ; Del.ghted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen uiouy a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock warbling wild, Shall to the sk.es aspire ; The gowdspiuk, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis wild and mellow, • Bruar Fails, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful ; but their efiV much impaired by the want of trees This too, shall ii Tc shield tbeui (ruin the storn ; And coward niaukia sleep secure, Low in her grassy form ; Here shall the shepherd Make his seat, To weave his crown of tiov>ers ; Or find a >he!t'ring safe retreat, From proue descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing st :&3ih, Sha 1 meei the loving pair. Despising worids wilh-all their wealth As empty idle care: The lowers shall vie in all their chorda The hour of heaven to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. U*re, haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may =,truy, And eye the sin. king, uewy la.- II, sty mountain, grey ; Let lofty firs, and ashes coo!, My lowly banks o'ersprcai*, And view, deep-bending in the : Their shadows' watery bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines My craggy cliffs adorn ; An-i'for the little songster's Ileal The close erabow'riug thui.u So may old Sjotla"? dari::. .• i. - Your little angel band, Sprin?, like their father-,, u:» So Their honuur'dn-. So may, thro' Albion's farina! Tu social flowing glasses, The grace be— " Athole's bone< And Athole's bonuie las s e 3 1 " ON SCARING SOME WATER-Ft I O-S LOCH-TVK Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me vour watery haunt f.irsake ? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus yen fig ? Why disturb your social joys. Parent, filial, kindred ties 2 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 ; BURNS POBMSL The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking- you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glorious in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays: Far from human haunts and ways ; All on Nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might, Pare invade your native right, On the loftv el her borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Oiher lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave, Scoru at least to be his slave. Hers heart-struck Grief might heaven -ward 6tretch her scan, And injured Worth forget and pardan man. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his streai resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening shoot d« And riewless echo's ear, astonish 'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceasele> The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. Still thro"' the gap the strutting rircr toils, And stili belo-.v, the horrid caldron boils. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE TAB- LOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORB, TAS- MOUTH. Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, t 'I'll* abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view. — The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen di- The woods, w ild-scatter'd, clothe their ample An ou'stretching 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 Nature's native Tire hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste I The arches striding o'er the new-born stream \ The village, glittering in the noontide 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 Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taugM lyre, And look through nature with creative fire t Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Kind balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : ON THE tntTB 07 A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BOKN IS PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OP FAMILY DISTRESS. Sweet Flow'rot, pledge o' meikle love. And ward o' inony 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 sheltering 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 slower, The bitter frost and snaw ! May He. the friend of woe and want. Who heals life's various stoun'J.H, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she floursh'd, rooted fast, Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unsheher'd and forlorn. Dless'd be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscathed by ruffian hand '. And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land ! DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. THE WHISTLE : As the authentic prose history of the 'Whistle fe carious, I shall here give it In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she cj:-; SmC- lani with oar James the Sixth, there came crer also a Danish geatlernin at : tare and great prowess, and a matchless cham- pion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow i', every b dy else beiug dis- abled 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 C peu- bagen, Stockholm, Mo=«ow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany, and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the al- ternative of trying his prowess, or else of ac- knowledging their inferiority- After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dai:e was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the press baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, .;:. he r. in- dinavian under the table, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. S: Walter, son to Sir Robert before men- tioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Waiter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars Carse.'ihe \\ h;s- tle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwellon ; Robert Riddel, Hsq. ofUlenrid- ii'., l.:.fi i:;:T ....: i.::l :; : ., Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in ■whose family it had continued ; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise de- scended of the great Sir Rjbert ; which Isst gentleman carried off the hard-won houours cf the iieid. I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the price of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall nag. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and ib« ; L"nn:atch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, Ue drank Lis poor gods hip as deep as the Xo tide cf the Baltic e'er drunker than hi. j Tims Robert victorious, the trophy has : Which now in his hoase has for ages re- ree r.oble chieftains, and ali of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew 'd. I Three jovous good fellows, with hearts clear of daw ; u _ gdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and Cr-Jgdarroch begin, with a tongue smooth 1 claret, try which was the ' By the gods of the ancients And bumper his horn with him twenty times Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- d his foe— or his = --. Bat he ne'er turn'd his back o Said, To»5 down t>e Whisile, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of G'.enriddel our heroes re> " TL = W_ : •.;-'-■.;.:.-:'.■._. . r ;. : - ; . : : -. 1 get o'er, And drink them to hell, 5;r ! cr ne'er see me Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions veutured, what champion fell; A bard was selected to witness the fray ; And tell future ages the feats of the day ; .. ho detested all sadness and spleen, -i: ! d that Parnassus a vineyard had The dinner being over, the claret they pi r, ijid ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, In the bands of old friendship and kindred so .-.'s Tcur £o the Hebr' BURNS POEMS. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next mi Sis bottles a-piece had well worn out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one Dumper a bottle of red, Aud swore 'twas the way that their ancesto did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine i He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- TJiough fate said— a hero should perish in light ; So up rose blight Phoebus and down fell the knight. Next up r r bard, like a prophet e struggled for Freedc I «' Thy line with Hruee, Shall heroes and patriots ever j So thine be tUe laurel, and niin The field lb' u hast won, by yoi day I " SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTH SLR POET.* AVLT) NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For jour aulJ-fdrrent, frien'ly lettei ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak so fair s For my puir, silly, rhyiniu' clutter, Some l:ss inauu sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, Tae cheer you through the weary widule O' warly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs. * This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar. published at Kilmarnock, 1789, an.l has not before appeared in our author's printed poems. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye'er glaikit j I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke ; Sic hans as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin' the words tae gar them clink ; [drink, Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' Wi' jads or masons ; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the bardie clan ; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin* clink, The devil-haet, that I suld ban, They ever think. , nae scheme of litln' ; Nae thought, n Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme I its aye a treasure, My chief, amais; my only pleasure, At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leis The Muse, poor hizzIeJ Tho' rough an' raploch be lu. ... She's seldom lazy, Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie ; The warl' may piny you mony a shavie?$ But for the Mu^e, she'll never leave yt, Tho' e'er sae poor, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door to door. ON MY EARLY DAYS. I ni'nd it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blale, An' first could thresh the barn ; Or lnud a \okin o' the pleugh ; An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn; When first amang the yellow corn A man I reekon'd was, And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, 1 =,he;'r stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an* haivers, Wearing the day awa. It. E'en then a wish, I mitid its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. sing blast roar'd round tbe beetling My eDvy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. in. But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' wra "Wild floated in my brain : ♦Till on that har'st I said before, My' partner in the merry core, She roused the forming s'rain : I see her yet. tbe sonsie queen, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her paukv e< That gart my heart-strings t I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek. But bashing, and dashing, I feared aje to speak*. >>•:'<: SONG. "Bonnie Dundee." ere dwells six proper your.g and its neighbour- i stranger woul s they'd gotten it a'. Miss MiJler is line, Miss Markland s divine, Kiss bmithshe has wit, and Miss Betty i Iliere's beauty and fortune to get wi' Mis Morton, But Armour's [ the jewel for me o' them a". The clouds, sw ry sky, The groaning tree And shooting i eye. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's tronhied shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, Ihe lightning of bet eye in tears imbued, Reversed that spear, redoubtable in wnr, ReclinNl that banner, erst in fields ub- furl'd, rh.it like a deatiiful meteor gleam'd pfor, And braved the mighty muuarcha of the Tune— belles. The pride of the p'a llieir carriage and dress, guess, In Lon ', wl«L- ' My patriot son fills ■Willi accents wild and lified ' Low lies the hand that oft ely grave!" he cried ; etch'd to the hear: that swell' J with honest s tear, « I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! Jut, ah I bow hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid the guardian low. — ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. Th' inconstant blast howl'J thro' the darken- And hollow whistled in tbe rocky eave. Lone as I wander 'd by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts' of Scotia's royal Or mused where limpid sfreams, once hallow 'd well,? Or mould 'ring ruins mark the sacred fane, j] * The reader will find some explanation of this poem, in page 1L t This is one of our Bard'3 early produc- tions. Miss Armour is now Mrs Bums. X The King's Park at Hoi) rood- house. 6 St Anthony's Well. ft Bt Anthony's Chapel. ' And I v Thro' fi That dis ill join a mother's tender cares, ture times to make his virtues la< ant years may boast of other IN TriE BLANK LEAK OF A COPY OF THE POEM?. PRESENTED TO AN OLO SWEET HEART, THEN MARRIED. * )nce fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows. BURNS.— POEMS. - -cept tills mark of friendship, warm, sincere, Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now al- | id when you read the simple artless rhymes One frieudly sigh for him, he asks no more, • I ho distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. THE JOLLY BEGGARS: A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. 'hen lyart leaves bestrow the yird, •r wavering like the bauckie-bird,* 13edim cauld Boreas' blast ; . lien hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, A ad infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night at een a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies, i Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted and the) sang ; "Wi' jumping and thumping, The very girdle rang. • irst, neist the fire, in auld red rags, \ue sat, weel brac'd wi' me;ily bags, And knapsack a' in order ; iiis doxy lay within his arm, ii' usquebaean' blankets warm- She blinket on her sodger : \n' aye he gies the touzie drab The titberskelpiu' kiss, V'hile she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'nious dish. Ilk smack stil! did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIK. Tune—" Soldier's Joy. " I am a son of Mars who have been in many And show my cuts and scars whoever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de dandle, &c. II. My 'prenticeship I pass'd where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the hni-'hts ofAlram: 1 served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of th* Lai de dandle, &c. I lastly was wiln Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the: drum. Lai de daudle, &c IV. And now though I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. * The old Scotch name for the bat. What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c KECITATITO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans backward leuk, And seek the bentnost 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—' 1 Soldier Laddie. '' ce 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 II. 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 Transported was I with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. III. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. He vjntur'd the soul and I risked the body, Twas theu I piov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &c IV. Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, The re<*imeni at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. V. ne to beg in despair, a Cunningham fair ; His" rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, Mv heart it~reioiced at my sodger laddie, Sing, Lal de lal, &c. VI. And now I have liv'd— I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass sieady, Here's to thee, my hero, mv sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. REGIT ATI YO- Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, "VVha 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, .Hut weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman. Tune «« O an' ye were dead Gudeman. A Highland lad my love was born, The Lailand laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, IVly gallant braw John Highlandman. CHORUS. Sin", hey my braw John Highlandman . Sin°, ho my braw John Highlandman . There's not a lad in a' the Ian Was match for my John Highlandman. n. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan, Mv ^ailaut braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c ni, We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' lived like lords and ladies gay ; Frr a Lailand face he feared none, Mv g aliact braw John Highlandman, Sing, hey, &c IV. Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last f Aud bound him in a dungeon fast : My curse upon them every one. They'-, ' 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 Johu Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c RECITATIYO. A pigmy scraper, ri' his fiddle, Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gawsy middle He reach'd nae higher. Had hoi'd his heanie like a riddle. An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key, The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee AIR. Tune —** Whistle owre the lave o I. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, \n' go wi' me and be my dear, An' then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o U CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play The sweetest still to wife or man Was whistle owre the lave o t. II. At kirns and weddings v-e'se be there An' O 1 sae nicely's we will tare ; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care n»s whistle o'er the lave o r. IV. But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, And while I kittle nair on tha.rms, Hunger, cauld, an* a' sick harms, May whistle owre the lave^u't. jfti^Sst BURNS POEMS. 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 tvveedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, And sae the quarrel ended. But though his little heart did grieve, When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the caird address'd her. AIR- Tune.—" Clout the Cauldron." My honnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station ; I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation, I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron : Bat vain they seareii'd, when off I niarchM To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, &c. II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise an' caprin', An' tak' a share wi' those that bear The budget an' the apron. An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Keilbagie,* If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stowp, &c. RECITATIVO. The caird prevail 'd — the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' loveo'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. ir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, fish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie. The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, ehint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's r craft, Tho' limping with the spavie, He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 'n' shor'd them Daintie Davie O boot that night. vas a care-defying blade __ ; ever Bacchus listed, Though Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had no wish but— to be glad, or want but — when he thirsted; He hated nought but — to be 6ad, And thus the Muse suggested, His sang that night. AIR. Tmie— " For a' that, an' a' that.' i a bard of no regard, 'i' gentle folks, an' a' that : But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw 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 1 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 flie 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 like the juds for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa' Shook with a thunder of applause, Re echo 'd from each mouih ; They toom'd their pocks, an* pawn*d theii A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favourite with Poosie-Nansie's clubs. + Homer is allowed to be the oldest lallad- iinger on record. Thenowre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To lowse his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best: H* rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus. DIAMOND CABIX£T LIBRARY. There's a heretic blast has been blawn in ih* wast, That what is no sense mus Tune — «• Jolly Mortals fill jour Glasses.' See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures 'let as sing. A fig for those by law protected ! Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for oowards were erected, Churehes built to please the priest. IL What is title ? what is treasure ? What is reputation's care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where .' A fig, &c. IIL With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day ; And at night in barn or stable ; Hug our doxies on the hav. A fig, &c. IV. Docs the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove ' Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ? Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets '. Here's to all the waud'ring train! Here's our ragged brats and callet* ! One and all cry out, Atnen J A fig for thooe by law protected ! Liberty 's a glorious feast I Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. THE KIRK'S ALARM.* A SATIRE. Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe i Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your consi 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, Js heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare, To meddle w Provost John i lief, And orator Bob f is its ruin. D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' vour heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have For preaching that three's ane an' twa. Rumble John,[] Rumble John, mount th« Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Then lug out the ladle, deal brimstone like And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. Simper James, f Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chace in your view ; I'll lav on your head, that the pack ye '11 soon 'lead, For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,** Siuget Sawney, are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every For the foul thief is just at your gato. Daddy Auld, f+ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Tho' ye can do little scaith, ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye may bark. Davie Bluster, tt Davie Bluster, if for a saint The corps is no nice of recruits ; Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamie Goose, §§ Jamie Goose, ye hae made but In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the Doctor's your mark, fox the L— haiy ark ; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin ii f Dr M< 11 « Dr D e. ^ Mr M< J tf Mr A d « 5§ Mr Y- ** Mr M v. ^ MrG , Ochiltree — -g, Cumnock. BURNS, Poet Willie,* Poet Willie, gie Ibe Doctor a volley, Wi' your -liberty 'a chain and your wit ; O'er Pegasus' side you ne'er laid a stride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where hesh-t. Andro Gouk.f Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie,£ Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what mean ye ? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi* the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,§ Irvine side, wi'your turkey-cock 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 Muirland Jock.H Muirland Jock, when the L — d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will, 1| Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; The timiuer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ri- tual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest- skelping turns. Why desert ye your auld native shire ; Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. THE TWA HERDS.** a' ye pious godly Hocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, * Mr P s, Ayr. f Dr A. M II. .% Mr S Y , Barr. § Mr S h, Galston. || Mr S d, T| An Elder in Mauchline. ** This piece was among the first of our Author's productions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near Kiliuarn'jek. The twa best herds in a' the wast» That e'er ga'c gospel horn a blast. These five and twenty simmers past, O ! dool to teA, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast / Atween themsel. O, M -y, man, and worthy R 11, How could vou raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, And think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twissle, Sin' I ha'e rain'. O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha v e expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themsels elekit, 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 t The Thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood» He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like R 11 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, And new-light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin, Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; Or heave them in. Sic twa— ! do 1 live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagree!, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither giein, While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, Say neither's liein' 1 A' ye wha tent i ie gospel fauld, There's D n, deep, and P — ■ s, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle A— J, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het and car.ld, 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, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. D e has been lung our fae, M« 11 has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal ca'd M* e, And baith the S s, 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 bin, A chield wha'll =oundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And monie a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel, There S— h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quiil, And that ye'll fill'. 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, Arjd get the brutes the power themsels, To choose their herds. Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalryiuple's eloquence, M« Il's close nervous excellence, M*Q — e's pathetic man)y sense. And guid M« h , Wi' S — h, who through the heart can gl&nee, Way 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 te'l ; 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. : they're born! ELEGY ON' THE YEAR 1788. For lords or kings I din E'eu let them die— for I But, oh, prodigious to reflect, A Towmout, Sirs, is gane to wreck! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma* space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou has lelt us ! The Spanish empire's tint a head, An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox An' our guidwif&'s wee birdy cocks ; The taen is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil ; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', But belter stuff ne'er claw'd a uiiddeu I Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, An' cry till ye be hearse and roopit ; For Eighty-eight he wish'd you wee'. 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 las For dight your een, *or seme o' you nae tint a trien In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta What ye'll ne'er hae t>> gi'e agi Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Euibro' wells are grulten dry. O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd gent, 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. 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 BBD. TO J— N R — K — N, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER TI5H POET'S DEATH. He who of R— k— n sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed ! At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers., held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines : — Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost; — BURNS POEMS. That we lost, did I say, naj, by beav'n ! that Fcr 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 And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. May his son be a hangman, and he his first THE BIKKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonny lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- feldy ? Now summer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeidy. Bonnie lassie, &c "While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing Iu the birks of Aberfeidy. Bonnie lassie, &c The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The foaming stream deep -roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shafts, The birks of Aberfeidy. Bonnie lassie, &c. The hoary cliff's are crown'd wi' flowers, •White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi" misty showers The birks of Aberfeidy. Bonnie lassie, &c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love and thee In the birks of Aberfeidy. Bonnie lassie, &c* STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME ? Tien—" An Gille dabh ciar dhubh. " Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? Cruel, cruel, to deceive me I Well you know how mcch you grieve me t Cruel charmer, can you go ? Cruel charmer, can you go ? * This was written in the si £he Birks of Abergeldy, an old Scottish song, from which nothing is borrowed but the shoras. By my love so ill-reqnited j By the faith you fondly plighted ; By the pangs of lovers slighted ; J)o not, do not leave me so ! Do not, do not leave me so '. STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling ? Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave I 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'er us, £iot a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before ui — But a world without a friend ! f THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Tune — «• Morag." Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover ; Since my young Highland rover' Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go t where'er he stray, May heaven be his warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey And bonnie Castle-Gordon 1 The trees now naked groaning, Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blythely singing, And every flowe- be springing. Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by his ruighty warden, My youth's return 'd to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle Gordon. 4. B Of he young Chevalier, and is ipposed to be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 17S8. t The young Highland rover is supposed to be the young Chevalier, Prince Charles Ed- ward. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. rune-"M«Gri r of Ru< s Lament. ' Raving -winds around her blowing, "Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella straj'd deploring. «« Farewell, hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow. *« O'er the past too fondly -wandering, On the hopeiess future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, O how gladly I'd resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee I "* MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Time—*' Druimion dubh. " Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love ana me ; Wearying heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, W T hisp'ring spirits round my pillo.- Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me Downy sleep the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far awa 1 She tripped by the banks of Em, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Blythe, &c. Her bonnie face it was as n/eek As ony lamb upon a lee ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet \s was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. Bis the, &c. The Highland hills I've wander 'd wid And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the biythest lass That ever trode the dewy green. Blythe, &c A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A Rcse-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, e gently bent its thorny stalk, Ml on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are lie..'-, .' its crimson glory spread, And druoping ricli ihe dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. she soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew 'd, Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, rembiing string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents tby early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, And bles= ti.e parent's evening ray That watched thy early morning.* BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, blythe, and merry was si Blythe was she but and ben ; Blythe by the banks of Em, And blythe in Glenturit glen. WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. ■Where, braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochils rise. Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes. ^s one who by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, ^stonish'd doubly marks its beam, With art's most polish'd blaze. early e proposition. * This song was written during the winter of 1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of the R*fd, is the heroine. BURNS POEMS. Blest be the wild, sequester 'd shade, And blest the day and hoar, Where Peggy's charms I first sur%ey 'o YY'hen first I felt their power ! The tyrant Death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune — «* Invercauld's ReeL " O Tibbie, I hae seen the day Ye would na been sae shy ; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But troth I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae, &c. I doubt na lass, tut ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to \ inter, •Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging I adore my bonnie Bell. THE GALLANT WEAVER. Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, Bv mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons hne. And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine, And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher -band To "ie the lad that has the land, But°to my heart I'll add my hand, And give it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in opening flowers , While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver.* LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean ; Dyvour beggar louns to me, I rei<*n in Jeanie's bosom, Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me : * la some editions sailor is substituted for FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody t I could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake of somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O sweetly smile on somebody 1 Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody 1 I wad do— what wad I not ? For the sake of somebody I THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! And ave the saut tear blins her e e : Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me ; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear and brethren three. Their windin" sheet the bloody clRy, Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever bless 'd a woman s e e ! Vow wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; or monie a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR TIIE DEATH OF HER SON. Tutie—" Finlayston House. " Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierced my darling s heart : And with him all the joys are fled Life c.a.n to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes, My tge's future shade. Th2 mother linnet in the brake, Be wails her ravished young ; So I for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live-day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now fond I bare my breast, J O "do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest J BURNS.— POEMS. O MAY, THY MORN. >D May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, A* the mirk night o' December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : Ind dear was she I darena name, ilut 1 will aye remember. And dear, ic. And here's to them, that like oursel, Can push aboui 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 darena lei), The dearest o' the quorum, And here's to, &c. -) what ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'ening sun is shining on. Wow haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by you spreading tree ; Hew blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. How blest ye birds that roand her sing, And welcome iu the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to uiy Lucy dear. The sun blinks blythe on yon town. And on yon bonuie braes of Ayr ; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms O' paradise could yield me joy j lint gie me Lucy iu my arms. And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. jjy cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air ; *nd she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. ) sweet is she in yon town, You sinkin son's gane down upon ; A fairer lhan's iu yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate has sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom 'd to bear ; I careless quit aught ehe below, Rut spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. And she — as fairest is her form, She has the truest kindest heart.* , * The heroine of this song, Mrs O. (for if Miss L. J.) died lately in Lisbon. This aost accomplished and most lovely woman, was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibil- A RED. RED ROSE. O my love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June, my love's like the melody That's sweetly play'd in tun^. As fair art thou, my bonny lass, So deep in 'ove am I ; And 1 will love thee still my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 1 will love thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again my love, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. A VISION. As I stood by von roofless tower, Where the wa'-llower scents the dewv a Where the howlet mourns in her ivy Lowei And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars thev shot along the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. n adown its hazelly path, s streaming fo :h The cauld blue no Her lights, wi' 1 Athort the lift they starfand shift, ' Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, ; And by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie — Liberty 1 ity, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband, as tha reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr Syme inclosing this song. t Variation. To join yon river on tha Strath. {Variation. Now looking over firth and fau'J, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear d ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auid, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. Q DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. He sang wl' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter ti Eat what he said it was nae play I winna venture 't in my rhyni< COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS MR WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAKO's PICTURE. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of ei tru heart, But now 'lis despised and neglected : Tbo' something like moisture conglobes in nr Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may v/ell claim a sigh, Still mere, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degeuer; That name should he scoffingly slight it. Their title's avow'd by the country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, * This poem, an imperfeet copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last cor- rections. The scenery so finely described is takeu from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Ctuden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities ©f that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding eon- Terse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our poet 's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortunateiy for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the 're- sources of his genius, a strain of poetry could havo been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. But loyalty, truce! we're on daugero-.is ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter, The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty souud, 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 And ushers the long drearv night : But you, like- the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is blight. My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sin- cere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since 1 came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that i have the honour to be, Revered Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, R. BURNS, Edinburgh, 1787. CALEDONIA. Tune — '« Caledonian Hunt's Delight. " There was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- vine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew . Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly «« Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue!" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. Her darling amusement, the hounds and the Long quiet she reigned } 'till thitherward A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :+ Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken 'd the air, and they plunder M the land : BURNS— POEMS. Their pounces were murder, and terror their They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world be- She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; * The wild Scandinavian *ioar issued forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:} O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel,; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell, t The Cameleon-savage disturb 'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife j Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at ones of his hopes and his life : § The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- ver flood ; Bat taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangled triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; Then ergo she'll match "them, and match them always. j| THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OF- ■ KERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EX« PENSE. Kind sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How gness'd ye, sir, what maist I wanted! This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; Or what the druinlie Dutch were Join' ; * The Saxons. '-f The Danes. iTwo famous battles, in which the Danes or Norwegians were defeated. § The Highlanders of the Isles. (I This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers to the famous proposi- tion of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypo- thenuse is always equal to the squares of the That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off ; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russian and the Turks J Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt *. If Denmark, ony body spako't ; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hing How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin or takin ought amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain';* court kept up the game ; How royal George, the Lord leuk o e Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bars a— a yet were tax'd ; The new9 o' princes, dukes, and earls. Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls i 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 I Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. ml two other sides. ON PASTORAL POETRY. Hail Pcesie ! thou nymph reserved! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o* clavcrs ; And och J o'er aft thy joys 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 1 In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; Wee Tope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy eweet sang, Barbauld survives Even Sappho's flame. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches j Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O' heathen tatters: I pass by handers, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw ag& o' wit and tear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace ; DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Yes ! there is ans ; a Scottish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behinl the hallan, A chiel so clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamiallan, But thou's for ever. Thon paints auld nature !o the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowdin stream thro' mvriies twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breeze? sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell ! la gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonuie lasses bleach iheir claes ; Or trots by haze'ly shaws or braes, VVi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BET'iTZES THS Dl'KB OX ARGYLE AND THJ5 EARL OK HAS. «' O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd" the sheep wi' me, man ! Or were ye at the Sherra-inuir, And did the battle see, man ?** *' I saw the battle sair and teugh, And reekin-rei ran moaie a sheugh, Mr heart for fear gae sough for sough. To Lear 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 rcsh'd and oush'd, and bluid outgush'd, And mony a bo'ak did fa', man : The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles ! They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd. And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and Till fey men died awa, man. But had yon seen the phflibegs, And skyTin tartan trews, man, Wlien in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; Inlm :nded 1; When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hastened to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, They fled like frighted does, man. " ' ■ how dell Tam can that be trae f The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man ; And at Dumblane, in mj ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight j But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; And mony a hunted poor red-coat For fear amaist did swarf, man. " '• Mj sister Kate came up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man : She Srtoor she saw some rebels run, Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebor's blood to spill j For fear by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, And so it goes, you see, man. " " They've lo=t some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland c'.ans, man; I fear hit Lord Panmure is slain, Or fal en in whiggish hands, man ; Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wraug, and some for right ; But mony bade the world gude-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and niell, By red claymores, and muskets' kneli, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man. "* SKETCH, NEW YEAR'S DAY. TO MBS DX^fLOP. This day, Time winds the 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, dnli routine. The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf as my frieud he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Maor's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila's fair Rachel'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, Una ciay'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 ! " rhis was written about the time our bard made his lour to the Highlands, 1787. f This young lady was drawing a pictur« Coila from the Vision, see page 131. BURNS — POEMS. Best on— for what ! What do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will time, anius'd with proverb 'd lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may— a few years must- Repose us in the silent dust. Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ? Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of nature loudly cries. And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state, llang matters of eternal weight ; That future-life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone : "Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woful night — Since then, my honour'd first of friends, On this poor being all depends : Let us th* important now employ, And live as those who never die. Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, "Witness that filial circle round, (A sight life's sorrows to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse) Others now claim your chief regard, Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPORE, ON THE LATE MR WILLIAM SMELL1E,* AUTHOR OP THE PHILOSOPHY OP NA- TURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OP THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OP EDINBURGH. night, His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild-staring thatch'd, A head for thought profound and clear, un- match 'd; Yet, tho : his caustie wit was biting rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. POETICAL INSCRIPTION, FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, * Mr Smellie, and our poet, were both mem feejsofaclub in Edinburgh, under the name fit' Crocballan Feucibles. Prepared power's proudest frown to bra '«, Who wilt not be, nor have a slave : Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine and worship here. THE DEATH OF MR RIDDEL. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : Thou young-eyed Spring, thy charms I can- not bear ; More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies? £ Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies, f The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me» mem 'ry of my loss will only meet. A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten 'd: How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection re- moved ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst -mwept, as thou livedst un- loved. Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on yon ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a But come» all ye offspring of folly so true. And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. t Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom our hard thought himself under many obligations. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, well measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly gay in life's Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. ANSWER TO A MANDATE SENT BY THB SURVEYOR OF THE WIN- EOWS, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FAR- MER, ORDERING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHE- THER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN HE HAD. My horses, servants, carts and graitb, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew before a pettle. My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, And wight and wilfu' a* his days seen ; My hand-a-hinf- a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie, f And your auld borough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime : My fur-a-hin,§ a guid, grey beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced : The fourth, a Highland Donald hssty, A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, As ever ran before a tail ; An he be spared to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. * The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough. t The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. f Kilmarnock. § The hindmost on the right hand; in the plough. 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 wither brunt the trundle. For men, I've jbree mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise; A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in father. 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 Davuc'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 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 t 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 licence out I'm takin*. Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; irdy stumps, the Lord be thankit 1 my gates on foot I'll shank it. Aada This list wi' my ai The day and date i Then know all ye Subscripsi huic, l hand I've wrote it, i under notet ; fhom it concerns, ROBERT BURNS. Nae gentle dames.'tho' e'er sae fair;|| Shall ever be my muse's care ; Their titles a' are empty show ; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 1 set me down, wi' right good will, To sing my Highland lassie, O. were yon hills and valleys mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &o. II Gentle is used here in opposition to sim- ple, in the Scottish and old English sense of the word. Nee gentle dames. — No high BURNS POEMS. But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland lassie, O. Wilhiu the glen, &c. Aliho' thro' foreign clims« I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c. For her I'll dare the billow's roar, For her I'll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw, Around my Highland lassie, O, Within the glen, &c. She has my heart, she has my hand. By sacred truth and honour's band I ' 1111 the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c. Farewell the glen sae bushy, 0, Farewell the plain sae rushy, O, To other lands I now must go, To singrn-y Highland lassie, O. * IMPROMPTU, ON MRS 'S BIRTH DAY. 4th November, 179S. Old Winter with his frosty beard, Thus cnce to Jove his prayer preferr'dj •* What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow s lily dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil; To counterbalance all this evil ; Give me, and I've no mere to say, Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich Jne, Spring, Summer,Autumn cannot match me ;' •* 'Tis .-one '. " says Jove ; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory. ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh wert thou in the cculd 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 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. t)r were I monarch o' the globe, With thee to reign, with thee to reign The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queeii. TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY I -, OV DUMFRIES ; With books which the bard presented her. Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her faifest page, With every kindliest, best piesage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame, And wakeful caution, still aware Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find, And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward ; So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. ning walk. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. At tby blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear. Sits meek content with light unanxiotts heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mile high heaven bestowed, that mite ' with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE, TO MR S — E. On refusing to dine with him. after havir.g been promised 'the first of company, and the first of cookery, 17th December, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first m the nation : Who is proof to thy personal convert and Is proof to all other temptation, TO MR S—E, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEX OF FORTES. O had the malt thy strength of mind, ^Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; ' i\\ ere Lj-ink f^r tirst of human kind, A gift that e'en fcr S~e were tit. Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Aiake, alake, the mettle deil. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Tone — •« Push about the Janus." April, 1795. Does haczLty Gaul invasion threat ? Then let the loons beware, sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas. And volunteers on shore, sir. The N iih shall run to Corsinccn,* And Criffel sink in Sol way, f Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! *« Fall derail, &c. O let us not, like snarling ijkes, In wrangling be dhided ; 'Till s!ap come in an unco loon Aud wi* a rung: decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Aniacg oursels united ; For never but by British hands Maun British wran^s be rishted. «« Fai de rail, &c The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't j But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't j Jur fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it j Sy heaven the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. " Fall de rail, &c The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne. May they be damn'a together! "Who will not sing •* God save the king," Shall hang as high's the steeple ; Bat, while we sing " God save the king," >Ve 'il ue 'tr forget the people. ; *itche» Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, la my poor pouches. I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it t That one pound one, I sairly want it. If wi' the hizzie down ye send it* It would be kind; And while my heart wi» life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, double plenty o'er the loauin To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hail design. POSTSCRIPT. heard this while how I've been licke And by fell death was nearly nicket : loon ! he gat me by the fecket. And sair me sheuk : But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, Aud turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life I'm promised ma';r o't, My hale and weel I'll tak' a' care o't, A tentier way : Then fareweel foliy, hide and hair o't, " r ance and aye. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send : (Not moony madness more astray) "Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah why should I s.ch scenes outlive 1 Scenes so abhorrent to my heart J 'lis thine to pity and forgive. * A high hill at the source of the Nith. •} A well knowu mountain at the mouth of Ike sain* riier, FOEM ON" LIFE, My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal : Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 1 he steep Parnassus, Surrouaded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty world were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : " d fortune, favour, worth, and merit, As they deserve ; (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would starve ?) Dame life, (ho* fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; BURNS — POEMS. Ob ! flickering, feeble, and nnsicker I've found her still, Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut ou Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast 6aut o He's aff like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, First showing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, To put us daft ; Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare hell's dainn'd wafu Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld dainn'd elbow veuks wi* joy. And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon hejls o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on the 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 wkh this draunting drivel. Abjuring a' intentions evil, 1 quat my pen ; The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen I amen I ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. And ranked plagues their numbers tell, Indreadfu' raw, Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel, gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ; i* the faes o' Scotland's weel A towmond's Tooth-Ache. My c iuy curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alai-g ; And thro' my lugs gies inony a twang, Wi' gnawing veugeaucej Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes; Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan As round the lire the giglets keckle, To see me loup ; While raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O' a' the num'rous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see ! The tricks o* knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. ' hell, Tune— ' Morag. ' wha is she that lo'es me, And has my heart a-keeping ? sweet is she that lo'es ine, As dews o' summer weeping, In tears the rose-bud steeping. CHOHUS. O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer ; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her. If thou shall meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming. That e'en thy chosen lassie, Ere while thy breast sae warming, Had ne'er sic powers alarming. O that's, &c If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attentions plighted. That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted : And thou art all delighted. O that's, &c But her thou hast deserted, And ihou art broken hearted— O that 's, &c. tie's ta'en the parting kiss, i'er the mountain he is gane ; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plaihy sleets and beating rain, Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain. Wben the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blythe his waukening be! DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. For where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame. SONG. My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form The frost of hermit age might warm : My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's inind, Might charm the first of human kind : I love my Peggy 's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye ; Who but owns their magic sway, "Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms, These are all immortal charms. WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, INCLOSING A LETTISH TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. Tuns — " Sir John Malconi. " Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo, and ago, If he's among his friends or foes ? Irani, coram, dago. Is he South, or is he North f Igo, and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies ? Igo, and ago, And eaten like a wether haggis ? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; Igo, and ago, As for the deil he daur na steer him, Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit th' inclosed letter, Igo, and ago, Which will oblige your humble debtor. Iram, coram, dago. So may you have auld stanes in store, Igo, and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo, and ago, ^he coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRY. ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I call no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gilt still dearer as the giver you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light t And all ye many sparkling stars of night '. If aught that giver from my mind efface j If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; Then roll to me, along your wandering 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 informed : 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 And if it please thee, heavenly guide, May never worse be sent ; But whether granted or denied, Lord bless us with content ! Amen I TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. ON SENSIBILITY. Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; But distress, with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well I Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray ; L«t the blast sweep o'er the valleyj See it prostrate on the clay. BURXS POEMS. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest) Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless bird '. a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow : Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe. A VERSE, COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURKS, TO THE MASTER OE THE HOUSE, ON TAK- ING LEAVE AT A FLACE IN THE HIGH- LANDS WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSF1- TABLY 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. CORRESPONDENCE MR GEORGE THOMSON. CORRESPONDENCE, &c. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. sir, Edinburgh, September, 1792. For some years past, I have, with a friend or two, employed many leisure hours in selecting and collating the most favourite of our nation- al melodies for publication. "We have engaged Pleyelf the most agreeable composer living, to put accompaniments to these, and also to com- pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both public and private. To render this work perfect, we are desirous to nave the poetry improved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; and that it is so in many in- stances, is allowed by every one conversant with our musical collections. The edito these seem in general to have depended 01 music proving an excuse for the verses ; hence some charming melodies are united to mere nonsense and dpggrel, while others are accommodated with rhymes so loose and indeli- cate, as cannot be sung in decent company. To remove thi3 reproach, would be an easy task to the author of The Cotter's Saturday Night ; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present the public with a collection infinitely more interesting than any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of taste, whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- companiments, or characteristic verses. — We will esteem your poetical assistance a particu- lar favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are resolved to spare neither pains nor ex- pense on the publication. Tell me frankly then, whether you will devote your leisure to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular melodies, which I am pre- pared to send you. A few songs, exception- able only in some of their verses, I will like- wise submit to your consideration : leaving it to you, either to mend these or make new songs in their stead. It is superfluous to as- sure you, that I have no intention to displace any of the sterling old eongs ; those only will be removed which appear quite silly, or abso- lutely indecent. Even these shall all be exa- mined by Mr Burns, and if he is of opinion that any of them are deserving of the music in such cases, no divorce shall take place. Relying on the letter accompanying this, (o be forgiven for the liberty 1 have tuken in ad- dressing you, I am with great esteem, sir, your most obedient humble servant, O. THOMSON MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. SIR, Dumfries, 16th September, 1792. I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, f shall enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- most exertion by the impulse cf enthusiasm. Only, don't hurry me : ♦« Deil tak the hind- most" is by no means the art de guerre of mv muse. Will you, as 1 am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and since yon re- quest it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me have the list of your airs, with the first line of the printed- verses ycu intend for tbem, that I may have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers, to approve, or reject, at your pleasure, for your own publica- tion, Apropos, if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to pleasj myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, particu- larly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible. • Tweedside ;• 'Ah ! the poor Shepherd's mournful fate;' * Ah ! Chloris, could I now but sit,* &c. you cannot mend; but such insipid stuff as '"To Fanny fair, could I impart,' &c. usuully set to • The Mill Mill O,' is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection '.hit wi'l have the 256 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments I say, amendments ; for 1 will not alter ex- cept where 1 myself, at least, think that I amend. As to any remuH«ration, you may think my soDgs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with -which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution of soul I A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic pbrasa of the season, "Uuid speed the warkl" I am, Sir, your very humble servant, ■ K- BURNS. P. S. I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be known as little as possible. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, I3lh October, 1792. I received, with much satisfaction, your pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm with which you have entered into our under- taking. We have now no doubt of being able to produce a collection highly deserving of public attention, in all respects- I agree with you in thinking English verses, that have merit, very eligible, wherever new verses are necessary ; because the iMigiisn De- comes every year, more and more, the language of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English verses except those by Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I am half inclined to ditier from you. I should consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish di- alect to make room for English verses ; but if we can select a few excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such, merely because the authors were boru south of the Tweed? Our sweet air « My Nannie O,' which in the collection is joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, -While some for pleasure pawn their health,' answers so finely to Dr Percy's beauti- iul scag, ' O Nanny wilt thou go with me, that one would think he wrote it on purpose tor the air. However, it is not at all our wish to confine you to English verses : you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling* of your native tongue, as you elegantly express it, aud, moreover, we will patiently wait your own time. One thing only 1 beg, which is, ihat however gay and sportive the muse may be, she may always be decent. Let her not write what beauty would blush to speak, nor wound ttiat charm- ing delicacy, which forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the song to be the most proper vehicle tor witty aud brilliant conceits: simplicity, I Delieve, should be its prominent feature ; but in some iur songs, the writers have confounded simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity ; although, between the one and the other, as Dr Beattie well observes, there is as great a dif- ference as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- thetic complaint, is best suited to our artless melodies ; and more interesting indeed in all songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. With these trite observations, I send you eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to substitute others of your writing. 1 shall soou iisniit the rest, and at the same time, a pro- spectus of the whole collection : and you may believe we will receive any hints that you am so kind as to give for improving the work, with the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. MY DEAR SIR, Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify in your list have all but one the faults you re- mark in them ; but who shall mend the mat- ter ? Who shall rise up aud say— Go to, I will make a better ? For instance, on reading over « The Lea-rig,' 1 immediately set about trying my hand on it, aud, after all, I could i When o'er the hill the eastern star, Tells bughtin lime is near, my. jo ; And owseu frae the furrow'd field, Return sae dowf aud weary O ; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll mett thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen at midnight hour, I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O, If through that glen I gaed to thee. * In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, instead of wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the manuscripts, probably written after- wards, wet was changed into wild, evidently a great improvement. The lovers might meet on the lea-rig, " although the night were ne'er so wild, " that is, although the summer- wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder murmured ; such circumstances might render their mteting still more interesting. But if the night were actually wet, why should they meet on the lea-rig ? On a wet night, the ima- gination cannot contemplate their situation there with any complacency— TibuUus, and after him Hamxond, has conceived a happier situation for lovers on. a wet night. Probably I'd nest thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr Percy's ballad to the aii 'Nannie O,' is just. It is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad i:i the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric st\!e and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash ef our native tongue a:id manners is particularly, aay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but as I told you before, my opinion ia vours, freely yours, to approve or I eject, as you please) that mj ballad of 'Nannie O' might perhaps do for one set of verseo to the :une. Now don't let it enter into your bead, :hat you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind us to my own reputation in the business of author- ship ; and have nothing to be pleased or offend- ed at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what I give sow, I shall be pleased with your adopting theVther half, and shall continue to uerve you with the same assiduity. In the printed copj of my ' Nannie O,' the name of the river is horridly prosaic. 1 v. HI -CORRESPONDENCE. ing of ardent passi 257 " Behind yon kill where Lugu r flows.*' Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lug ar is the most agreeable modulation ol syllables I will soon give >ou a great ■ marks on this business ; but I 1 «««? more re- ave just now In opportunity of conveying you Iree of postage, an expense that this scrawl, t is ill able to lay ; so, with my best cotnpliin* VI Ian, (Jcod be wi' ye, lie. Bis to honest Friday Night. Saturday Morning. As I find I have still an hour to spare this ■Wrriing before my conveyance goes away, I .> rli give }ou « Na-uiie O' at length. (See p i our remarks on the * Ewebughts, Marion, ' Ire just; stiil it has obtained a place among »ur more classical Scottish songs ; and what with many beauties in its composition, and ■lore prejudices in its favour, you will not hud it easy to supplant it. In my very early years, when T was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, ind has nothing of the merit of 'Ewe bughts ;' but it will fill up this page. You must know, that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- on, and though it might been easy in after-times to have gives them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed ou them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore ?. Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, Across la* Atlantic's roar ? sv/eet grows the lime and the And the apple on the pine : But a' the charms o' the ludie Can never equal thine. crar. fkae sw lhae And sae When orn by the Heavens to worn by the Heavens iforge^yTow^ myM plight And p rili-'it liefore me your faith, mv Mj ighlineyourlih-'wh, me your faith, my Ma i leave Scotia's Btran e'jnau Burns had i Scottish long .urally enoug l his mind the ve , in which wet and •i conjoined. rse of n n old "When my He's often Cast off the \ And gae to iloughman comes I vet, put on the dry, bed my deary. " ame a 'en We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join, And curst be the cause that shall part u The hour and the moment o' time J* speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. iNiywish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplj ing bigot of opiniatrcte, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. November Stk, 1792. If you mean, my desr sir, that all the songs in your collection shail be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will lind more difficulty I in the undertaking than you are aware of. There j is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs and a necessity of adapt ; ng syllables to the empha- ! sis, or what I would call the feature notes, of I the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him un- i der almost insuperable difficulties, For in- j stance, in the a\r, • My wife's a wanton wee ! thing, ' if a few 'ines, smooth and pretty, can j be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The i following were made extempore to it ; and I though, on farther study, I might gi\e you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this I random clink. * This song Mr Thomson has not adopted in his collection. It deserves, however, to be preserved. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. She is a handsome nee thing, She is a bonnis wee tiling, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist ray heart l'l! wear her, For fear iny jewel tine. The world's wrack we share o The wrastle and ike care o't ; AVi' her I'll blylhely bear it, And think ray lot divine. Ihavejnst been looking over the Collier's bonny Dochter, and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charm- ing Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome. saw ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed o'er the border ? She's gane like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever ; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither. Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee : Thou' art divine, fair Lesley, The hears o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang tb.ee ^ He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, " I canna wrang thee. ' The Dowers aboon wit] lent thee ; Misfortune sha'ima steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelj, That iil they'll ne'er let near thee, i again, fair Lesley, arn to Caledonie ! \-e may brag «e liae a lass I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, they ^re all put into your hands, as cay into the" hands of the polteV, to make one vessel to bonour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. HIGHLAND MARY. Tune— " Katherice Ogie. '" Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The cast:e o' Montgomery, Green be jour woods, and fair your flowers. Your w'aters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel 0' ray sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom 'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; As underneath the fragrant shade, I ciasp'd her to my bosom I The goiden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender : And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder : But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ; And closed fcr a\e, the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust, The heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary. my deak six, 14,'ft November, 1792. 1 agree with yoa, that the song, ' Katherine Ogie,' is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to meud it, but the awkward sound Ogie, recurring so often in the rhyi enip! i cing b othe] ■egoing si.iig pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at first glance :hat it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting pas- sages of my youthful days ; and I own that I should be much flattered lo see the verses set to an air, which would iusure celebrity. Pen- haps after ali, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws a boirowed lusira over the merits of the composition. I have partly taken your idea of * Auld Rob Morris.' I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet lug ; and do you, eaus eeremonie, make what use you choose of the production*. Adieu, ic. BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. No. VII. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS, DEAR 61R, Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. I was just going to write lo you, that on meet- ing with your Nannie,' I had fallen violently in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the charming rustic to me in the drpss you wish her to appear in before the public. She does you great credit, and will soon be admitted into the best company. I regret that your song for the 'Lea-Rig, ' is so short ; the air is e:isy, sung soon, and very pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well possessed. Although a dash of our native tongue and Planners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to our melodies, yet I sha.l be able to present a considerable number rf the very- Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those melodies, which in England, at leas', will be the means of recommending them to still greater attention than they have procured ihere. But you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall, in the lirst place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets ; and that those of English writers shall follow as additional songs, for the choice of (he singer- VVhat you say of the • Ewe-bughts* is just ; I admire it, and never niennt lo supplant it. All I requested was, that you would iry your hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are apparently 10 part of the original song; but this I do not urge, because the song is of suffi- eient length, though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be by the singer of tasie. You must not think I expect all the songs to be of superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable expectation. 1 am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen verses and succeed ,-L'U a aii r. I am highly pleased with your humorous and amorous rhapsody on 'Bonnie Leslie :' it is a thousand times better than the 'Collier's Las- sie:* ««The deil he could na scaiih thee," &c. is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you not think, however, that the names of such old heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un- less in pompous or mere burlesque verse! In- stead of the line, "And never made anither ;" I would humbiy suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither;" and I would fain have you sub- stitute some other line for " Return to Caledo- nie," in the last verse, because 1 think this al- teration in the orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. Of the other song, 'My wife's a winsome wee thing, ' I think the lirst eight lines are very good ; but I do not admire the other eight, be- cause four of them are bare repetitions of the first verses. I have been trying to spin a stan- za, but could make nothing better than the following ; do you mend it, or as Yorick did with the love-letter, whip it up inyourowa way. leeze me on my wee tiling, My bonnie blyihesouie wee thing ; Tho' warld's care we share o't, And may see meikle ruair o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And ne'er a word repine. You perceite, my dear sir, I avail myself of the liberty which you condescend to allow me by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, it is not lr.y disposition to pick out the faults of any poem or picture I see ; my (irst and chief object is to discover and be delighted with the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have written in haste, I may happen to ob- serve careless lines, the re-perusal of which might lead you to improve them. The wren will often see what has been overlooked by the eagle. I remain yours, faithfully, &c P. S. Your verses upon ' Highland Mary* are just come to hand ; they breathe the ge- nuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever. Such verses united to such an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel superaoJed, might form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo himself. I have heard the sari story of your Mary : you always seem inspired when you write of her. No. VIII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Dumfries, \st December, 17S2. Your alterations of my 'Nannie O' are perfectly right. So are those of ' My wife's a wanton wee thing.' Your alteration of the second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom which characterises our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter « Bonnie Lesley. ' You are right, the word ' Alexander ' makes the line a little uncouth. But 1 think the thought is pretty. Of Alex, ander, beyond nil other heroes, it may Le said, in the sublime language of scripture, that "he went forth conquering and to conquer." " For nature made her what she is, And never made anither," (such a person as she is.) This is in my opinion more poetical than '< Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is immaterial : Wake it either way.* " Caledo- nie," I agree v ith you, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the must difficult that I have ever tried. The ; Lea rij,' is as follows. (Where the DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain dear, my jo : At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo ; Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, tt mak's my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea rig, My aiu kind dearie, O. I am interrupted. Yours, &e. No. IX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. AULD ROB MORXIS.* There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnte lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay ; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me manna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my The day c> , but delight brings The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane I wander my lane like a night-iroub'.ed ghais And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in m DUNCAN GRAY. Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't- On blythe yule night when we were Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie coast her head fu' nigh, LookM asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o'f. Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray 'o Ha, ha, &c. Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig.f Ha, ha, &c. Duncan sigh'd baitb out and in, Grat his een bailh bleer't and blin', Spak o' iowpin o'er a linn ; Ha, ha, ic. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c. Slighled love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, &c. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die '( She may gae to — France for rje '. Ha, ha, cVe. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, &c. Meg grew sick as he grew heal. Ha, ha, &c. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; ii-nd Ch, her een they speuk sic thing' Ha, ha, &c. Dunca n wa- a lad o' grace, Ha ha, ccc. Maggi i's was 1 piteous cas e, Ha ha, &c. Dunca n could ath, Svvelli ng pity moor'd his wrath ; Now t ,>ey'rec c,u*e and ca ity baith. Ha, ha, the n iih December, 1792. The foregoing I submit, my dear sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them or condemn them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of n» air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. No. X. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON, SONG. Tune — «• I had a horse. " O pooriith cnu'd end restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ve ; Yet poortilh a' I could forgive," An' 'twere na' for my Jeauie. O why should fate sic pleasure hare, Life's dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae sweet a flower as love, Depend on fortune's shining ? I A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. t This has nothing in common with the old licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line and part of the third. The rest is wholly | original. 1 \ i DURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. This warld's wealth wher It's pride and a' the la' Fie, tie, o" Billy coward i That he should be the s O v.hy, Hereen sae bonnie blue b How she She talk repays niy^o.skri ; o' rank and fashion. O why, &c wha can And sic wha can Aad sae prudence thinlc upon, i lassie by him ? prudence think upon, iu love as I urn ? why, &c How blest the humble collar s fate '.* Ke woces his simple dearie i The silly bogles wealth and stale O why should fate sic pleasure have Life's dearest bands untwining! Or why sae sweet a flower as love, Depend on Fortune's shining ? GALLA WATER. There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro* the blooming heathej But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, .Can match, the lads o' Galla water. But there is ane, a eecret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better ; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird. And tho' I hae na meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindness, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. January, 1793. Many returns of the season to you, my dear sir. How comes on jour publication? will these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 1 should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I wouid wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish, You know, it is my trade ; and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints, that fscape men of much superior parts and endowments in other If you meet with my dear, and mucb-valued C. greet him in my name, with the compli- Yours, &c. No. XI. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, Jan-uay, 20Ui, 1793. You make me happy, my dear sir, and thou- sands will be happy to see the charming songs you have sent me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and may you long continue among the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to delight them, and to honour yourself. The four last songs with which you favoured me, for * Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla Water,' and « Cauld Kail,' are admira- ble. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to every body. The distracted lover in ' Auld Rob,' and the happy shepherdess in « Galla Water,' exhibit an (Xcellent contrast ; they speak from geuuine foeiing, and powerfully touch the heart. The number of songs which I had originally in view was limited, but I now resolve to in- clude everv Scotch air and song worth sing- ing ; leaving none behind but meie gleanings, to which the publishers of ommgaiherum are welcome. I would rather be the editor of a collection from which nothing could be taken away, than of one to which nothing could be added. We intend presenting the subscribers with two beautiful stroke engravings; the one characteristic of the plaintive, aad the other of the lively songs ; and I have Dr iieattie's pro- mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- tional music, if his health will permit him to write it. As a number of our songs have doubtless been called forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless damsels, there must be many curious anecdotes relating to them. The late Mr T\ tier of Woodbouselee, I be- lieve, knew more of this than any body, for be joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste for poetry, besides being a man of the world, and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say, it has been solely managed by me, and we had several long conversations about it, when it was in embryo. If I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each song, and the '.s of the season. information of this sort, as well with regard to your own songs, as the old ones '( To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the comic or humorous class, I think accom- paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly luted fur tht conviviality of" the festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, renders them perfect. Neverthe- less, to these I propose adding bass accompani- ments, because then they are iitted either for singing, or for instrumental performance, when there happens " " l the " ! do, ight trusty friend Mr Clarke to set uass to these, which he assures me he will than he ever bestowed on any thing of kind, But for this last class of airs, I DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. •31 not attempt to find i : than one set of That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has start- ed I know not how many difficulties, about writing for the airs I sent to him, because of tiie peculiarity of their measure, and the tram- mels they impose ou his nyiag Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one I have yet got from him, being for the fine air ' Lord Gregory.' The Scots verses printed with that air. are taken from the middle of an old ballad, called, 'The lass of Lochrojan,' which I do rot admire. I have set down the air therefore a= a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs are replece with wit ana humour ; might POSTSCRIPT. FROM THE HON. A. ERSK1NE. ingly pataetic, and ' Duncan s hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is a most excellent fellow, and posses- ses, above all men I know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. You kindly pro- mised me, about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and amorous ; I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If you win ge; anj trusty per- son in Dumfries to write t'uem over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble; and I certainly shall not betray your confidence. I am your hearty admirer, ANDREW ERSKLNE. .YR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 26th Jcmua'y, 1793. I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. Dr Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure- Oa my par*, I mean to draw up an appendix to the' Doctor's essay, containing m_. stoc«. of anecdotes, ic of our t-cots s ^igs. All the late Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with bim from his own mouth. I am such an en- thusiast, that in the coarse of my several pere- grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrim- age to the individual spot from which every song :ook its rise, ' Locaaber, ' and the « Braes of Ballenden,' excepted. So far as tiie local- ity, either frcm the title of the air, or the tenor oflhe song, ccu'.d be ascertained, I have pa : d my devotions at the particular shri: e of every Scottish muse. I do not doubt but yon might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs — bui would it give no offence ': In the meantime, .Link that some of : larlv 'The Sow's tail to Geordie,* as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs ? If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a nairete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight in- termixture of Scots words aud phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, aoci I wili add, to every genu::.; taste), with the simple pathos, or rustic ;prightliness of our i . . - vkatei The very name of Peter Pindar, is an ac- quisition to your work. His 'Gregory' is beautiful. 1 have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter Peter; that would be presump- tion indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has I think more of the ballad simplicity in it. LORD GREGORY. mirk, mirk is this midnight hour* And loud the tempests roar ; A waeful 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 Gresorv, mind'st thou not ihe grcve, By bonnie "irwine side, Where irst I owa'u that Tirglu love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and tow. Thou wad for aye be mine ; And my fond heart itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast ; Thou dart of Heave;-, that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mastering thunders from above. ■g rid ii see! * The song of Dr Walcott on the sann ject is as follows : Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, A miduirht wanderer sighs ; Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. And ligbtuings cleave the skies. Who carries wili woe at this drear night A pilgrim of the gloom, If she whose love did once delight, My cot shiil yield her room. Alas ! thon heard'st a pilgrim mnmm, Thai on?-; ■•• f - - My most respectful compliments nourable gentleman who favoured me «■>■• ~ postscript ill your last. He shall hear from uje and his MSS. soon. No. XIII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 20 Ih March, 179 MARY MORISON. Tune— <« Bide ye yet." O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wisli'd, the trysted hour ; Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor; How blythely wad I bide the statue. estreeu when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', o thee my fancy took it. wing. Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thv sake wad gladly die ! Or canst thou break tbai heart of Ins Wbase onlv faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At leatt be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle .canna he The thought o' Mary Morison. MV DEAR SIR, The song prefixed is one of ruy juve works. I leave it iu your hands. I do think it very remarkable, either for its me; or demerits. It is impossible (at least 1 te 60 in my stinted powers) to be always or.gi BURNS.- CORRESPONDENCE. to the 1 2 S3 tty. W hat is become of the li I shall be out of all temper with y I have always looked on myself ; of indolent correspondents, and v accordingly ; and I will not, cam 6hi|i from ycu, or any body else. of;, ot But should'st thou not poor Marian know, I'll turn my feet and part ; And think the storms that round me blow, Far kinder than thy heart. It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to men- tion, that his song is the original. Mr Burns aaw it, liked it, and immediately v. rote the other on the same subject, which is derived (torn an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. No. XIV. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. March, 1793. WANDERING WILLIE. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haudawa name. Come to my bosom my ae only dearie. And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the Loud blew tbe cauld Winter winds at our part- It was nae the blast brought the tear in my Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Ye hurricanes rest iu the cave o' your slum how your wild horrors a lo\er alarms : Awaken y"e breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie auce ruaur to iny I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine whether the above, or the old «« Through the laug Muir " be the best. No. XV. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH WITH ALTERATIONS. Oh open the door, some pity to show Oh, open the door to me, Oh. * Tho' thou hast teen false, I'll ever prove ti Oh, open the door to me Oh. Cauld is the blast upon mv pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, Oh : The frost that freezes the life at my heart. Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh. i setting behind the white DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. She has open'd the door, she hae open'd h She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh : Wy true love! she cried, and sank down by h productions of your muse : your Lord Gregary, in my estimation, is more interesting than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your • Here Awa Willie' must undergo some alterations to suit the air. Mr Erskine and i have been conning it over: he will suggest w make thera a fit match.* s necessary to > WANDERING WILLIE. No. XVI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. JESSIE. Tune — «« Bonnie Dundee. " True hearted was he, the sad swain o' t!: Yarrow. e maids on the banks o' tt » the Nuh's windin And fair ai Ayr, But by the sweet s Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; To equal young Jessie, 6eek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie, jou seek it in vain, Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. s the r e in the gay, dewy n 'i ell l, there awa, wandering Willie, wa, there awa, haud awa hime ; my bo with you, a relating to thi i number of tin and accompaui- | here, | But oh o nature, vild storms, in and welcome my i Wiliie to me. How your dread howling a Waken ye breezes, row ge And waft ray dear laddie wents added to then that I might serve up some cf them !c _ your own verses, by way of dessert after din- ' Flow still betw ner. There is so much delightful fancy in the | May I never se< symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in ] But, dying, be the accompaniments : they are indeed beyond ail praise. | Several of the alterai'ons seem to be of little S am very much pleased with the several last j importance in themselves, and weie adopUd* s faithless, and minds na his ?en us thou wide-roaring main : I it, may I never trow it, ieve that my Willie's my aia. BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine ta=te you are no stranger to, is so well pleased bo'th with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his os.-istance, and has already written four songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send for jour perusaL No. XVIII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS BLAWN. Air— The Mill, Mill O.' 's deadly blast was b :et babe fatherless, When wild t And gentle Wi' uiony a And mony I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodge My humble knapsack a' my we A poor and honest sodger. ile A leal light heart My hand unsta And for fair Scotia, hame ag I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' I thought upon my Nancy I thought upon the witching Thai caught my youthful fancy At length I reach'd the hounie glen. Where early 1 fe I sported; I pas->'d the mill and trysting thorn, \\ here Nancy aft 1 courted : Wha spied I but my ai n dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling ! And turn'd liie round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi* alter'd oice quoth T, sweet lass Sweet as j on hawthorn's blossom 0! happv. lappy may he be, That's de rest to thy bosom : My purse is igbt, I've far to gang, ?ad be thy lodge I've served my king and country lang, Take pity on a sodger. it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heav'ng, suggested by Mr Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime than which 1 only applicable to a led ; but a veil left element not so well adapted of ttii its surface after a. p ; cture of that the ideas of eter- nal separation, which the fair posed to imprecate. From tb of Here awa Willie, ' Burn nothing but the second line and part of the first. The superior excellence of '.his beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify the different Sae wistfully she gazed on me. And lovelier was than ever: Quo' she, a sedger mice 1 lo'ed ; F.rget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hauielv fare, Ye freely shall partake it," That gallant badge, the dear ccckade, Ye'r welcome for the s; She gazed— she redden'd like a rose — Syne pale like onv lily ; She sank within my arms, and cried. Art thou my ain dear Willie ? By Him who made yon sun and sky— By whom true love's regarded, I am the man ; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And lind thee still true hearted ; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quo' she, ray trrandsire left me gowd, A raailin plenish'd fairly ; And come, uiy faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! For gold t be mere jant pi y.:c) s the The far ner plot ghs th .: inn not ; But glory is the st priz The sod alth is honour ; Tie b-.ave poor so Iger ne 'erei es P i = Nor coo it him Remembe he'sh 5 CO-111 ry-s stay Iu day i nd hour of dai MEG O' THE MILL. O ken ye what M T eg o' the Mill has gotten, An ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. The Miller was strapping the Miller wa-= A heart like a lord and a hue like a iady -, The laird was a widd.efu', bleer-ee't knurl : She's left the gu:d iellow and taen the churl. The Miller he hecht her The La id did address i heart leal and lov» And wae on the love that's fix'd en a mailin 1 A tocher* s nae word in a true lover's parle. But, giet le my love, and a lig for the w arid. riginal ! No. XIX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. editions of it v.Uic : l.a 266 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. You cannot imagine tow much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments, What with my early attach- ment to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortification was Uncle Toby"'s ; so I'll e'en canter it awav till I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning post !) and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, c Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila* shall be • Good night and joy be wi' you a' ! ' So much for my last words ; now for a few present remarks as they have occurred at random on looking over your list. The first lines of 'The last time I cameo'er the moor,' and several other lines in it, are beau- my opinion— pardon n shade the rthv of tir. I shall • For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,' is a charming song ; but * Logon burn and Logan braes,' are sweetly susceptible of rural ima- gery : I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of * Logan Water,' (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty : ' My Patie mind is neve! indeed. This is surely far unworthy of Romsay, or your book. My song, * Rigs of Barley,' to the same tune, does not altogether please me, but if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it. I will submit it to your consideration. < The Lass o' Patie's Mill ' is one of Ramsaj 's best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend, i\Jr Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, whicli I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Roberliand, who had it of tl e late John, Eail of Loudon, I :ueh z s belie Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Cas- tle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to- gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot, on Irwine water, still called '- Patie's Mill,' where a bonnie lass tvas • tedd- calls hit self the : Voi Colla,' in imitation of Ossian, who denomi- nates himself the • Voice of Cona.' « Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and ' Good night and joy oe wi' you a',' are the names of two Scottish l|i»es. " ing hay, bareheaded, on the green.' My Lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theroo for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and ling- ering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. One day I heard Mary say,' is a fine song ; alter the ' Adr nis,' Wa there ev r such banns pub- liiheC , as a purn oseofmar riage between 'Ado- nis a id Mary? I agTee with you that my song, • There's n ought but :are on every hand, * « Poort LUlu.' The ill O, ' though ex- cellent, is, ^>n account of delicacy, inadmis- sible ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen son?, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. « The Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally Langolee to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some falsa imagery in it, for instance, " And sweetly the nightingale sung from the In the fint place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree ; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal to « The small birds rejoice,' &c. I do mjsdf honestly avow that I think it a superior song.* ' John Anderson my jo '—the song to this tune iu Johnston's Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst: If" it suit you, take it sud welcome. Your collection of sentimen- tal and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are « Tullocbgorum, Lumps o' puddiu, Tibbie Fowler,' and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preser- vation. There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called « Craigiefaurn Wood ;' and in the opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it ; and I would take his taste in Scot- tish music against the taste of most coimois- You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. « Shepherds I have lost my love,' is to me a heavenly air — what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a good while ago, which I think . . . . but in its original state is not quite a lady's song. I inclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, aiid let the Irish verses follow. (• * It will be found in the course of this cor- respondence, that the Bard produced a second stanza of 'The Chevalier's Lament,' (to which he here alludes) worthy of the first. T Mr Thomson, it appears, did not appro'* of this song, even in its altered state. It does not appear in the correspondence : but is pm. bably one to be found in his MSS. begin. BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. 2fi7 Let me know just h are all pretty, but his Yours, &c. s you like these random No. XX. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, April, 1793 I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that ball making continues to be your hobby horse. ; Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away for many a year and " witch the world with your horseman- i ship. " I know there are a good many lively songs of merit that 1 have not put down in the list seut you g but I have them all in rav eye. • My Patie is a lover gay,' though a litt'ls un- ! equal, is a natural and very pleasing song, and I humbly think we ought not to displace oi ' ter it except the last stanza.* No. XXL MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. April, 1793. I have yours, my dear sir, this moment, shall answer it and your former letter, in i desultory way of saying whatever comes u per most. The business of many of our tunes wanti at the beginning what fiddlers call a siarti note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. My song, ' Here awa there awa, ' as n by Mr Erskine, I entirely approve of, s turn you.f *• Yestreen I got a pint of wine, A place where body saw na : Yestreen lay on this tr-aet of mine, The gowden locks of Anna." It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain of sentiment does not correspoud with the air, to which he proposes it should be allied. * The original letter from Mr Thomson con- tains many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the words to the music, which at his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letleT of Mr Burns refers to se- veral of these observations. • •J The reader has already seen that Burns did Give me leave to criticise your ta=te in the only thing in which it is in my opinion repre- hensible. You know I ought to know some- thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge ; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity ; now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. Kamsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- not approve of taking such liberties with an author us Mr W. proposes doing with ' The la^t time I came o'er the Moor.' Let a poe', if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the works of the poor bard whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege! I grant that Mr TV's version is an improve- ment ; but I know Mr W« well, and esteem him much ; let him amend the song as the Highlander mended his gun ;— he gave it a new stock, and a new lock, and a new ban el. spoiling the whole. On< o' Pa'ie's Mill,' must t be left out ; the senp- will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with ' Corn Rig3 are bonnie. ' Perhaps it might want the last stanza and be the better for i . ' Cauld Rail in Aberdeen' you must leave with me yti a while. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, ' Poortith cauld and restless Love. ' At any rate, my other song, ' Green grow the rashes,' will never suit. That song Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name; which of course would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book w ill be the standard of Scots songs for the future ; let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm. I send a song on a celebrated toast in this country to suit ' Bonnie Dundee, ' 1 send you also a ballad to the ' Mill, mill O. 'i < The last time I came o'er the Moor,' I would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsays be the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can ycu come by Dumfries? 1 have suU several MS. Scots airs by me which 1 have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly ; but your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which 1 like them. I call their, simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called 'Jackie Hume's Lament?' 1 have a song of conquerable merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had not finally adopt all of .Mr Erskine's altera- £ The song to thelnne of ' Bomie Dundee is that in No. XVI. The ballad to tbe • Mill mill U, is that beginning, " When wild wars deadly blast was blinrn. '» DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. tbein ready to send to Johnson's Museum. * ] send jou likewise to me a teautiful little air, which I had taken down from vica roee.f ■y, perhaps, depends a great part cf mr burns to mr Thomson. April, 1793. T^—" The last time I came o'er the moor. Farewell thou stream that winding flows Around Maria's dwelling I Ah cruel rcem'ry ! spare the threes bosom swelling : Condemn 'd to crag a hopeless chain, Aad still ia secret languish ; To feel a tire in ev-. Yet dare not speak my ar.guLh. The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, I fain my crime would cover ; "... itrsl ._--;.. :ne unvveeiiug groaa B&gag the hopeless lov-r. 1 kaow my doom must be despair, Thou wilt nor canst reiie\e ine j But oh, Maria, hear one prayer, For pitj "s sake forgive me. The mnsic of thy tongue I heard, Nor wist while it enslaved me ; I saw thine eves vet nothing fear '4, 'Tdl fears no more had saved me. The unwary sa lor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent v ewing ; 'Mid circling horrors yields at iast To overwhelming ruin. 51V DEAR SIR, lhadscar.r : into the post- office, when 1 took up "the sif.ject of « The last time I came o'er the Moor,' and ere I slept drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is flattered, when you give my songs "a place iu your elegant and superb work ; bat to be ofserv.ee to the work is my first wish- As I have often told you, I do not in a single in- stance wish you, cut of compliment tome, to in- sert any thing of mine. One him let me give you — whatever Mr PTejel r'oes, let him not al- ter one icta of the original Scottish airs ; I mean, in the song department; but let our national music preserve i s native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreduc- ible to the mere modern rules ; but on '.hat very * The song here mentioned is that given in No. XVIII. " ' Oten ye what yiez o* the mill hisgotteu.' This song is surety Mr Burns's own writing, tnough he does not generally irsse his own songs so much. — Xte by Mr t The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote I u laaadg p. 203. No. lain. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, S6Lh April, 1793. I heartily thank yo.i, my dear sir, for your last two letters, and the songs which accompanied tbem. I am always both instructed and en- tertained by your observations ; and the frank- ness with which you speak cut your mind, is to me highly agreeable. It is very possible I may not' have the true idea of simplicity in composition. I confess there are several songs of Aiian Ramsay's for example, that I think silly enough, which another perscn more con- versant than I have be°n with country pecple, would perhaps call simple and ratural. But the lowest scenes of simple nature will not please generally, if copied precisely as they et, like :he paiuter, must select what wili form an p.greeatle as well as a natu- ral picture. On this subject it were easy to . ; = | but at present suffice it to say, that I consider simplicity, r'ghtly understood, as a most essential quality in composition, and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will gladl. appropriate your most interesting new ballad «"\Vhen wild war's deadly blast,' &c to the • Mill, mill, O, ' as well as the other two sougs to ther respective airs; but the third and fourth lines of the first verse* must indergo some liftle alteration in order to suit he music. Pleyel does not alter a sin;le note of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! With thenars which he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as pleases, cut that has nothing to do with the songs. with your ' i»igs o* Barley.' If the )vo:e sentiments were threshed oat of it, I will find en air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. MR BURNS 10 MR THOMSON. Jane, 1793. When I tell vou, my dear sir, that a friend of mine, in whom 1 am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed t mes, voa i Ida; it might unhinge me for - imong ballads. My own less, as to pecuniary matters, is (rifling; tut the total ruin of a much loved frieud, is a loss in- deed. Pardon my seeming inattention to your last con.-.- . I cannot alter the disputed lines in tne ' Will, mdl, O.'* What vou think a defect 1 est em were the third and fou BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. B3 a positive beauly : so you see how doctors differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands. You know Fraser, the hautboy player in Edinburgh— he is here instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this country. Among many of (lie airs that please hip, there is one well known as a reel Ly the name of « The Quaker's wife ;' and which I re- member a grand aunt of mine used to sing by the name of 'L'ggeram cosh, my bonuie wee lass.' Mr Fraser plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin; and enclose Fraser's set of the tune. If they hit your fancy they are at your service ; if not, return me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I think the song is not iu my worst 7"une — *' Liggeram cosh." Blythe hae T been on yon hill, As the lambs before me ; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me: Now nae lander sport and play, _ Mirth or sang can please me, Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize ine. Heavy, heavy is the task Hopeless love declaring : Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, Sighing, dumb, despairing ! If she winna ease the thraws, Inniy bosom swelling; Underneath the grass green sod, Socn maun be my dwelling. I should wish to hear how this pleases you. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Jam try, 5, 1793. the a • of ' Logat As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the lir»t number of Mr Thomson's Musical Work was in the press, this gentleman ven- tured, by Mr Erskine's advice, to substitute for them in that publication, me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of seme public destroyer; and over- whelmed with private distress the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three quarteis of an hour's meditation in my elbow chair, ought to have Tune—" Logan water." O, Logan sweetly didst thou gl : de. That day I was my Willie's bride ; Like Logan to ihe simmer sun. But now the flowery barks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry month o' May, litis made our hills and valleys gay ; The birds vejoiee iu leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing Cower Blithe morning lifts iiis rosy eye, e tears of joy: ; hawthorn bush, Wit Inn 5 " male will share her toil, But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. While Willie's far frae Logi Lives ts And Willie hauii idly hr.te ! iny a fend heart mourn, flinty hearts enjoy ears, tbe orphan's cry ;* ay peace bring happy days, Logan braes ! Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations wasie out of the wantonness of ambi- tion, or often from still more ignoble; i mood of this kind to-day, I recollec-ed 4ir_««Hughie Graham y love were yon red r That grc And I myseT a Into her boni ««Oh, there be I'd feast on b Seul'don hers Till lley'd aw This thought i ond expression blest, ;auty a' the night ; lk-saft faulds to rest, a by Phoebus' lighl. " rXpreasibly beautiful; and quite, solar as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original. This is the only alteration adopted by Mr Thomson, wl ' ' Burns did not approve or at least assent to * Originally, " Ye mind na 'mid your c The widow's tears, the orphan's criea.' el joys, m's crie «70 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. altogether, unless von gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a masiag five mi- nutes, oa the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I produced the following. The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess : but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place : as every poet, who" knows any thing of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding O were my love yon lilach fair, Wi" purple blossoms to the spring ; And I a bird to shelter there When wearied on my little wing. Horn I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew *d. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Monday, 1st Jmv, 17P3. I am extremely sorry, my good sir, that any thing should happen to unhinge you. The times are terribly out of fuue, and when har- ruouy will be restored, heaven knows. The lirsl book of songs, just published, will be despatched to you along with this. Let me be favoured with your opinion of it frankly I shall certainly give a place to the song you have written for the 'Quakers Wife;' it is quite enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of songs, w:th such airs added to it as you think ought io be included. The business now rests entirely on myself, the gentleman who originally agreed to join in the speculation having requested to be off. No matter ; a loser I cannot be. The superior excellence of ibe work w.ll create a general demand for it, as soon as it is properly known. And were the sale even slower than what it promises to be, 1 should be somewhat compensated for my labour, by the pleasure I should receive from the music I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite new so gs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what you have done ; as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suf- fer me to inclose a small mark of my grati- tude,* and to repeat it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for by heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end : and though this would be no loss to you, it would mar the publication, which under your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable and Wednesday morning. I thank yon for your delicate additional verses to the old fragment, and f.,r your excel- lent song to Logan water: Thomson's truly elegant one will follow for the English singer. Ycx.r apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed gentle character of the fair r who speaks it. No. XXYIL .MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. MY DBAK SIR, I hav July 2, 1703. and my best style, I send it you. Mr (ilarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs Burns' weed-note wild, is very fond of it ; and has gi-en it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. If yoa do not like the air enough to give it a p'aee in your collection, please"return it. The soug \ou may keep, as I remember it. There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen ; When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And aye she wrought her mamraie's wark, And aye she sang sae merrily ; i ..e ":._. ...e = : _..-_ l.. : r. -be i.u = a Had"i.e'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhites nest ; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest te=i. Yonng Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glea ; And he had owsen, sheep and kye, And wantun uaigies nine or ten. He ?aed wi* Jean'e to Che tryst, He daaced wi' Jeanie on the down ; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As in the bosom o' the stream, The moou-beam dwells at dewv e'en ; So trembling pure was tender love Within the breast o" bonnie Jean.* And now she works hermammie's war!--, And aye ;he sighs wi' care and rain ; Y'et wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad niak her weel aga;n. But did na Jeanie 's h?art loup light, And did na joy tliuk in her e'e, As Robie tauid a tale o' love Ae e'eniu, on the lily lea ? The s :a W3S sinkin? in (he west. The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; is cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o* lore : BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. O Jear.ie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; O canst thou think to fancy me ? Or wilt tuou leave thy mammie's cot And learn to tent the farms wi* me At barn or byre thru shalt na drudge, i trouble thee ; But stray amang the heatuer-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me. Now what could artless Jeanie do ? She had na will to say him na : At lengih she blush'd a sweet consent And love was aye between them twj I have some thoughts of insertirs index, or in my notes, the n; one*, the themes of my songs. - . the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. , daughter to Mr M. of D. , one of your subscrib- ers. 1 have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life but in the dress and character tirg in your s of the fair The old ballad, ' I wish I were where Helen lies' is silly to contemptibility. * My alteration of it in Johnson's is not much belter. Mr Pin- kerlon, in his, what he calls, Ancient Ballads (many of them notorious, though beautiful enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations — but uo matter. In my next, I will suggest to your consider- ation a few songs whicn may have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime, allow me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your character and fame; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters of Taste— all whom poesy can please, or music charm. Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great grandchild will bold up your volume, and say, with honest pride, " This so much admired se- lection was the work of my a MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. July, 1793. I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt trie with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traf- fic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that Honour which crowns the uprigh' sta- tue of Robert Burns's Integrity— on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by- past transaction, and from that moment com- mence entire stranger to rou ! Bunis'is char- acter for generosity of sentiment and indepen- dence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can supply: at least I will take care that such a character he shall deserve. Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold, in any m osteal work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality to me has made you say too much ; however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I neier copy what' I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or per- haps contradictory. < The Flowers of the Forest ' is charming as a poe'ii ; aud should be, and must be, set to the notes : but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning, «I ha« -ulY:r. f o' fortune beguil- nre worthy of a place, were it but to immor- tu.ize the author of li.em, v» ho is an old ladv of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs Cockburu ; I for- MB THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, August, 1793. DEAR SIR, had the pleasure of receiving your last two happy to find yot e quite letti pleased with the appearance of the first book. When you come to h«ar the songs hung and accompanied, you will be charmed with them. ' The bonnie brucket Lassie, ' certainly de- serves better -verses, and I hupe vou will match her. « Cauld kail in Aberdeen",' ' Let me in this ae night,' and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her choicest gifts; besides, you'll 'notice, that in the airs of this sort, the singer can always do greater justice to the poet than :in the^ slower airs of ' The lush aboon Tra- iquair,-' ' Lord Gregory,' and the like; for in I the manner the latter are frequently sung, you must be contented with the sound without the sense. Indeed both the airs and words are disguised by the very slow, languid, psalm- singing style in which they are too often per. formed : they lose animation and expression altogether, and instead of speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us i yawning ! Your ballad, « There was a lass and she was fair,' is simple and beautiful, and shall un- doubtedly grace my codec tion. * There is a copy cf thU ballad given ii the account of the parish of Kirkparick-Fiem ing, (which contains the tomb of Fair Helei Irvine,) in the statistics of Sir John Sinclai Vol. XIII. p. 275, to which this character i certainly not applicable, DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. No. XXX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Amgmi, 1793. HI DEAR THOMSOXf I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at present, is s'.udyinz the was c of the spheres at my elbow. T-.e * Gecrgmm Sidus,' he thinks, is rather out of tune ; si, until fce rec- tify that matter, he cauaot stoop to terrestrial affairs. He sends you s r x of the Rond-au subjects, and if more are wanted, he says you shall have Confound yc r long stairs S. CLARKE. No. XXXI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. At&ut, 1793. >ng of ' Logan Wa:er, * instance; bat i: is" difficult to mend it: if I can. ( will. The other passage you object to does not appear in the same i : ght to me. I have tred my har.d oa ' Robin Adair,' and you will probably ih'uik with little success; bat it is such a curbed, cramp, oat of the way . I .sp..;r of do::ig any thing PHILLI3 THE FAIR. Tune — '« Robin Adair. ' ' While larks with li Fana'd the puie a r, Taslins the breathing spring, Forth I did fure ; Gay the sun's golden eye, Peep'd o'er the ruoun a:s high ; Such thy mora : did I cry, Phillis the fair. In each bird's careless s^ng, Glad, I did sha-e ; While yon wild llowers among, Cha-.fceled me there; Sweet (o the opening day, Rose'.ucs bent the dewy spray ; bloom, did I say, PUiliis the fair. Down in a shady walk, I marV'd tne cruel ha.^k Caught in a snare : Sa kind may fortn'e be. Such makehi- des He who v. cu'.d iujure thee, PhiUU the fair. So much for namby-pamby. I may. all, trj mv hand oa it i:> Sco's -serss. 1 a!»j.; End mse? most a: hyme. I have just pnt the last hand to the sonc- I meant for ' Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. * If" t s.its yon to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero;ne ts a favourie of mine : if not I shall also be pleased b-C£ase I wish, and will begad to see yon act decidedly on the bnsi- iH S s.w 'Tis a trhute as a man of taste, aad zs an editor, which jou owe yourself. No. XXXIL MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. August, 1793. sir good sra, I consider it one of the most agreeable circum- stances attending this publication of ra he, that it has procured me so many of your much valu-d epstles. Pray make try acknowledg. my han i St Stephen for the t.mes : tell hi admit the justness of hs com : laint on my sar crtse, convened in his laconic postcript your j?v d'esprit; wLich I perused more th; once without discovering exactly whether yoi discussion was m-.uic, astrcnoniv, «.r polities though a sag2C:ous friend, acquainted w : * u ■' co v.vL] habits of the poet ajid the nius'Ciaj offered me a bet of two to one, \ou were just drowning care together; that an empty bowl was the o 1. thing that would deeply affect y.m, and the only mat;er you could then study ho* to rented* ! I shall be glad Jo see ycu gi»e 'Boon Adair' a Scottish dre.s. Peter is furnishing him with an English suit for a change, and you are well matched ;og=h-r. is exeeilt-nt, though he certainly has an out of the way mea-ure as ever p^-or Parnassian wight was plagued with. I wish you wqpld invoke ihe muse for a single elegant stan2a to be substituted for the concluding objectionable verses of • Down the burn Davis,' so that ;his most exquisite song may no longer be exclude-d from good company. Mr Allan has made an inimitable drawing from your « John Anderson my Jo, " which I am to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the humorous c'a-s cf songs; y~.u will be quite charmed with ;t, I promise vou. The old coupie are seated by the fireside. Mrs Ander- son in sreal gw d humour, is ci?7 shoulders, while he sn with such £>e. as to sh; ,v d uigh:s w Jen 'Ley were ■ nr=t acque-nt. ' I he drawing would do honour to the pencil of Teniers. No. XXXIIL MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Aiisu*l> 17 S3. That cripkum-crarikum Icr.e ■ Robin Adair, has run so in my bead, and I succeeded s-. i tempt, tisal I have ventured in th; * The song sent herewith "s thai in p. 193. BURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 273 Morning's walk, one essay more. Yon, tny dear sir f will remember an unfortunate part of onr worthy friend C. 's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 1 and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as follows : SONG. Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore* Where the winds howl to the wave's dashin roar : There would I weep my woes, There seek my last repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, kll thy fund plighted vows —fleeting as air! To ;hy new lover hie. Laugh o'er thy perjury. Then in thy b.,s jin try, What peace is there. villi i ; quartered her rell i ,*d;u, hree. * They certainly b: Scottish than frisli'taste in tbem. This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- ; so it could not be any intercourse wich reland that could bring tbem ; except, what shrewdly suspect to be the case, the waader- iig minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to gc requeully errant through the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite i might be common to both. — A ease in it — They have lately, in Ireland, published n Irish air, as they say, called «• Cautl du de- sh." The fastis, in a publication of Corri's, great while ago, you will find the same air, ailed a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set Its name there, I think, is •• Oran "and a tine air it is. Do ask honest Ulan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these natters. No. XXXIV. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. August, 1793. MY DEAR SIR, Let me in this ae night,' I will reconsider. I n glad you are pleased with my song, « Had a cave,' &c. as I liked it myself. I walked out yesterday evening, with a vo- e of the Museum in my hand ; when turn- igup 'Allan Water,' " What numbers shall fie muse repeat," &c. as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air : and Recollecting that it is on your list, I sat and »»ved under the shadow of an old thorn, till I wrote out one to suit the measure. I may be ^»rong, but I think it not in my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-Table, where the modern song first appeared, the an- »#ieiit name of the tune, Allan bays, is ' Allan Water,' or 'My love Annie's very bonnie. * This last has certainly been 9 line of the origi- nal song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, whieh I presume it formerly occupied : though I likewise give you a " choosing line," should that not Lit the cut of your fancy. By Allan stream I chanced to rove, While" Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi ; * The winds were whispering through ths Tha yellow corn was waving ready : I listen 'd to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony : O happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle raak it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie. Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinkin said, "I'm thine for ever ! ' While mony a kiss the seal impress 'd, The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, The simmer joys "the flocks to follow : How cheery through her shortening day, Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or through each nerve tiie rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. Bravo ! say 1 ; it is a go .d song. Should you think so too, (not else) y-m can set tho music to it, and let the other foilow as Eng- Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the year else. God bless you ! No. XXXV. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. August, 1793. id I'll come to you, my lad,* _\our airs ? I admire it much : and yes- I set the following verses to it. Urbani, I met with here, begged them of me, as lires the air much ; but as I understand e looks with rather an evil eye on your I did not choose to comply. However, song does not suit your taste, I may !y send it to him. The set of the air I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Mu- Is < W who -a headu...^ that he looks with rather if tin' O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, t O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad; * A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3009 feet high R 15. f Or, " my love Annie's very bonnie." R. B. tin some of the MSS. the first four liuw run thus : DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. father and tnither and a' should gae ' But beauty, how frail and how flwSirt*, O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent when you come to court me, And come nae unless the back-yet be ajee ; Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see, And come as ve were nae coniin' to me. And come, &i. wkistte, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye cared aae a file ; But steal me a blink o' your bonuie black e'e Vet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. Yet look, &e. O whistle-, kc. Ay vow and protest that ye care nae for me-, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae auither though joking je be, Tor fear that she wyle your faucy frae me. For feur, & c, O whistle, &c. air of mine i ' When su ished that ii ■ The idown winding Ni-.h I did wt To mark the sweet flowers i tdbwn wiodng Nith I did * Of Piiiliib to ec u^e and to s The bloom of a While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish withom a decay.* Awa, ore. Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your took, as she is a partcular She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonnie Jean. They are bo h pupils of his. shall hear from me, i!:e very first grist I get from my Thy:aiug mill. No. XXX VI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. AugttFt, 1793. That tune • Cauld Kail,' is such a favourite of vours, that 1 onee more roved out vesterday for a gloamin-sho! at the muses ;f when the muse that presides o'er the shores of i*i!h, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. 1 have two rea- sons for thinking that it was ray early, sweet, simple inspirer tbat was by my elbow, •' smooth gliding without step," and pouring the song en my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fraoiueut of a poet bus risen to cheer her soli- tary musings, by catching inspiration from her; so i more than suspect that she has followed ice hither, or at lea?t makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song i send you in the very words that Coilataught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Sects reel in Johnson's Museum. Has u he daisy an wi' the queen o .ed my fond fan. simple, so wild said I, o' my P. uiplicity '< Awa, i ild. The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer fler sweet balmy lip when 'tis press' liow fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Awa, &c. Yon knot of say flowers in the arbour They ne'er" wi' my Phillis can vie, Hot breath is the breath o T the woodbin Its dew-drop o* diamond her eye. Awa, &c. ler voice is the song of the That wakes through tb< grove, tVhen Phoebus peeps On mus ; c and pleasure, ai Awa, &c. Come ht me ti ''And pledge l And I shall sh. The warld's fknei do I hear That equal t the O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, O rustle and I'll come to thee, my jo ; Tho' father and mother and a' should -; '.-: and I'll come to thee, my jo. ' Cauld Rail. " hee to my breast, life alone e to love her. Thiu jsp my . I'll seek Ti.an sic And by thy initio heaven to sl:a moment's pleasure : ;n, sae bonnie blue, n thine for ever I And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall I never. * This song, certainly beautiful, would r.p- ;ear to more advantage without the chorus ; is is indeed the case with several other tonga )f our author. | Gloam;u._t«ii"ght, probobly from gloom- nr, A beautiful poetical word which ought lobe adopted in England. * twilight interview. ll-aho!, bltixs.— coiiresfo?:de;,\je- p.->! lime I cam o'er the Moor,' I cannot with, as 's words, tha' a different sung, though 'Ay super'.or would not be so uellre- "I am not fond of choruses :o songs, ve not made one for the foregoing. No. XXX VII. MR THOMSON TO Mil BURNS. Angus! 1793. DAINTY DAViE. Now rosy Maj comes in wt' flowrrs, To deck her guy, green spreading bowers ; A;.d now come= in my happy hours, To wander wi* my Davie. Dainty Davie, dainty i'avis There I'll spend the day wi* ; My ain dear dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us b!aw A wandering wi' my Davie. Meet uie, &c. Wht eal upon 1 ornir.g starts the hs i thremg.. i ie dews I wit! repa aithfu' Davie. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, 1st Sept. 1793. MY DEAR SIR, nee writii.g \ou last, I have received half a zen songs, with which I am delighted be- yond expression. The humour and fancy of ' Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, ' wiil ?nder it nearly as great a favourite as * Duncan (.ray.' ' Come let rce take thee to my breast,' ' Adown winding Nilh,' and « By Allan '.ream,' &c. ore fuii of imagination and feel- ng, and sweetly suit the airs for which hey are intended. • Had I a cave on some viid distant shore,' is a striking and affecting omposition. Our friend, to whose story it efcrs, r. ad it with a swelling heart, I assure you. The union we are now forming, I think, never be broken ; these songs of yours will descend with the music to the latest posterity, will be fondly cherished ..o long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in cur island. While the muse seeuis so propitious, I think it right to inclose a list of ail the fa- vours I have to r.sk of her, no fewer than twenty and three ! 1 have burdened the pleas- ant Peter with as many as it is piobable he will attend to: most of the remaining airs would puzzle the English poet not a little; they are of that peculiar measure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him who writes for theai. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonnie Davie, namty i>u\ie, There I'll spend the day wi' vou, My ain dear dainty Davie.* So much far Davie. The chorus, you know is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke' tetof it in the Museum. N. B. In the Museum they have drav.Ie out the tune to twelve liner, of poetry, wbicl is nonsense. Four liu;s of song, and four of chorus, is she way. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Sept. 1793. You may readily trust, my near sir, that any exertion in my power is heart ;ly at your ser- vice. But one thing 1 must hiut to "you ; the very name of Peter Pindar h of great service o your publication, so get a verse from him ind then ; though I have no objectic v,;i; a bear the burden of the busi- Yiu know that my pretensions to musical taste, ore merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- son, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; however they may transport and ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple lus no othervt fee than merely as melodious din. On the other band, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little nielodies, which the learned musician despises <-.s s : lly and insipid. 1 do not know whether the eld air « Hey tuttie taitiie' may rank among th's number; but ne;l 1 know that with Frr.zer's hautboy, it has of- ten tilled my eyes wi;h tears. There is a tra- dition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce 's march at the battle of Baunockburn. This thonght, in my solitary wanderings, wormed me U) a 876 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. pitch of enthusiasm en the theme of Liberty and Independence, which I threw into a kind cf ScuttUh cde, titled to the r.ir that one ini^ht eL:p-ose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers ca that eventful morn- ing.* BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. S:::--, wha Welcome ti To its own Tune. ha hie wi' Wt Bruce has afteu led ; \our gory bed, Now's the day. and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lcur ; See approach proud Edward's piwer- Chaias and siaverie I Wha will be a traitor-knaTe ? Wha for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will sht glj draw Free-man stand or 1 'ri Let him follow me : By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile ch-iins! We will drain our dearest veins. But ihey shall be free ; road usurpers low : Tyrants fail 111 every foe ! L:c-?ri. '$ in everv blow ! Let us Do vr Die ! MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Sept. 1793. lare say, my dear sir, that you will begin think my correspondence is persecution. matter, I can't help it ; a bal ad is ny noDby-horse; which, though otherwise a sim- ple sort of harmless, idiotical beast enough, has yet tl.is blessed headstrong proper:}-, that when ouce it has fairly made off with a hap- - il gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gutgie, tiakle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor Pil-garl c. ihe bed- lam jockey, quite be}ond any" useful point or post iu the coiumou race of man. Ihe following song I have composed for * Orait gaoil, ihe Highland air that you tell nie> in ;our last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song ; so jou have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well! if not, 'tis also T .;_" Oran-gaoil." .e hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou dariing of my heart; from thee can I survive- But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'il often greet this surging sweil, You distant ts!e w:ls often hail : " E en here I took the last farewell ; her vanish 'd sail. " _ he solitary shore, While flittiug sea-fowl round me err, Across the roiling, dashing roar, il westward turn my wistful eye : V» here now my Nan 3} 's path clay be ! While through thy sweets she loves "to stray, O tell me does she muse on me ! So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberr. , ai latday! — Ansen. P. &—1 showed the .. free* .associated h tbeg • . _ ideas f quite so ardent, roused ui} rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his ba.-s, you will hud in the Museum ; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. * This noble strain was conceived by cur |oel during a storm among the wilds of Glen- Ken, in Galloway. A more finished copy will be found afterwards. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, Slh Sept. 3 793. I believe it is generally allowed that the great- est modesty is the sure attendant of the great- est merit. While you are sending me Terses that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, ; oo speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the nc- ioa of the kind in tbe S-ottish iauguage. 1 happened to c.ne yesterday with a parly of your friends, to whom 1 r^ad it. ihey were all charmed with it, entreated me to hud out a suitable air for it, and reprolated tne idea cf giving it a tune so lotally devoid of interest or grandeur as «Hey tuttie taitiie.' As- ..rtiality fur mis tune uuut arise from ihe ideas associated iu }our mind by the itiou concerning it, for I never heard any person, — and I have conversed again and again with the greatest enthusiast* for Scot- BURNS. - CORRESPONDENCE. S77 tish airs— I say I never heard any one speak of it as worthy of notice. I have been running over the whole hun- dred airs of which I lately sent you the list; and 1 think 'Lewie Gordon' is most happily adapted to your ode ; at least with a very short variation of the fourth line, which I shall pre- sently submit to you. There is in ' Lewie Gordon' more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit, which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the room of • Lewie Gordon,' which has neither the inter- est, the grandeur, nor the poetry that charac. terise your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest upon the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows : Verse Is/, Or to glorious victorie. 2d, Chains -chains and slavene. 3d. Let him, let him turn and (lie. 4th, Let him bravely follow me. . th, But they shall, they shall be free. 6th, Let us, let us do or die ! If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think jou will liud that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy. The only hue which I dislike in the whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory bed." Would no! another word be preferable to welcome ? In your next I will expect to be informed whether jou agree to what 1 have proposed. These little alterations I submit With the greatest deference. The beauty of the verses you have made for ' Orau gaoil,' will insure celebiity to the air. No. XLII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. September, 1793. I have received your list, my dear sir, and here go my observations on it. * « Down the burn, Davie.' I have this mo- ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the lirst half of the last stanza, thus: As down the burn they took their way. And through the flowery dale ; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale. With «« Mary, when shall we return, Quoth Mary, «« Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you. "f * Mr Thomson's list of songs for his pub- lication. In his remarks (he bard proceeds in order, and goes through the whole; but on many of them he merely signifies his approba- tion. All his remarks of any importance are presented to the reader. t This alteration Mr Thomson has adopted, (or at least intended to adopt,) instead of the ■ • Through the wood laddie :' I am decidedly I of opinion, thut both in this and • 'there'll ne- ! ver be peace till Jamie comes hame, ' the second or high part et the tune being a repeti- tion of the in st part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much bet- fing. is the production of Crawford: Robert v his Christian name. • Laddie li I do l) lie by til my c sir 'S'"o' (»uch as it is,) I never can compose for it. My way is : I consider the poetic senti- ment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression ; then choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is composed, which is ge- nerally ihe most difficult part of the business, 1 walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature around me, that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming every now and then ihe air with the verses i have framed. When I feel my music beg ; n- ning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper, swinging at intervals on the hind legs of in) elbow-chair by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this at home, is almost invariably my way." What cursed egotism ! • Gill Morice' 1 am for leaving out. It is a plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung : and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For instance, 'Craigieburn-wood' and • Roy's Wife. ' The tirst, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; and the last has high merit, as well as great celebrity. I have (lis original words of a song for the last air, in the hand-writing of the lady who composed it ; and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen.* « Highland laddie.' The old set will pleaae a mere Scottish ear best ; and the new an Ital- ianized one. There is a thiid, and what Os- wald calls the old ' Highland laddie,' which pleases me more than either of them. It is sometimes called ' Ginglan Johnnie ;' is being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name You will iind it in the Museum, * I hae been at Crookie-den,' &c. I would advise jou, in this musical quandary, to offer up jour prayers to tie muses for inspiring direction ; and in the meantime, waiting for this direc- tion, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and thero is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Probalum est. original song, which is objectionable in point of delicacy. * This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found in the future part of the volame. 2TS DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. * Auld Sir Simon,' I must beg you to leave cut, and put in its place, ' The Quaker's wife. ' ' Blythe hae 1 bsen on the hill ' is cue of the finest songs ever 1 made in ray life; and " ' , positively the most be mtifti , love! : ■•sea an i'n he wo -id. As I purpo= e S v, ; ? yot the n ames .:.ti d = .1 my appea future editi •;. if century he ■ice, you ui ust certainly inc u»e 4 ihe bonni Ml la ' the warid ' "» 3 eoileclion. ' Dainty Davi. ' I h ve h ard su •g, n ne- id, . ,:e hu :dred and n uety times, and ai .va : . s wiih the c borus o the i w part of tike luae and lothii g has surpr sed * a M ine so much as your opinion on thi; If it wilt not suit, as I proposed, we two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. * Fee him father ' — I inclose you Frazer's tet of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, he makes it the language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas in that style ; mere- ly to try if it will beany improvement. Were jive it half the pathos i playing, it would :tic soug. I do not any merit thev have. I " '« which Patie about the back ;de of a bowl of rcry mortal hi id the muse. Thou hast left -, Jamie, Thou hast left Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should us sever, Now thou's left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see the,; never.* Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Th,p hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken, Thou cumsi love anither Jo, While my heart is breaking : Soon my weary e'en I'll close — never mair to waken, J a which Fr utH pive tuese o'' iniduig puuch, w company t liich at the died, ;1 and bv had o Thou hast left tne ever, Thou hast lea me ever, eiiher, and in the andante way, would unite with a-charining sentimental ballad. ' Saw ye my father' is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before lasi, I wan- dered out and began a tender song ; in what I think is its native style. 1 must premise that the old way, and the way to g.ve most eiiec, is to have no starling note as the tiddlers ca;l it, but to burst at once in.o the pathos. Every country girl sings— *•,« Saw ye my fa- ther," &c. My song is but jnst begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. 1 have sprinkied it with the Scottish dia- lect, but it may be easily turned into correct English. FRAGMENT. 2 une— «« Saw ye my father. ' ' rVliere are the j That danced to -Viiere is the pe }S I hae met in the »! .ce that awaked ?:iy \ he wild woods amang ? Is it that summer And grim sarlv No, :.o ; the be< and sad sighing care. mer's forsaken our valleys, irlv winter is near? ng round the i the pride o' the year. Ne'e raken.f i:ad in • Jocky a, id Jennj' I would discard, and in 'is place would put 'There's nae luck about the hou.-e,* whicu has a v c r; pleasant a which is positively the finest iove-bi that style in the Scottish, or perhaps other language. ' When she cam ben she bobbet, ' as au air, is more beautiful than * The Scottish (the Editor uses th substantively, as the English) employ I braviation, I'll for I shall es well as I and it is fjv I shall it is used here, nandale, as in the northern counties land, for I shall, they use l'se. t Tliis is the whole of the song, the bard never proceeded farther. — Note • • Eng- son. Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, Yet laug, lang too well hae L known ; A' that has caused ii;e wreck in my bosom is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Cetera Desuut. « Tod! in harae. ' Urbani mentioned an idea of iiis which has lo::e tee;i mine; that this air is highly susceptible of pathos ; ac- cordingly, yon will soon hear hun, at vour concert." try ii to a song of mine inihe'.Mu- b:um, « Ve banks and braes o' bonnie Doon.' — One song more and I have done. » Auld lang syne.' T-e air is but ••mediocre;" bat the following toug, the old song of the oiieu times, and wiich has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mic' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And the days o' lang syne ? For auld tang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup of kindness yet» For auld lang syne. ! BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. We Iwa bae run abuut the braes. And pou't the go wans fine ; But we've wandered inony a weary foot Sin auld lang syne. For aald, &c We twa hae paidlet i* the burn, But seas between us braid hue roar'd, Sin auld langswie. For auld, &c. And here's a band, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waugttf, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. And surely ye'il be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be' mine! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness vet. For auld lang syne.* For auld, &.C. Now, I suppose I have tired jour patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. • Gill Morice, Tra.ie.it Mu!r, M'Pherson's Fare- well, Battle of Sherilr-muir,' or ' We ran and they ran, (I know (ho author cf this charming ballad and his history), Hardiknute, Barbara Allan, ' (I can furnish a liner set of this tune than any that has yet appeared), and besides, do you know that I really have the old tune to which « The Cherry and the Slae ' was sung ; and which is mentioned as a well known air in Scotland's Complaint, a book published before poor MaryB days. It was then called ■ The banks o' Helicon ;' an old poem whieh Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler's History of Scottish Music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of this kind. No. XLI1I. MR BURNS TOMB. THOMSON. September, 1793, I am happy, my dear sir, that my ode picas* you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed,' is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea: sc if you please, we will let the Hue stand as ii. I have altered the song as follows : BANNOCKBURN. RCBERT BRUCE S ADDRESS TO HIS ABMV. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; Scots wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory. Now's the day and now's the hoar ; See the front o' battle lour ; Sae approach proud Ed ward* s povve?— Edward! chains and slavery i Traitor! coward ! turn and floe ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw t Freeman stand or freeman fa', Caledonian J on wi' me! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains * We will drain our dearest reins, But they shall be— sball be free ' Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do or die ! A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One comfort; I suffer so much, just now in this world, for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to No. XLIV. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 2ih Sept. 1793. u, my dear sir, for of my songs. borses. will. aUsmio thousand thanks I sur observations on in happy to find joui ideas so much in unison ■iih my own respecting the generality of the irs as well as the verses. Afout them we disputing about hobby- fail to profit by the rc- uake; and to reconsider the whole « Dainty Davie ' must be sung two stanzas together and then the chorus — 'tis the proper vay. I agree v.iih you, that there may be omething of pathos, or tenderness at least, in lie air of • Fee him, faiher, ' when performed vith feeling ; but a tender cast may be. giveu o almost any lively air, if \ou sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words, tin, hov\ever, clearly and invariably for re- ning the cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous ve«ses, wherever ihe verses are pass- able. But the sweet song for ' Fee him, fa- ther,' whieh you began about the back of mid- night, I will publish as an additional one. Mr I James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and I i he best singer of the lively Scottish ballad* that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with ' Fee him, father, ' and with sso DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Tcdlin hame ' also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from eitiier of these airs. S'rae bacchanals 1 would wish co dis- card. • Fy let us a* to the bridal,' for i:is:ai;ee, is so coarse a:id vulgar, that I ihiiik it lit oniy to be sung in a company of drunken colliers ; aud ' Saw ye my father' appears to me both indelicate and silly. One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I :hink, with great ceference to the p-cet, that a prudent general would avoid saying any tuiiiJ to his soldiers which might lend to make death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents a disagreeable image to the mind ; "and to te.l them, ' Welcome to your gory bed,' seems the alternative which follows. I have shown the song to three frienos of excellent taste, tnd each of them objected 10 this line which em- boldens me to use the freedom of bringing it again under jour notice. 1 woul Kb. XLT. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Sep!. 1793. *' Who will de?ide when doctors d-sagree :" My ode pleases me so much that I cannot af- ter iu Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged, to jou for putting me on re-consider- ing it ; as" I ihiuh I huve mueb improved iu Instead of " socger : hero!" I will have it ■ Cale n! D . to tinized it, the world s -me way or other it shall go is. i.t the same time it will not in the least hurl me, should you leave it out altogether and adhere to jour lirst intention of adopting 5.* * Mr Thomson has very prcperly adopted this song, if it may be so called, as the bard presented it to him. He has attached it to the air of * Lewie Gordon.' and perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a better ; but the poetry is suited to a mucti higher strain of music, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader will have ob- served that Burns adopted the alterat ons pro- posed by his friend and correspondent in for- mer instances with great readiness 1 perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with determined re- solution. With every respect for the judg- ment of Mr Thomson and his^ friends, we may- be satisfied that he did so. He who in prepar- ing for an engagement attempts to withdraw bis imagination from images of death, will probably have but imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of 6uch men the eonqutrors at Bannockburn were I have finished my song to • Saw ye o:f father j* and in English, as you will ne. i" Lac there is a syllable too much for the ex- pression of the air, is irue; but allow n:e lo say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great mai- ler : however, in that, 1 have no pretension to cope in judgment with you. Of ihe p.eirv I speak with confidence ; but the musi..- is a business where 1 hiut my ideas with tbe ut- most diffidence. The old verses have merit, though unequal* and are popular ; my advice is to set ihe air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. FAIR JENNY. Where are the jovs 1 ha'e met in the morning, That danced lo the lark's early song 1 Where is the peace that awaited my wander* ins-, At evening the wild woods among ? not composed. Brnce's troops were inured to war, and familiar with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that memorable day, their ;p ri:s were without doubt wound up tc a pi;ch of enthusiasm suited lo the occasion ; a pitch of enthusiasm at \\ h c!i dangex becomes attractive, and the n:o-i are no longer terrible. Such a slra.n of senti- ment this heroic "welcome" may be sup- posed well calculated to elevate — to ra:se their hearts high above fe;r, and nerve their arm? to the utmost pteh of mortal exertion. These observations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference to the mart.ai poetry of all na- tions, from the spirit-stirring strains cf Tyitse- us, lo the war-song cf General Wolfe. Mr Thomson's observation, that ** Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address " seems not sufficiently considered. Pr-rhaps, in- deed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, no; on account of its presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet uttering his con- ceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks al- ways to present a picture ihat is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on theallar cf the in. agination, it is the privilege of superior gen. us, by pro- ducing a new association, 10 elevate expressions ti.at were originally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies of lai-guage. In how many instances might this be exemplified from the works of cur immortal Shakspeare. " Who would fardels bear, To groan and stceat under a weary life, When he himself might his quietus make Y> ith a bare bodkin. " BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim surly winter is near ? No, no, the bees humming rouud the gay Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Vet lo ■ g, long loo well have I known : Ail liiut has caused this wreck in iny bosom, Is jenny, fair Jenny alone. then, < lid me, i ly griefs are d and fond immortal. ojinent 1*11 seek in mj woe. No. XL VI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Sep.. 93 ' Raving winds around iter blowing. '* t'our Irish airs are pretty, but they are vnright Irish, if they w -re like the 'Hanks Banna,' for instance, though res ii\ Irish, in tne Scottish taste, you might adopt in. Since you are so fond of Irish music. ■'■':■-'-' > of the >uld y cf clia vili find (hi: most saleable of the ove of ' Roj 's wife, ' i sake we shall not insert it. that joi that you would ti whole. If you d{ •Deil tak the wars/ is a charming song; to is 'Saw ye my Peggy.' ''I here's uae luck about the house,' well deserves a place; I cannot saj that ' O'er the bills and far awa J strii.es me .-is equal to ycnr selection. ' This is no mine ain house,' is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of t, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of « I hae laid a herriu in sawt ? I like it uiuch. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; and there are many others of the same kind pretty — but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert ' Fye let us a' lo the bridal' lo any other words than t have allotted n I have been turning over some volu: songs, to find verses whose t suit the airs for which y fiud English songs. For ' Aiuirland Wiilie ' you have, in say's Tea-table, an excellent song, Jri * Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes 'i* ♦The Collier's Dochter,' lake the fol old Bacchanal. Deluded swain, the pleasure The tickle fair can give iliee, Is bnt a fair) ireasure, Thy hones will soon deceive the The billows on the ocean. The breezes idly roaming, The cloud's uncertain motion, ihey are but types of woman. O ! art tnou not ashamed, To doat upon a feature ? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature. Co, find Hold on till tho, And then to be lh; What pleases me, as simple ists you as ludicrous and low. n, * Fye, pie rne my coggie ' ' the bridal,' with se highly pi ,rd?: ' Saw my Father ights hos. Thus, my song, • Ken ye what Meg o* he mill has gotten ?' pleases mjseif so much, hat I cannot try my hand at another song to be air; so I shall not attempt it. 1 know fill laugh at all this; but "ilka man s his belt his = a,:. No. XLVII. xMR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. October, 1793. jutor in your public mghts honest fellow ; ore :he« giory. i: T Osi % fo» .1 n.g rcj The faulty line in Logan-w econciled to the 1 ihe ' Quaker's Wife,' though, by the ;in old Highland gentleman, and a deep. juarian, tells me it is a (iaelic air, and >n by the name of * Lelger'm choss.' The following verses 1 hope will please jou, as an English song lo the air. Gregoira Rua-Ruth,' you will si * This will be found in the latter part of this f The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Keliy, whose melancholy death Mr Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter which he has suppressed. DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Thii;e am I, my faithful fair, Thi:ie, uiy lovely Naney j Every pulse along my veius, Every roving fancy. To thy bosom lay uiy heart, There to throb and l3uguish; Though despair had wrung its c< That would heal its anguish. Take away these rosy lips, Rich wi'ih balmy treasure ; Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest 1 die with pleasure. What is life when v N.ght without a . Love's the cloudless Nature gay adorui iting love ? iniuier sun, Yonr objection to the English song I pro- posed for • John Anderson, uiy jo,' is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit- The song was never in print, which I think is so much i a y our favour. The more original good noc-try your collection cou tains, it certainly has so much the more meriu SONG, BV GAYIX TL'KXBL'J.I.. condescend, dear, charming mail!, My wreici.ed state to view ; A lender swain to love betray \1, Aud sad despair by you. White here all melancholy, .My passion I deplore, Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, I love thee more aud more. 1 heard of love, and with disdain The urchin's power denied} I laugh 'd at every Dover's pain, Aud mock'd them when taey sigh'd : But how my state is alter'd ! Those happy days are o'er ; For all.thy unrelenting hate, I lore thee more and more. O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, No longer let me mourn ; And though victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn. Let generous pity warm thee, My wouted peace restore ; And grateful I shall bless thee stilt, And love thee more and more. The following address of Turnbuli to the nightingale will suit, as an English song, to the air, ■ There was a lass aud she was fair. ' By the bye, Turubull has a great many songs in MS. which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is au old friend of mine, 1 may be prejudiced in his favour j but I like some of his pieces very much. THE NIGHTINGALE. BY G. TOUTBDU.. Thou sweeUst minstrel of the grove. That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For though the muses deijjn to aid, A:-d teach him, smoothly to complain Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain. All day, with Fashion's gaudy sous, In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; Their tales approves, and slii! she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy uieiody. And soothe a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbul which would go charmingly to 'Lewie li dou. ' BV G. TL'RX3l'LL, Let me wander where I will. By shady wood or winding rill ; Where the swee:e=t .May-born ilowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers} Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweel the woods among : Let me wander where I will, Laura hauuts my fancy still. If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse ; If i court some cool retreat, To avoid the noontide heat: If beneath the moon's pale ray, Through unfrequented wilds i strRy : L:t me wanier where I will, Laura hauuts my fancy still. Wheu at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compe.lniic rod, Ana ;o Fancy's wakeful eyes, 1j:l1= eeitiCia: visions rise; While with boundless joy I rove Through the fairy lanu of love: Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my faucy still. BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. No. XLV1II. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 7th Nov. 1793. hand, MY DEAR SIB, After so long a silence, it gave pleasure to recognise your well-kj for I liad begun to be apprehensive that ail was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have got among tht ballads once more. 1 have to thank you for your English song to ' Leiger 'in choss,' which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr Turnbull's songs have doubtless considerable merit ; and as yon have the com- mand of his manuscripts, 1 hope you may find out some that will answer as English songs to the airs yet unprovided. No. XLIX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. December, 1793. ie following verses to Husband, husband cease your stri Nor longer idly rave, sir ; Though I am your wedded wife, Yet lam not your slave, sir. If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience ; I'll desert my sovereign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it ; When you lay me in (be dust, Think, think, how you will bear i «' I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy. Nancy ; Strength to bear it will be given. My spouse Nancy." Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you; E>er round your midnight bed Horrid spri-ee shall haunt you. •« I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy, Then all hell will fly for fcar. My bpouse Nancy," Air—*' The Sutor's Dochter. '* Wilt thou be my dearie : Wheu sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee \ By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee ! i hat, ail t my t ily thou v thou. I swe 11 ever be uiy deaHe 1 ! ™ sie, say thou lo'es me ; f thou wilt na be my ai na thou'h refuse me ; u for thine n.a\ choose me, lassie, quickly die, sting that thou lo'es me sieietmequi.kl.vdie, stuig that thou lo'es rue ne MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, 7lh April, 1794. MY DEAR SIR, Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the time of his receding your admirable but melancholy letter, 1 had not an opportunity till lately of perusing it.* How sorry am I to find Burns saying, •« Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while he is delighting oihers from the one end of the island to the other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician upon his case: Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, who'keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas ! sir, replied the patient, 1 am that un- happy Carlini ! il i ogether plec other it will soon take place; but yoi chanalian challenge almost frightens m ■all- ■ak dri , for I tied by the good opinion of his talents, lie has just begun a skeich from your Cotter's S turday N ght, and if it pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or enrrave it. In subjects of the pastor- al or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his females, and his co- louring is sombre, otherwise his paintings and drawings would be in greater request. I like the music of the J Sutor's Dochfer,' and will consider whether it shall be added to the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; but your humorous English to suit • Jo Janet* is illimitable. What think you of the air, * A letter to Mr Cunningham to be found iu p. 155. 2S4 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. « Within a mile of Edinburgh :' It has al- ways struck me as a modern English imitation ; but is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, thai I believe I must include it. The »erses are little better than '« naroby patiiby, " Do jcu consider it worih a stanza or two .* MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. MY DEAR SIR, I return you the plates, with which I am high- ly pleased; 1 would humbly propose, instead of the youriker knitting stockings, to put a stock and hi.ru into his hands. A friend ov mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed with Allan's man- ner: I got him a peep of the Gentle Shep- herd, and he pronounces Allan a nii;st original artist of gre;.t excellence. For my part, 1 Look on Mr Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his subject, to be o:.e I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put au entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, "I shall be quite in tong," as you shall see by and bye. 1 got an air, pretty enough, eomposed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she calls « The banks of Cree. ' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have wrhteu the folio wing song. BANKS OF CREE. Here is -he glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade ; The village bell has told the hour,— O what can stay my lovely maid! 'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd with some warbler's dying tall | work to be at a dead step, until the allies set j our Modern Orpheus at liberty from tbeeavage t-.ra.uom of oemocratic discords! Alas the day! And woe's me! That auspicious period pregnant with the happ.ness of mil- I have presented a copy of your songs !o the daughter of a much-vaiued, and ir.ucli-hon- noured friend of mine, Mr Graham of Fin try. I wrote on the blank side of the title page, the following address to the young lady. Here, where the Scottish muse immortal live.-, In sacred strains and tuneful uumlers jo.nM, Accept the gift; though humble he wLo gives, Rich is the tribute of the gTateful mind. So may no ruffian f feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom chords an:ong ; But peace attune thy gentle >oul to re»i, Or lore ecstatic wake lis seraph song. Or pirv's notes in luxury of tears, A> modest want the tale of woe reveals ; While conscious virtue all the strain endeare, Anu heaven-i;orn piety her sanction teals. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, lOlh August, 1793. MY DEAR SIB, I owe you an apology, for having so long de- layed to acknowledge" the favour of your last. I fear it will be as you say. I shall have no more songs from Pleyel till France and we are friends : but nevertheless, 1 am very desir- ous to be prepared with the poetry, and as the season approaches in which your muse of Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequently gratifieu with the result of ycur atucrous and tender interviews ! It is Maria's voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark in the grove His little, faithful mate to cheer ; And art thou come ! and art thou tri O welcome dear to love and me 1 And let us all our vows renew, Along the iluwery banks of Cree. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. SO/A August, 1794. The last evening, as I was straying out and thinking of 'O'er the hills and far awa, ' I j spun the following stanza fur it ; but whether j my spinning will deserve lo be laid up in store : like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or ; brushed to the devil like the vile manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear sir, to jour No. LII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. July, 179S. Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your * A portion of this letter has been left cut, for reasons that will easily be imagined. t It were to have been wished that instead of ruffian feeling, the bard had used a less rug» ged epithet, e. g. ruder BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it, at iirst; but I own, that now it appears rather a flimsy business. This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whe- ther it be worth a critique. We have many sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailing* of his lovelorn mis- tress. I must here make one sweet excep- tion—' Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach came. ' Now for the song. ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. Tune— « O'er the Hills,' &c. How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad ; How can I the thought forego. He's on the seas to meet the foe ; Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away, IS'ightly dreams and thoughts by day Are ave with him that's far away. When in summer's noon I As weary flocks around me Haply in this scorching sun My sailor's thundering at hi Bullets, spare my only joy 1 Pullets, spare my darling boy ! gun: , _le do with ; Spare but birr On the se that's far a At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless poi .As the storms the forest tear, And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, A'l I can— I weep and pray, For his weal that's far away. On the seas, &c Peace, thy olive wnnd extend, And bid wild war his ravage end, ill) brother man to meet, s a bn Jhen T-.aj heaven, wiih prosp'r Fill my suitor's welcome .-a. Is, To my arms their ch:irgH convey drar lad that's far away. On the seas, &«. M o abuse this song, but do i MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, lGlh Sept. 1794. MS DEAR 8 IB, u have anticipated my opinion of ' On thi sand far away;' I do not think it one tr very happy productions, though it c itauzas that are worihy of of .vptat The s-cond is the leas', to my liking, part.- cularly, • Bullets, spare my only joy. ' Con- found the bullets. It might perhaps be ob- jected to the third verse, ' Ai the starless mid- night hour, ' that it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought would have better suited the charac- ter of a sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk cheerful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opi- nion, the song would be bet;er adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of the lirst and last verses, with the choruses. LYI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Sept. 1794. 1 shall withdraw my ' On the seas and fa: away' altogether ; it is unequal, and unworthy cf the wo k. Making a poem is like begetting a son ; you cannot know whether \ou hive a the world and try him. For t'jjit reason 1 send you the offspring of my bra'm, abortions and ull ; and as such, pray look over them and forgive them, and bum them.* 1 am flattered at jour adopting « Ca' (he yewes to the knowes,' as it was owing :o me 'that it ever saw the l'ght. About seven years airo I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr C!unz)e, who sung it charmingly ; and at my request, Mr Clarke took it down from his" sing.ng. When 1 gave it to Johnson, I acid d some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for von. In a solitary stroll which 1 took to-Cayi! 1 tried my hand on a few pastoral l ; ne-, following up the idea of the chorus, which 1 would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections ou its 3a' t'le yewes to the knowes, 3a' them wliare the heather grows, 2a' them v, hare the buruie rows, My bouiiie dearie. * This Virgilian order of the poet should. I think, be disobeyed wiih respect to the song in question, th<- second stanza excepted. — Note by Mr Thomson. Doctor differ. The objection to the tsccon>l stapza dees not strike the Editor DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Hark the mavis* evening sar.g Sounding Clouden's. woods amang)* Then a-faulding let us gang, Mj bonnie dearie. Ca' the, &c. We'll gae down by Clouden side. Through the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moan sae clearly. Ca' the, &c. Yonder Ciouden's silent towers. Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dar.ee sae cheery. Ca' the, &c Ghaist norht.gle shalt thou fear, Thou'rt to love and heaven sae near, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie. Ca' tbe, 4 c. Fair and lovely as thou art. Thou hast stown my very heart ; lean die — bu: eanaa part, Mv bonnie dearie. Ca' the, &c. No. LV1I, t BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, Aud aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion : Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forpet the 9ky, Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and graceful air ; Ilk feature— auld Nature Declared that she could do nae rnair : Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, Shesays she lo'es me best of a'. J-et others love (he city, And gaudy show at sunny noon ; Gie me ihe lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon, Fair beam tig and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn aud leafy shaw, V Ami hear uiy vows o' truth a. id love, I Ana say thou lo'es me best of a'. Not to compare small things with great, ray j taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of | Prussia's taste ill painting: we are fold that j be frequently admired what the connoisseurs I decried, and always without any hypocrisv mfessed his admiration. I am sensible that Seplenib er, 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irsh ong, called « Onagh's Water-fa 1 1 "r ' The air and I have often regretted the wa it of decent verses to it. It is too much, at east for my .it ever* ef- fort of hers shall have merit ; still I liiiuk" that it is better to ha»e mediocre vet ses to a fa- ; be in opleof u:id:s t and v pie I have all along proceeded in Musical Museum, and as that public its last volume, I intend the follow to the air above mentioned, lor that ' Tune — *' Onagh's Water-fill. ' rere her ringlets, ows of a darker hue, v o*er-arcbing fiing e'en o' Lonnie blue, sae wyiiv, s woe ; \s;:re, " Tbe river Clouden, a tritulary stream t vated ia=:e can t:;d no merit in my favourite tunes. Sti.l, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys * an- cient and modern, give me the most exquisite enjoyment, where you and o:her judges would .:.-•' ring disgust. For instance, 1 am ju*t now making verses for • Rothiemur- ehe's Rant,' an air which puts me in raptures ; and in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here 1 have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any of you. * Rothiemurche, ' he say=, '• is an air both original aud ceaut.ful;" and on his recomendation I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the song. I a:n but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may thir.k, and justly, thai the poetry is as little worth your attention as tiie music* I :;^ve begun, anew, « Let me in this ae night- ' Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus ? 1 think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot aher it to please myself. I am jus: three stanzas deep iu it. Would you have tue " denouement " to be sue. * In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, beginning, *■ Lafste v. i' the lint-white locks ;' which will be found at full length if- BURNS—CORRESPONDENCE. £87 cessfui or otherwise ; should she "let him in' ' or not. Did you not once propose ' The Sow*6 tail to Geordie, ' as an air for jour work ; I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once Bet about verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. L have r.ol the pleasure of knowing .Mrs Thomson's Christian name, and yours, lam afraid, is rather burlesque for senti- ment, else I had meant to have made you the nero and heroine of the li: tie piece. How do you like the following epigram, which I wroie the other day on a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever '! Doctor Maxwell was the phy-ioian who seemingly saved her from the grave, and Id h.m I address the fol- lowing. TO DR MAXWELL, OX MISS JESSIE SXAIG'i RECOVBItV.. Jilaxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny : You save fair Jessy from the grave ! An angel could not die ! God grant you patience with this stupid MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. I perceive the sprightly muse is now attend- ant upon her ravouriie poet, whose "wood- notes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. « She fays she '.oes me best of a', ' is one of the pleasantest table 6ongs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the song is go- ing round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from undervaluing your t:is:e for the strath- spey music ; on the contrary, 1 think it liigl " animating and agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with such verses as yours, will make very pUasing songs, in the same way that rough Christians are tempered and softened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes. I am clear for having the « Sow's tail, ' par- ticularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, is a name only lit for burlesque cornposiriou. Mrs Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agreeable. Your « Ca* the yewes,» is a precious little moreeau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished nnd charmed with the enuiess variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you whether you nerer seriously turned your thoughts upon dramatic wilting. That is a held worthy of your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its splendour. One or two successful pieces upon the London stage would make your for- taue. The rage at present is for* musical drama-. ; fen or none of those which have ap- | peared since the ' Duenna,' possess much poet- I ical merit : there is littie iu the conduct of ; the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the ! audience. They are chiefly vehicles for musis J and pageantry. I think sou might produce a cum.c opera iu three acts, which would live by the poetrs, at the same time that it would be proper to take e\ ery assistance from her tune- ful sister, Part of the songs of course would j be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might be left with the London composer — Storace for Drury Lane, or Shield fur Covent gartien ; both of them very able and populr.r musicians. 1 believe that interest and manoeuvring are often necessary to have a drama brought ou : so it may be with the namby pamly tribe of flowery scribblers; but were you to address Mr Sheridan himself by letter, and send hi:n a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of genius, g.ve it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these [nuts upon your consideration. * MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, lllh Oclober, 1704. The last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the Scottish collections. I have read and sung, audliuoled, and consider- ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The few airs 1 have added, are inclosed. Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs I expected from him, which are in gene- ral elegant' and beautiful. Have you heard of a London collection of Sjottish airs and songs, just published Ly Mr Ritson an Englishman. 1 shall seud you a copy. His introductory essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading and research, but does uot dec de -he question as to the origin of our melodies ; though he shows clearly that Mr Tytl.-r, in his ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; and that his classification of the airs, according to the eras when they were composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Piakerton, Esq. he has no mercy ; tut consigns him to damnation! He snarls at my publication, on the score of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it ; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of i'ie Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest collections and best author- ities : many of them, however, have such a strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by every person of taste, old or young, iu town or country, that we can scarcely recog. uize the features of our favourites. B\ going to the oldest collections of our music, it does nut * Our bard had before received the sama dvice, and certainly took it so far into con- iteration as to have cast about for a subject, 238 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Follow that we find the melodies in their ori- | giual state. These melodies had been pre- berveJ, we know not how long, by oral com- j munication, before being collected and printed : : and as different persons sang the same air verv differently, according to their accurate or con- fused recollection of it, so even supposing the first collectors to have possessed the industry, the taste and discernment to choose the best they could hear, (which is far from certain,) still it must evidently be a chance, whether the collections exhibit any of the melodies in ilia state they were first composed. In selecting the melodies for mi own collection, 1 have been as much guided by the living as by the dead. Where these differ-d. I preferred the sets th-.t appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, and the most generally approved ; and, without meaning any compliment tc my own capability of choosing, or speakii.g of tile pains 1 fa taken, I flatter myself "that found equally freed from vulgar one baud, and ailected graces or To descend to business ; if you like my ide«t of « Wnen she cam ben she bobber, ' the fol- lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas. SAW YE MY PHELY, Quasi dicat Pnillis.) Tune— • When she cam ben she bobbet. ' O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? e mv dear, m'v Pheiy ? vill be on lh 2 What stivs she, my dearest, my Phely ? What says she, my dearest, mv Pbely ? She lets thee to wit that she Las thee "forgot. And for ever disowns thee, her Willie, MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 19iA October, 179 S1V DEAR FHIESD, By this morning's post I hi in general, I hi-hly approve of ii . j but the old ■ take a look at the do not think it •Rosliu Castle' Ciarke eyot uhoie Lament iscellaneous remarks. 'The iseum), is my composition : n down from Mrs Bi l known in the West C ards are trash. By tl une again, and tell m< s the original from j composed. The i i by to-day's fit, u would call on him and tak; opinion iu general : you know his taste standard. He will return here again in a < or two, so, please do not miss asking for him. \ lirst in the Edinbi j I hope he will do, persuade you to i to the Edii icular, for the first ivn ;actly tfle old air. « Strsthallan's mine; the music is by our right- deservedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. * Donocht-head, ' '.d give ten pounds it were, it appeared 1 Herald; paper :rs xiurus Vest Coun- 3y the bye, 1 me if you om which :ond hree* an's ght- llan a'red 3 the adopt my favourite, " Craigie-burn-wood. ' in j Newcastle post.mark on iUf * Whistle c your selection : It is as great a favourite of his I as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is | " one of the finest women in Scotland: and, in j * . The Posie' will be found afterwards fact, (entre nous.) is in a manner to me what ; This and the other poems of which he speaks, —- 's Eliza was to him, a mistress, a friend, had appeare' ' s simplicity of T . had inuui i any of yoi- I a the gui! Platonic* love. (Now don't elishmaclaver about it among o tances.) I assure you that to my I you are indebted for many of youi Do yon think thai ' hive any ■ The i poem so hi Keen bh a!y praised by vs the wind o Burns. Hei iv. is horse routine of e *ith life, and love, with embus equal to the genius o ober, gin- , and joy — could fire him ',t him with pathos, r book -No! no! — more than ordinary g ; to ce in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do vou imagine I fast and pray for tbe divine emanation ? Tout au contrail-?. I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for ■ fcis own use was invented by the diviuity of j healing and poetry, when first he piped to the flacks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen j of admiring a tine woman ; in proportion to ttie adorabiliiy of her charms, in propor:ion you •re delighted with my verges. The lightniag fif her eje is tbe godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the diviuity ot Helicon! I Donocht-head,* hrough the dalt» The Gaberlunzie tirl= my snec'i. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. " Cauld is ttie night, O let rue in, And dinna let your minstrel fa', And dinna let his winding 5 heet Be nathing but a wreath o' snaw. «' Full ninety winters hae I seen. And pip'd'wbar iror-cocks whirring flew, And mony a day I've danced, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew.'' My Eppie waked, and soon the cried, "Get up, Guidman, and let him in; For wed ye ken the winter night NVuS short when he began his din'. * A mountain in the north. BURNS.- CORRESPOND CNCE. Is mine ; the music said tc be by a .lobn Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dum- fries, about Ibe beginning of th'is century. This I k:iow; Bruce, who was an honest man, ihough a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; and by all the olnd mark the skies ; Ocean's tbi , and ocean's flow : Sun and moon but set lo rise, Hound and round lie seasons go : Why then ask of silly man, To oppose great Nature's plan ? We'll te constant while we can- Since the above, I have he?n out in the soun'ry taking a dinner with a friend, where [ met wiih ihe lady whom I mentioned in the iecond page, of U.is odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got imo song ; ; ihe following. THE LOVER'S MORNING SALL'TE TO HIS MISTRESS. For oh, ice. I diff« S; •:_•■ i. My Fppie's voice, vo-.v it's sweet, liven ihough she bans and so.au ids a But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, bailh, its doubly dear to me! Come in, au 'il steer my lire . I or.nie flame : iae far frae ban Sad parly-strife o'crl And, weeping at ihe evi i wander through a * This affecting poem i rtlij of Eura Tell me how you like this your idea of the expression of the turn is, lo me, a great deal of lenderm Von cauiiu!, in my opinion, dispells lass to your addenda airs. A lady of my ac- quaintance, a noted performer, plays Sleep'st thou Rosy morn now litis 6 Numbering ilka bud whi Waters wi' the lears t Now through (he leaTj And bj the reekine flo Wild Nature' 'Ihe liutwh Chants e'er Deil ;ak he wars.' afc'sl thou, fairesl c , freely, gladly &tra Ihe . the sky While the sun. and thou an': Phoebus gilding (he brow o' nir Banishes ilka darksome shad Nature gladdening and adoruiu "u.e*h to ice my lovely maid. * Mr ttrtson. v to (he streaming fountain, :p t'.e heathy mountain, ' ', freely, wildly. The hart, hind, un, sTaj . In twining haze! l,..i 2ixy DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. tV'ien absent f.ae my ("air, The mu.ky shDdes o' cars Wi'h siafDss -loom o'ercast tuy sullen sky ; But wben in beauty's ligrht, She me- s my ravish 'd sight, [ u jb. o ;. '- ery heart Her beaming glories dart ; 'Tis then I ws.ke to lire, tj light, and joy.* If you honour my verses by setting the air to thfiu", I will vamp up the old sot>g. and make it Et glish enough to be understood. I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indicn air, «h : cb.y"u would swear was a Scot- tish one. I k:iow the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as ii is the only one I have. Gierke has set a bass to it, and I intend put- tin? it into ibe Musical Museum. Here fol- few ibe verses I intend for it. THE AULD MAX. On winter blasts awa : Yet maiden M-y, in rich array, Agaii seal! br; -.g rV.er, a". Bet my white now, nae kindly lho« Shnil melt the snaws of age ; My trunk >f eild, bat buss or beild, Sink-- in ime's wintry rcge. Oh, age hj.s weary days, -> o' sleepless pain ! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why com'st thou not again ! I would be obliged to vou if you would pro- cuie me a sight of Ritscn's coliection of Eng- lish soners, which* you mention in your letter, j I will thank you for another information, and ' tb-t as speedily as ycu please : whether this \ Miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has r.ot ! ■Mnpiel v tired you of u>y correspondence, i MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, 27,'A Odaier, 1794 an sensible, r.iy dear friend, ihr.t a ret:;-. >et c&n no more exist withont bis m str tati L-'-r meat. I wish I knew the adcra te, whose bright »-yes and crhc i>e so often enra; '"'.red the Sec iit I night drij.k her sweet health when * Variation. When frae my Chl-.ris parted* £>ed, eh^eriess. i re, c^-heartrd, ILen night's gloomy shades, c'ottdi , dark, o'ercast my sky : uut v he. she char:; = " y stg'ut, in prid? of beauty's light, When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart ; T;s tLeo, 'tis then I wake to life and joy. toast is going round. ' Crsigie-burn wood must certainly be aiiopted into my family, s'n- she 1*9 the object of the song ; but in the n=>.n of decency, 1 must beg a new chorus verse fro* you. * C to be lying beyond thee, dearie,' ;-» perhaps a consummation to be wished, but <} not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your l?st v, iii do ;, ou lasting crec , and suit the respective airs ciif.r p? .racily of your opi ion with respect to ; add tional airs. The idea of sending them :. to the world naked as they we»e born was l. generous. Tney must all be clothed and mug tlece t cur friend Clarke. I find I am antic pate.d by tb? friendl. Co. ningham, in sending jou Rstson's Scottish c<.. lection. Permit me, therefore, to present jq with bis English collection, which you will u I do not find his histo ca! es^ay on Scottish song interesting. Ye- auecdoles and miscellaneous remarks will,! am sure, be much more so. Alia sketched a charming desism from Magsie ].&• cer. She is dancing with such spirit as > electrify ihe piper, who seems almost danci* too, while he is playing with the most exqu site glee. I am much inclined to get a small copy, ad to have it engraved in the style cf Ritscus P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes concerning • Maggie Lauder ': * was she a personage, and cf what rank? You wc fcinelj spier for her if you ca'd at AnsUat No. LXII. MR DUfi.XS TO MR THOMSON. November, 17S4. Many thanks to ycu, my dear sir, for vcl- preseut : it ; s s bo;>k of the utmost important to me. 1 Lav? yesterday begun my auecdotci &c. for vonr work. I intend drawing it up ,i the form of a letter to \oa, which w I save ■ fr"in the tedious >'u!l business of" s> sternal! arrangement, 'meed, as all I have to say sap sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, old songs, &c it would be impossible to gi»t the work n beginning, a middle, and an end ; which the cri.ics insist to Le absolutely neces- sary ir. a work.* In my lest, I re id ) on my oljection3 to the scng you bad selected for • My lodging is ou the cold ground.' On my visit j to my fair Cbloris (that is the peeiic name of the loveiy goddess cf my inspi- ration) she suggested an iaea, *hch I. i;i my return from the visit, wrought iMo the tol- r. n ark how green ibr groves, The rranrose banks how fair : The balmy pales r.w-.Ve ;Le iiowtrs, * It dees net appear whet' er Puros ccm- ""• pleted these anecdotes, c^c. Poote bsng of the , was fot.ud apers, and appears in p. 15. And o'e For nature To shepherds as (o kings BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. , I ween, Let minstrels sweep the skilfu* string In lordly lighted ha* : The shepherd stops his simple reed, Biythe, in the birkeu. shaw. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn : But are their hearts as light as ours Beneath the milk-white thorn ? The shepherd, in the flowery glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo : The courtier tells a finer tale. But is his heart as true ? e like li e pu'd, to deck How do you like the simplicity and ten ness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty wi I like you for entering so candidly &n< kindly into the story of ma cliere amie. J sure you, I was never more in earnest in life, than in the account of that afl'air w 1 sen! you in my la.-t. Conjugal love is a sion which I deeply feel and highly vener but, sonieiiow, it doe;, not make such a ri« in poesy as that other species of the passioi " Where Love is liberty, and nature law Musically speaking, the first is s of which the gamut h P ,ei welfare and happiness the first and inviolate my soul; and whatever pleas; wish for, or whatever might b< they would give me, yet, if the;, that h'.st principle, it is having t: at a dishonest price ; and justice geun. Ritson, e story of the Hack kei^s ; )ng by Sheridai irht s o D'Urfey 's e n^ght each drooping plant t The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simpli- city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my rong to the tune as follows. " Now for my English song to « Nancy's to the Greenwood, ' &c. t There is an air, « The Caledonian Hunt's delight,' to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. • Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon ;' this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air ? It is curious enough. A good many s ago, Mr James Miller, whom possibly you in company with our friend Clark?; of Scottish music, Miller expressed * See the song in its first and best dress in p. 289. Our bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into an English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender of pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable effect. " T Here our pcet gives a new edition of the song in p. 26S of this volume, and proposes it for another tune. 1 he alterations are unim- portant. The name Maria, he changes to Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh lines, as in p. 201, he introduces, Instead of the fourt not perfectly gramm: has, more properly, ■ .1'iit «l_ Je£ edly asserted that this was an Irish air ; na I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmei that he had heard it in Ireland among the ol ••-■■iiile, other hand, first perton who inl) :e, who took down i informed n duced the air into lady cf her acqua: notes from an itinerant p per in tne is e 's Wife.'" as well as ' Roihiemurche,' 'in fact, iu the first part of both tune*, the rhvn:e is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregu- larity depends so much of their Leauty, that -we must e'en take them with all their wild- ness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leav- j ing out the starting note, in both (unes, his, I ' think, an effect that no regularity could coun- j terbaiance the want of. J Try /ORo; | O !&s { Roy's I Lassie .1 Does not the tainecess of the prefixed syllable strike you ? In the last case, with the true furcr of genius, you strike at once into the wild orig nality of the air ; whereas in (he first in.-ipid method, it is like the gratis g screw cf the pins before ihe fiddle is brought '"u S I beg j i song go • This ii pardon of the cognoscenti. 'The Caledonian Hunt' is that it would in-,ke any subjec down ; but pathos is certa.nly it; Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though ihe few we have are excellent. ' For in- stance, « i'odltn hame' is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition ; and ' Andro and his cutty gun' is" the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they cer- tainly were, who composed our hue Seottioh lyrics, should be unknown* It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Baccha- nalian .-cngs in Scottish ; 1 composed one ycsterdav for an air I like much — 'Lumps o' pudding. * Since yesterday's pfiinrar.ship, 1 ba\e fram- ed a couple of English stanza*, by was of an English song lo Roy's wife. You will allow me that, in this ii.sar.ee, my EngKsh ecares- ponds in sentiment with the tfec/Uish. CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY ? Tune— " Roy's wife." Chorus. Canst thou leave me la US, my Katy ? Can^t thou leave me thus, my Katy t Well thou knou'st my aching heart, And canst thcu leave me ;hus far pity J Is this thy plighted fond r-gard, Thus cruelly to part, iriy Ka'y Is this thy faithful swain's reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? Canst ihou, &c. I Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fie de heart of thine, my Katy: Thou ma\ 'st end those will love thee dear — But not ak-velike i::ice, my Er.'v. C.-..1S-. thou, 4c* Contented wi' lit! ind cantie v the elbow o' troublesome I whyles clai thought ; But man is a srdger, and life is a faught : Wy mirth and good humour are coin in my And my freedom's my lairdship. cae monarch dare touch. A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa*. A nigh! o' gu'd fellowship sowihers it a' : When a: the Llyihe end of our jjurney at last, Wha the diel ever thinks o' the road he has pass'd ? Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyle on her way •, Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain ; Wy warst word is -' Welcome and welcome * To this address, in the character cf a for- saken lover, a reply was found on the part of the lady, among the MSSc of our bard, evi- dently in a female hand wriing ; which is doubtless that referred to i" •> 977 ~r ,i..v volume. The temptation to lie is irresistible ; and if, in ^ . should be given to the fair authore beauty of her verses must plead our txe the pub- zvim -' ' Roy's rife.' Stay, my "Willie — yet believe me, S;ay, m> Wil'.ie— yet believe me, 'Twee 1 , thou know St nae every pang Y»ad wring my bosom sbouldst thou leave TeV me that thou yet art true, Ai;:i a' my wrong-; shall be forgiven, And when this hear: proves fcuse to thee, Von sun shall cease : s couise in heaven, Stay, my Willie, \ e . But to think I was betray 'A, Thar falsehood e'er our love should sunder, To take the flow 'ret to my Lreast, And find the guilefu' serpen; under ! Stay, my Willie, &c. I Could I hope tiicu'dst ne'er deceive, i Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, I'd si ght, nor seek in other spheres j That heaven I'd find within thv boso.n. Slay, my Willie, &'c. j It may amuse the reader to be told, that, on this occasion, the gentleman and the lady have j exchanged the dialects of their respective couiit;-:es, Tb.e Scothsh bard makes Jiij ed- BURNS. Well * aree tur jree p 1 ihiuk this, to iches of Ir.sh Hla be done in , and with ckguord, is 3 .i.J:i. t yoi she ^ rid. whether you believe nave ever oeen generally used as n mu pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, in what part of the country chi. fly. I c union if it was capable of any thing but ing and roaring. A fiend of mine sayi nmemh.rs to have heard on- in hs you days (made of wood iusiead of yo..r uoil. ■), that the sound was a uminable. Do notj 1 besetoh ;w, return anj book* No. LXV. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 28fA2votfc 17 94. I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not on the most punctual, but the most delectable eo respondent I ever met with. To attempt fla tering you never entered my head; the troth is, I look back wiili surprise at my impu- deuce, in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which perhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the con- trary, however, you have all along thai i '•') '- rie,y. s to be wonderful, if I have sou times given myself the airs of a reviewe Your la.st budget demands unqualified praise all the songs are charming, but the duet is ekef U'eeuvre. Lumps of pudding shall certai dress in \>ure English ; the reply, on the uart rf the lacy, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake uot, by u young and beautiful Euglish- W01UAU No. LXVI. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Dec 17S4. It is, I assure vou, the pride of m v heart to d • any thing to forward, or add to 'the value of your book; and as I agree with you liia! the new be j,euce till Jamie conies ham;- would i..k so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love song to .be air, I Lave just framed for you the following. MY NANNIE'S ANA. Tune—* There'll never be peace,' &c Now i And li braes, \S bile birds waible welcome in ilka But to n. s it's d ; J'gritless~ my Nannie's lHXSlOXi) CABINET LIBRARY. 'i he snaw-drap a;:d primrose cur woodlands A'.d violets bathe in ihe -a eel o* ihe morn ;. Tnej paiu uiy sad bosom, saa sweet v they that hails the Aad thou, mellow night-fa', Give over for pity— mv Nannie's awa. Ootue, Autumn, sae pensive in yellow and grey. And soothe me vri' tidings o' Nature's deca\ , The dark dre rv \vi:iter audwild driving snavf, Alane can delight uie — now Nannie's awa. How does this please yon ? As to ihe point of li:i>.e for the expression, in jour proposed prim from inv Sod^er's return : It must cer- tainly be a!—' She gazed. ' The interesting dubiety an-3 suspen?e, taking possession of her countenance; and the gushing fondness, with a. mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal, in greal ha»ie, biu :.. great tj - b ' that. They aiiud me o' Nannie — and Nannie's a Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' la?.n The shepherd to warn o' ihe grey breaking No. LXVII. MB BURNS TO MB THOMSON. January, 1795. I fear for my songs ; however, a few ma; piease, yet originality is a coy feature in com position" and in a multiplicity of c. Torts in thi bsme style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have bee describing the spring for instance ; and as tL spring continues the same, there must soon be a" sameness ill the imagery, uc. of these vhym ing folks. A great critic, Aiken, on songs, says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song wtiting. The following is 0:1 neither subject, and consequently, is no song ; but will be al- lowed, I think, 10 be two or three prett. good {. rose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. FOR A* THAT AND A' TIIAT. Is there for honest poverty That hangs h'.s head, and a' that ; The coward slave, we pass biaa bj : We dare be poor fur a' that, For a' that and a' that, Oar toils obscure, and a* that, The rauk is but the guinea's stamp, Thi man's ihe gewd for a' that. i'e see yon Vrkie, ca'd a lord, "VVha struts, and stares, and a* that : Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that ; "or a' that and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at s' that. L prince can malt a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he matinna fa' that I For a* that, and a' ;hat, dignities, and a* that The pith a' sense and pride o* worth, Are higher raL;ks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it kill for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth May bear the gree, and a' that. For a"' that andV f a - , It's coming ye' for a' that, That man to man, the warid o'er, Shall brother* be for a' lhau I do not give you the foregoing song f.>? your book, but merely by way of rtre la basa- lelli ; for the piece is not really poetry. How fill thefoiiowisg do for Craigie-bum icoodl Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blytke a v. akes the morrow, Bat a* the pride o' spring's return Can v k-la me nocbt but sorrow. 1 see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing ; But what a weary wight can please. And care his bosom wringing ? Fain fain would I ray griefs impart, Yet dare na for y ir anger ; Bat secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou sliait love anither, When yon gre=n leaves fade frae the trre, Around my grave they *ii wither. * Farewell I God bless •,. u. ->n haJBBelj fare we dine, n' grey, and a' that ; r silks, and kr . * Craigie-burn wood is s ; tua;ed on the banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles dis- tant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one tlico favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the • Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, * and that he conceived several of his I - ■tries. BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, 30th Jan. 1735. MY DEAR SIR, I thank you heartily for Nannie's aica, as well as tor Craigie burn,, which 1 think a very c( ly pair. Your observation 0:1 the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in t' sane style, strikes rue very forcibly ; and it ii ngain and again excited my wonder to fin j 3 continually surmounting Uiis difficulty-, in 1 many delightful songs you have sent me. Yo uwe to bagatelle soug, Fur a' that, »nall u uutibtedty be included in my list. vyeetest (lower that trodden like the vil raple maid the less eek'd the mead, t weed : read. No. LX1X. .YR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. February, 1795. Here is another trial at your ia-ourite air. Tana— * Let me in this ae hrht. ' O lassie, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou wakin, I would .1 it, For love has bound me hand ;uid foot, And 1 would fain be uujo. Chorus. O let rue in this ae niglil, This ue, ae, ae uighi, For pity's sake this ue night, O rise aud let me in, j T. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks through the driving aleei, Tak pity on my weary feet, The bilter'blast that round me blaw Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The caulduess o' thj heart's the eai ufa' my grief and pain, jo. U let me in* .Sec. HER ANSWER. O tell 11a me o' wind and rain, Upbraid. 11a me wi' cauld d sdain, Oae back the road ye cam again, i wihna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night ; Aud ance for a' this ae night ; 1 lei v .jo. Tbesnellest blast at mirkest hours, That round the pathless w Ik nought to what poor sh That's trusted faithless 1 tell YOU HON po;.- No. LXX. mr yuRNS to mr Thomson. EBt-fr/vcAc.i, 7 , : February. K:^. MV DEAR THOMSON, fou cannot have any idea of the predicament ■i which I write to you. In the course of my uty as supervisor (in which capacity I h.ive cod of late) I came yesternight to this U11- ■rtunate, wicked, little village. 1 have goiia forward, but snows of ten feet deep haTe im- peded my progress; I ba\e tried to ' gse back the gate I cam again,' but the tauie obstacle has shut me up wnhin insuperable bare. To aid to my uiitdortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have in-uited the d\ ing agonies of a sow, und-.r ihe hands of a butcher, auu minks himself, 011 that very account, exceeding good company, in fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to ■el drunk to forget these miseries ; or to hang n self to get lid of tliem : like a prudent man, a character congenial to my every thouglit, ford aud deed,; I, of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service !* wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. ( lot time then to teil you all I wanted to I s.i^y ; an 1 hekveu knows, at present, i haxe no', capacity. -I a t. We'U gic t slowish t me, it would make an excel- ng. I am high y delighted with it ; and bhouid think it worthy of your attention, a fair name ill my e j e to whom I would U just going to be , I wish v gouJ No. LXX I. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 25/A February, 1793. j I have to thank you, my dear sir, for t ] epistles, one containing Let me in this ae nig aud the other from Ecelefechan, proving, il S93 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. drunk or sober, your ' mind is never muddy, ' You have displayed great address in the abose song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that other- wise would have attached to his entreaties: I like the song as it stands, very much- I Lad hopes you would be arrested sonic days at Lcclefechan, and be obliged to beguie the tedious forenoons by song making. It will five me pleasure to receive the \ene, you in- i tend for O ivat lis wha's in yon town. | Take aught else of mine, But my Ciiioris spare ice J How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish air, '* Humours of Glen,'' is;: great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff i •Poor Soldier,' there are not any decent versus for it, 1 have written for it as follow. SONG. No. LXXII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Mat,; 1795. ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. Tune — * Where'll bonnie Annie lie.' Or, * Loch-Errcch Side. * O stay, sweet-warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A helpless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That 1 may catch thy melting art: For surely that wad touch her heart) Wha kills me «i p disdaining. Stay, was thy little mate unkind. And heard thee as the careless wir.d ? Ch, nocht but love and sorrow joiu'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Thou tells o* never-ending care ; O' speechless grief, and dark despair : For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair : Or my poor heart is broken ! Let me know your very first leisure how vol ike this song. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. rune—' Aye waki&V Ctwi-us. • Long, loi^ the night, Hea Whil. my s ■ghi, is on her Led of son Can I cease to care. Can I cease lo iaugui* While my darling fair Is on the couch of ar.| Long, &c Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror; Slumber e'en I drtrad, Long, &c Hear me, powers divine i' thebu broom t the bo< The And caul'd'Caled, Their swee.:-sce!ited proud palace, hat are they ? slave's spic'v f n lone glen o' green 5 under the lang yellow re yon humble bro( in the blue bell and go wan lurk lowly , iightly tripping amang the wild ing the linnet, aft wanders my Jean, the breeze in their gay sunny : s blast on the wave ; dlands that skin lha ; haunt o' the tyrant s, and gold-bubbling SONG. Time—' Laddie, lie 'Twcs the bewitching, i r do I fear that to hope is denied me ; Sair do I fear (hat despair maun abide me : But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sc\er r en shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I'm ihine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the deaies And thou'rt the angel that never can aller, I Sooner the sua in bis rnoti-jn would falter. BURNS— CORRESPONDENCE !C I , No. LXXIII. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS, You must not think, my good sir, that i have «ny intention to enhance Ibe value of mj gift, when 1 saj, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, thai the des gn and execution of 1 the Cotter's Saturday Night' is in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall be grievous!} disau pointed if vou are' not quite pleased with il. The figure intended tor your portrait. I think ftrikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece inter- esting to your family every way. Tell m? whether Mis Burns finds voa cut among the figures. 1 cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have read your pathetic • Address to the woodlark,' your elegant ' Panegj on Caledonia,' and your affecting versus • Chloris' illness. ' Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to •Laddie, iie near me,' though not equal to tha^e, is very pleasing. No. LXX1V. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. Air— • Johu Anderson my jo.' How cruel are the parents Who riches oniy prize, And to the wealthy bojby, Poor woman sacrifice.* Meanwhile the hapless daughtei Has but a choice of strife ; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing, 'lhe tremblintr dove thus liies, To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries ; Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruleless falconer, And drops beneath his feet. SONG. Tune—* Dei! lak the wars. ' Markjonder pomp of EOstij fashion, Round the wea ihy, titled tnder c npared with real passion, to .; princely pride. What are their showy trea=ur.= s ? iv nat are ihtir noisy pleasures ? i"he gay, gaudy glare of vanity und art. The polish "d jewel's blaze, May draw the wond'niig gaze, And courtly graudeur brigiTt, 'i'he fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the Leart. , Loveiy as yonder sweet opening itcwer is, I Shrinking from the jrazc of day. O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the will- ing soul ? Ambitiou would disown The woild's imperial crown, Even Av 'rice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel through ever* vein I^e's rap'ures Well this is not am'ss. You see how 1 an- swer your orders: your tailor could not la more punctual. I am just now iu a h :^h Li of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can hi u post or two administer a little of the intoxicating pn'-i-n of jour applause, it will raiseyour i.uiu- ble servant's phrenzy to any heig" ith the Mus u.J L_ ' hchi ; high converse" a word to throw No. LXXV. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. Ten thousand tbauks, for your elegant present » though I am ashamed of the value of it, tein? bestowed en a man who has net Ly any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it io two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate proeucticn. My phiz is "sae kenspeckle. " that the very jo n- er's appreutice whom Mrs Burns tiupiojed to break up the parcel (1 was out of town that pliments to Allan, who has honoured my rus- One strange i who h chin" of mine, whom, frl witty wicked. .ess and ma even at twa davs auld I foi striking features of his t Willie Nicol, after a ceri leof the masters which shall be n : the inclosed epigram r»P« i.i j , Chfl uch- alued friend Cunningham, and tell him that n Wednesday 1 go to visit a friend of his, to fhom his friendly partialis in speaking ol im , a a manner introduced :tie — i mean u »til military and literary character, Colonel i liked my Ivan Jnom. No. LXXYI. - MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 13 ': May, 1795. It gives tr.e great pleasure toiiud that you hi 300 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. e'.l so well satisfied with Mr A'lsn's produclio Ihe chance resemblance of jour little fel- jow, whose prorating disposition appeared very early, and suggested whom he should uained after, is curious enough. .1 am a quainted with that person, wLo is a , r digj of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though no saint. You real!; make me blush when you tell :ne you base not merited the drawing from me. 1 do not think I can ever repay \ou, or suf- ficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal and kiud manner in whieh you have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which cou!d not have been pesfected without you: So I beg \ou would not make a foo! of ine again, by tpeakiug of obligation. i Ike your two last so:;gs very much, and tin happy to tiud you are in such a high ril of poetizitig. I>r.g* may it last. Ci.Irke has e sthenic air in Ma let's superlative Lai. ad of • William and Margaret.' and s to j::. e it to me to Le eurolkd among the elecL No. LXXYU. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. _ In « Whistle and I'll c the iteration of that line ); Ueiegoes what I think is oture v r-> esometomy ear. ' my lad ;' d a' should gae • lad. In fact, a fair d P,-ie.,t of the Nin I'aruassxu: a cam ti.cd iu witci:crafi She's bonnie, blooming, straight. And lang has had my heart in tin And aye it charms in The'kind love (hat' O tbit is no, & ihraJ! ; A ihief sae pake is my Jem;, To st-al a biiuk by a' unseen ; But cleg as light are lovers' e'en, When kind hne is in her e'e. O this is no, &c It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But w'eel the watchins lover marks, 'Ihe kind lore that's iu Lev e'e. O this is no, Sic. Do you know that you have roused the tor- pidity" of Clarke nt last ? He has requesied me to write three r.r four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The inclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cuuning- I inclose the sheet open, both for your in- spection, aad that you may copy the song, ' O bonny was yon rosy brier.' 1 do not know whether I am rght ; but that song plea-es me. and as it is extremely probable "the Clarke's newly rousfd celestial spark will scon le smothered in the fogs cf indulgence, if you like (be song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of, • I wish my love was in the mire ;' and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. I inclose you 'For a' (hat and a' that.' which was never in print: it is a much su- perior soug to n:ii;e. 1 lis re been told that it was composed by a lady. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. SCOTTISH SONG. at whose shrine, I, the ,-fier up the iucense of iijui tne Graces have at- id whom the Lo^es have .ned vrilii lightning, a Fair One, herself the route of the song, insists on the amendment ; J Jsjiuu her commands if you dare! SONG. « ;L '= :i .10 mine ain lassie F'-ii: though the lassie be ; O weel I ken mine ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. I see a form, I see a face, Ve weel may wi' the fairest place : Lt wants to me the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no, &c ll.e far. v.r.g c Rejoice in fostering showers ; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe ! The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art ; Mj 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 cliff" that grows. Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows. Was mine ; till love has o'er me pass'd And blighted a' my bb-om. And now beneath the wnh'ring blast, My youth and joy consume. Th<" waken'd iav'rock warbling swings And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blytke her dewy wings As little rcckt I sorrow's power, L T iitil Ihe flowery -tiare BTJSN 3. - CO R U GSPON DEN Cii. SO] had my fa'.e been Greenland 's snow Or Atric'6 burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wre.ch whasedooui is ■ hope nae I That tongue his woes can tell ! Within whnse bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. SCOTTISH SONG. bonny was you rosy brier, That blooms sae far f'rae haunt o' man And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! it shaded frae the e'en in' tun. No. LXXVIIL MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. ' : Jiv dhah sir, ; This will be delivered to you by a l)r Brian- . ton, \>lio L;is read your works, and ppnts for [ the honour of _iour aequainiance. i do not I he £ but his v, bo i >n vo ebuds D tl e morning c BW ilo-v pure, g the leaves sae green at pu er was the lover's vow They mines s'd u their shad yestreen. All in its ruJe and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet an But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and wimpling b Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mill And I the world, nor v Written en tbe blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems presented to the lady, whom, iu so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often suag under ths name of Chloris. 'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair fnend, Nor tbou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse. Since tho'j, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms'* To join tbe friendly few. Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lour ; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast l>iu nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Siill muca is left behind ; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, TRe comforts of the mind ! Thine is the self approving glow, Ou c.mscious honour's part ; And, dearest gift of hea\en below, Toiue friendship's truest heart. | plied to me for this intioduction, being a ■ cellent young man, I have no doubt he is I thy ofufl acceptation. j My eyes have just been gladdened, an i mind feasted, wiih \ou ! pleasant things indeed. s yours! It is superfluous to tell vou flint am delighted with nil the three songs, as /ell as your elegant anil tender verses to Chlo- I am sorry you should be induced to alter ' O thistle and I'll come to ye, my lad,' to the prosaic line, * Thy Jeauy will venture wi' ye, in y lad. ' I must be permitted to say, that I do not think the [alter either reads or sings so well as the former. 1 wish, therefore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* I should be happy to see Mr Clarke produce a few songs to be joined to your verses. E\ery body regrets his writing so very litile, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray, was the resolution fornud coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a bowl of punch wiih the bard ! i Mr Cunningham wha'. i ha- ent bin For a' that a P. S. — The lady s sensible enough, cut no more to oecompa o your's than 1 to Hercules. No. LXXIX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. ENGLISH SONG Tur.e — " Let me in this ae night." Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee I wander here ; Yar, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. C/wr«K» O wert thou, love, but near me, e to rove ; And doubly were the poet bless 'd '"■ ie joys could he improve. who has heard the heroine of herself in the very spirit of that it requires, thinks Mr DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope und joy ; And shelier, shade, ncr home have I, Save in these arms cf thine, lo*e. O wert, &c. Cold, alter'd fr'endship's crnel part To poison fortune's ruthless dart- Let me not break thy faithf 1 lirart, And say that fate "is mine, love. Lest i But dieary (hough ihs moments Meet My v. oo C) ie! me think we vet shail meet I And \ Thai only ray of solace sweet s Can on thy Chloris shine, love. And V wert, &c. How do you like the foregoing? I have Gin > written it v>ithin this hour : so much for the And boi peed of my Pegasus ; but what say you t o bis ft No, LXXX. MR BURNS TO ?.;R THOMSON. SCOTTISH BALLAD. Tane-'The Lothian Lassie.' Last May a braw wcoer came down the lang And fair wi' his love he did deai I said their was naeihing I hated 1 The deuce gae wi m> to believe I . The-deuee gie wi' , to belie He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, And vow 'd for my love he was dying : I said he might die what lie liked for Jean, The Lord forgi'e me fur lying, for lying, The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! A weel-stocked mailer md, And marriage aff b I never Won that 1 bend But thought I might hae offers. But thought I might hae But what wad yon think ! it The de - il tak his taste to He up the lang loan to my I vere his profile! t, or caved, waur offers, i to the word « . .:■■ Burns replies as t'ollov < Gateslack is the na a kind of pa= on the co Klines of (hi is also the na uie of a Nith, wheie are still ,«He up the lsnz loan throw oat any thing how the jad I eculd bear her, could her, ! how the jad T ccuid bear her. l?ut a' the nei»t week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed lo the tnste of Dalgarnock, And vvha but my fine fickle lover was there ! I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowred as I'd seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink Eebors !r,i_-ht say I v. as saucy; r he caper 'd as he'd been in drink, ivv'd [ was his dear lassie, dear U cousin fu' coisthy and sweet, cover'd ber hearin, » shcon fit her aula sbachlet how he fell a sv But heavens ! how he fell a swear'u. He begged for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow : So, e'en lo preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- I thiisk I ma'uu wed him to-morrow. FRAGMENT. Tune—' The Caledonian Hunt s delight. "Why, why tell thy lover, ■ enjoy ; O why, while fancy, raptured slumbers* No. LXXXI. THOMSON TO MR BURNS. MY DEAR SIK, Your English vers r.ight,' are tender ballad to the 'Lothi i to 4 Let this liful ; and your Lassie' is a master pieoe for its humour and naivete. The fragment for the ' Caledonian hunt' is quite suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian ;, had it so pleased the poet ; but n mkfal. , Lord make i BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 5th February, 1793. O Uobby Burns-are you sleeping yet ? Or are ye waukmg, I would wit? The pause you have made, my dear sir, is a;v- ful ! Am I never to hear from you agaiu ? I know and I lament how much you have been aiilicted of late, but I irust That returning health and spirits will now enable you to re- suoie the pen, and delight us with your mus- ings. 1 nave still about a uozen Scottish and Iri=h airs that I wish "married to immortal \erse. " We have several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; but they are now natu- ralized, and reckoned our owu good subjects. Inceed we have none better. I believe I be- fore told you that I have been much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs aiidsongs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this ? No. LXXXIII. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. February, 1796. Many thanks, my dear sir, for your hand- some, elegant present, to Mrs B — , and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favour- ite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shuli cheerfully undertake the task s for. [ have already, you know, equipped three with words, and" the other day i strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which i admire much. HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. TuTie—* Balinamona Ora.' Awa wi' your'witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 'ihe slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stocket farms. 1 ben bey for a lass wi ' a tocher, then hey for 1 nen hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yel- low guineas for me. Vour beamy 's a flower, in the morning that And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonaie green Ilk spring they're ' Then, v deckit wi' bonn'e white And e'en when this beaut v vour bosom ha? bless'd, The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- pre=s'd,, The langer ye hue them—the mair they 're ea- r of my Scottish pas. line things else, mdments to pro- ionedof "flaxen Then, bsy, &c. If this will do, you have now foi Irish engagement. In my bye past dislike one thi.g : the name Chloris— I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongru- ity to have a Greek appella ' toral baliad. — Of this ai in my next : I have more pose. — What you once J jocks*' is just : they cam gant description of beauty. — Of this also again. — God bless you !* No, LXXXIV. MR THOMSON TO NR BURNS. Your •« Hey for a lass wi» a tocher" is a most excellent song, and with you the subject is something new indeed. It is ihe lust time 1 have seen you debasing the god of soft de- sire into an amateur of acres and guineas. 1 am happy to find you approve of my pro- posed octavo edition. Ailau has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for that woik. Indepen- dently of the Hcgarihian hu.iiour with wnicb they abound, they exhibit the character and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimita- ble felicity. In this respect he himself says, thev will/ar exceed the aquatinta plates he did for'the ''Gentle Shepherd,' because in the etching, he sees clearly what be is doing ; but not so with the aquatinta, which he could not manage to his mind. The Butch bocrs of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and natural, than the Scottish figures in those etchiugs. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. April, 1793. 4Ia2, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be tome t. me ere I tune my lyre again ! "By Babel streams I have sat and wept, '' almost ever since 1 wrote you last ; I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; and have counted time by Ike repercussions of pa.n ' Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have tormed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on me vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson — * Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris. 'Note by Mr Thomson. ' DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY, ;n.\>ri:e This will be delivered to you by a Mrs Hyslop, landlady o let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- This should have been delivered to you a month aso. I am still very poorly, but should iike much to hear from \ou. No. LXXXV II. MR BL'RNS TO MR THOMSON. U V JS It SIR, 1 once mentioned to vou an air which I ha, long ai:nired, • Here's a heal'.h to them thar awa, h'ney,' but I forget if \ou took any nc tice of it.' 1 have just been trying to suit s ; and I beg lea l-ira.. i r attention once i [ have a he-lth ;o ar.e I lo'e dear, a be-ilth to ane I lo'e de.-.r; t sweet as the smile when fom No. L XXX IX. MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 120. Jul} After all my buasied independence, cursed neces- sity compels me to implore you for tive pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, lo whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- * Iu the letter to Mr Thomson, the three first stanzas only are given, and Mr Thomson supposed our poet had never gone far'her. A- niorig his MSS. was, howpvrr, fom.d ih*> fourth stan,:a, which completes tit's ex.jaisit* song, the iust finished offspring of his muse. f It is needless to say, that this revisal Burn* did not live to perform. BURNS.— CORRESPONDENCE. »Vo cesa, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, fc:r God's Bake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive ice this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- tracted. I do not Xk all ih:s gratuitously ; for upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth SONG. Twie — ' Rothiemurche. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do. Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! O did not, love, exclaim « Forbear * Nor use a faitf.ful lo.er so. ' Fairest maid, &c. Then come thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share; And by that beauteous sell I swear, No love but thine my heart sliall know. Fairest maid, &c* by Mrs Hyslop, I ha\e b what manner 1 ccutd endeavour to aileviaia your sufferings. Again and agaiu I thought of a pecuniary offerT but the recollection of on? of your letters on this subject, and the fer.r of offending your independent spirit, cue!; d my for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and with ?reat pleasure inclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. "Would I were the Chancel.or of the Exchequer but for one day, Pray, my good sir^, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much trouble to you in the present state of your health, some literary friend might be found hers, who would select and arrange from your manuscripts, and take upon him the task of Editor. In ihe meantime it could be advertis- ed to be published by subscription ? Do not shun this moJe of obtaining the value of your labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, ctdo r. inced of the res- pect and friendship I bear you, to impute any thing I say to any ui. worthy mot.ve. Yours faiihiully. 'Ihe verses to « Rctblemurehe' will answer finely. lam happy to see you can still tuue -lyre. No. XC. MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. li'.h July, 179tf. MY DEAR SIR, Sver 6iuce 1 received your melancholy letter * These verses, and the letter inclosing thern^ arc written in a character th&t marks the very iec-bie stale of their author. Mr Syme is o'f opinion that he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainty he had many firm friends, nor under any neces- sity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about this lime his mind began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors cf a jail perpetually ginalion. lie died en the 21-t jfthii D APPENDIX. It may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of the history of the preceding Poems, c venich the celebrity of cur Bard has been hitherto founded; and with this view the followit: tiiricl is made from a letter of Gilbert Suras, the brother of our Poet, and his friend aud coi U hi* esrliest years. Moisgld. 2d April, 179S. BEAR SIR, Your letter of the 14th of March I received ia the due course, but from the hurry of the season, have beeu hitherto hindered from an- swering it. I will now try to give you what satisfaction I can in regard to the particulars you mention. 1 cannot pretend to be very ac curate in respect to the dates of the poems, but uoueof them, except ' Winter, a Dirge' (which was a juvenile production,) the ■ Death and i).>iiig words cf poor ?.lailie.' and some of the songs, were composed before the year 17S4. s c : .= . . the po^r sheeo were rret- ,cr.bed them; he had, .. :, bought a ewe and two house at Lochlie. lis • P ety i : the i formation that the ewe had entangled herself the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Rob- ert was much tickled with Hughe's appear- ance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was sei to rights, and when we returned from the plough in the evening, he repeated tj me her ' death aud djiug words' pretty much in the way they now* stand. Amuiig the earliest of his poemg was the •Epistle to Davie.' fcobert often composed without aii} regular plan. When any tiling made a strung impression on h s mind, so as to ruuse it to any oostic exertion, he would give way to the imp aise, aud embody lite thought, in Thyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper in- troductory, connecting, and concluding stan- zas ; h.mce the middle of a -poem was often first produced. It was, 1 taiak, in summer, 178f, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I were needing in the garden [(kail- yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. 1 believe the first idea of Rob- eil'a becoming an author was started on this o:ca3ion. I was much pleased with the epis- tle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be wel received by people of taste ; that I thought i at least equal, :f not superior, to many of Ai Ian Ramsay 's epistles, aud ihat the merit oi these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the ex- pression — but here, there was a strain of iu- eresting sentiment, and the scotticism of the language scarcely seemed affected, but appear- ed to be the natural language cf the poet; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my cri- ticism ; and we talked of sending it to some magazine, but as this plan afforded no oppor- tunity of knowing ho.v it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the win'er following, ag we were going together with carts for coal to !y fire (and 1 could yet point out the :r spot) thai the author first repeated to me tue ' A.jress to the Dei!. ' The curiotj idea of such an address was suggested to him by running over in his miud the many ludi- crous account; and repreieala ions we have, from various quarters, of this susrust person- age. • Death and Dr Hornbook. ' though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, was pro- J duced early in the year 1783. The school- J master of Tai bolton parish, to eke up ty subsistance allowed to that usetui class of men, set up a shop of grocery good;. Having , \ _. ;, fallen in with some medical Looks, anj become most hobby-horsica I tt.e btudy of medicine, be had added the saieof a few medicines to his Utile trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had adver- tised, that Advice would be given in common disorders at the --hop, gratis. Robert was at a mason meeting, in Tarb^iton, when the « Dominie* unfortunately made too ostenta- tious a display of his medical skill. As he parte.i in me evening from th s mix'ure of pe- canlr. and physic at the place where he de- scribes his meeting with Death, one of ibo«e floating ideas or' a;i; ariiion, he mentions in hi* le.ter to Dr .Moore, crossed his mind : this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These ciicumstances he r.Ued when he re- not t'ol BURNS. -APPENDIX. pea ted the verses to ma next afternoon, as I wa:> holding the plough, and hewa> letting the water off" the field beside me. The 'Epistle to John Lapraik' was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem, ' On fasten e'en we had a rocltin' (p. 214). I believe he has omitted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive tunes, when the country- women employed their spare hours in spin- ning on the rock, or dislatf. This simple in- strument is a very portable one, and well fit- ted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of ' going a-rocking, or with the rock. ' A? the connec- tion the phrase had with the impleme.it was forgotten when the lock gave way to the spin- ning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on the social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with tbeir.rocks, that Lapraik's song, begin- ning — « When I upon thy bosom lean,' was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first e tie to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mc tain Diisy were composed on the oceasi mentioned, and whiie the author was holding the plough: I could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a. favourite situation with Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems were pro- duced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could not conceive a more mortifying picture of Human life, than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, « Man was made to Mourn.' was composed. ilobert had frequently re- marked to me, that he thought there was some- thing peculiarly venerable in the phrase," Let lis worship God, " used by a decent sober head cf 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 title of tae poem, were taken from Fergusoi 's Farmer's Ingle. VVhen Robert had rot some pleasure in view in which I was not thought tit to participate, we used frequently to walk together when the weather was favourable on tne Suuday afier- nouns ( those precious breaihing-tiines to the labouring part ot the community), and enjoy- ed such sundaes as would make one regret to se: their number abridged. It was in one of li;ese walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat the ' Goner's Satur- day Night. ' I do not reco lect to have read or heard any thing bv which I was more highly electrified. The tilth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy Itirough my soul. I mention this to you, that jou may #ee what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. I should be glad to know, if the enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr ilcscoe, who has borne s :ch honourable lesti- rnuny to this poem, ogree, with me in the selection. Fergusson, in his ' Hallow Fair of Edinburgh,' I believe, likewise furnished a hint of the title and plan of the ' Holy Fair. • The farcical scene the poet there describes wai often a favourtie field of bis observation, and the most of the incidents he mention; had ac- tually passed before his eves. It is scarcely neeessar; to mention, that"' The Lament' was composea on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial history, which I have mentioned in my letter to -Mrs Danlop, after the tirst dis- traction of his feelings had a little subsided. « The Tale of Twa Dogs' was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been killed by tke wanton cruelty of some person the night before my father's death. Robert said to me, that lie should like to confer such immortality as he could bestow upon bis old friend Luath, and that he bad a great mind to introduce something into the book under the title of ' Stanzas to the Memory of a quadru- ped Friend :' but this plan was given up for the Tale as it now stands. ' Csesar' was mere- ly the creature of the poet's imagination, crea- ted 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 minster of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up 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 guests, 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. 197, were left in the Room where he slept. It was to Dr Lawrie that Dr Blacklock's letter was addres- sed, which my brother, in his letier to Dr Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. When my father feued his little property near Allowav-Kirk, the wall of the church- yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liber» ly of pasture iu it. My father, with two or three other neighbours, joined in an application to the town council of A)r, who were superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and raised by subscriation a sum for inclosing this ancient cemetery with a wall : hence he caaie to consider u as his burial place, and we learned that reference for it people generally have for the burial place of their ancestors. My brother was living in Ellisland, when Captain_Gro?e, on his peregriutions through Scotland, 6iayed some time at Carse-house in the neighbourhood, with Capiain Robert Rid- del of Glenriddel, a particular friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian and the Poet were '• Unco pack and thick thegither. " Ro- bert requested of Captain Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of Ailoway-Kirk, as it was the burial-place of his faiiier, where he himself had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when they should be no longer serviceable to him ; and added, by way of encouragement, that it was the scene cf many a good story of witchee and apparitions, of which he knew ihe C'apt.m was very fend. Ths Captain agreed to ihe re- 3CS DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. quest, provided the poet weald furt.ish a witch stoiv. lobe printed along with it. " Tain o' Shanier" was produced o;i this occasion, and was first published in •' Grose's Antiquities cf Scotland.'" The poem is founded on a traditional story. The leading circumstances of a man riding home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, Lis seeing a light in AUoway Kirk, having the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe to tbeui, the scanty covering of one of iLi witches, which made him so far forget himself as to cry — " Weel \ou pen, shot t sark !" — v.ith the melancholy catastrophe of the piece ; it is all a true story that can be wei! attested by main respectaDie old people; in that ne;ghbou.- i co not at present recollect any circumstan- cther that ( be at all interesting ; even some of those I }. ave mentioned, I am afraid, may appear tri- rlir-g enough, but you will only mate use of what appears to you of consequence. The following poems in the first Edinburgh edition were not in that published in Kil- marnock. 'Death and Dr Hornbook ;'■ The Brigs of Ayr;' 'The Calf;' (the poet had teen 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 a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this address to the Reverend Gentleman on his test was accordingly produced;) 'Ordination;' •The Address "(o the Unco Cuid ;' ' Taui Samson's Elegy i the seeing : pressure c st a Reverend Fri salm,' 'Prayer under ar.suish;' • The first tiethP,alm ;' • Verses to Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems ;' 'To a Haggis;' 'Address 10 Edinburgh;' « John Barleycorn;' «• When Guildford Gnid ;' 'Be- hind yon hills where Stino-har flows ;' ' Green grow the Rashes;' 'Again rejoicing .Nature tees;' 'The gloomy Kigali' • No Church- man am I. ' If you have never seen the first edition, it will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the preface, that you may see the manner in which the Poet made his first awe-struck approach to the bar of public judgment. PREFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION «• The following Trifles are not the produc- tion of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps, amid the elegances and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil, 'io the author cf ibis, these and other celebrated nati.es, their countrymen, ere, at ;east in Ihei- original languages * a fountain 5 bat up, and a book sealed.' Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet bv rule, he sings the sentiments and man- ners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic evsuprers around him, in his and their unlive language. Though a rhymer from his errlie,! years, at least from his earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friend- ship, awakeued his vanity .-o for as to i ' him think any thing of his worth show and none of the following works were c ed with a view to the press. To a self with the little creations of bis own fancy, amid the toils and fatigues of a laborious life : fo transcribe ihe various f.elwgs, the love the griefs, the hopes, the fears, ir, his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the muses, ana in these he found poetry to be its own reward. " Now tbat he appears •:. !te public charac- ter cf an author, he does it with fear and trem- bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nsnicless" Eard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ! and, because he csn make a shift to jingle a few dcggeiel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence forsooth I " It is an observation of that celebrated pret Shenstone, whose divine elegi.g do honour to cur language, cur nation, and our species, that ' Hum.iity has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame ! ' If any critic catches at the word 'genius,' the author tells him once for .all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abili- ties, oiherw ise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre btlcw the worst character which be hopes his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Buuisay , or the glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equally unaffected sincerity, declares, (hat even in his b-gh est pulse cf vanity, he has not the most distant pretentions. These two ju=tly admir- ed So ttish poets he Las often had in bis eye in to kincle at their Same, than for stniie imita- tion. " To his subscribers the Aulhor returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of a bard, conscious hew much he owes tu benevolence and friendship, for grati- fyir.ghin:, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish cf every poetic boscrn — to be distinguish- ed. He begs his rer.deis, particularly the learn- ed and tht polit-, wl.o may honour him wiih a perusal, that li;;y v. ill make every allowance for education a/.a circumstances of life ; but, if after a fair, cai.did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of auincss and ncu- sense, let him be dene by as he would in that case do by others — Let him be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion." Your cicst obedient humble servant, GILBERT BURNS. Dji Cub k ie, Liverpool. BURNS. _ APPENDIX. To this history of the poems which are con- tained in this volume, it may be added, that our author appears to have made little altera- tion in them after their original composition, except in some few instances, where consider- able additions bave been introduced. After he had attracted the notice of the public by his tirst edition, various criticisms were offered him on the peculiarities of his style, as well as of his sentiments, and seme of these which re- main among his mainuripls, are by persons of great tas e and judgment. Some few of these criticisms he adopted, but far the gi eater part he rejected ; and, though something has by this mea:'s been lost in point of delicacy and cor- rectness, >et a deeper impression is left of the strength and criginaliiy of his genius. The hrmness of our pjcl's character, arising from a just conhdence in his own powers, may, in part explain his lenaciouscess of his peculiar expressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- counted for also, by the circumstances under which the poems were composed. Burns did not, like men of genius torn under happier auspices, re;ire, in ihe moment of inspiration, to the silence ana solitude ef his study, and cjtnrait his verses to paper as they arranged themselves in his mind. Fortune did not af- ford him this indulgence. It was during the toils of daily labour that his fancy exerted itelf; the muse, as he himself informs us, found him at the plough. In this situation, it was necessary to fix his verses on his memory, and it was often many da\s, nay weeks, after u poem was finished, before it was written do*n. During ail this time» by frequent re- petition, ihe association between the thought aud the expression was confirmed, and the iin- partiilitv of taste with which written language ig reviewed and retouched after it has faded on the memory, could not in such instances be exerted, 'ihe original manuscripts of many of his poems are preserved, and they differ in nothing material from the last printed edition. Some few variations may be noticed. 1. In The 'Author's earnest Cry and Prayer', after the Stanza, p. 93, beginning, Erskine, a spunkie Noreland Billie, Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented If Bardies e'er are represented ; I ken if that your sword were wanted Ye'd iend \our hand, But when there's ought to say anent it. Ye're at a stand. * Sodger Hugh' is evidently the present Earl of Eglinton, then Colonel Montgomery of Coilsheld, and representing in Parliament the county of Ayr. Why this was ieft out in printing, does not appear. The noble Earl will not be sorry to see this .iolice of him, familiar though it be, by a bard whose genius he admired, and whose fate he lamented. 2. In • The Address to the Dei!, * the seventh stanza, in pnge 176, ran originally thus : Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. When Birr pptu' Adam's days were green, And Eve was like my lonnle Jean, The Elegy on poor Mailie, the second n page 17J. beginning, She was nae get o' moorland lips, is, at first, n fcik'N She was nae get o' runted rams, Wi' woo' like ^oats, and legs like trains ; fc^he was the dower o' Faiilie lambs, A famous breed ; Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams O Mailio ue„d. It were a pity that the Fairlic lambs should lose the honour o:ice intended them. 4. But the chief variati ns are found in the poems introduced, for the first time, in the edi- tion in two volumes small octavo, published in 1792. Of the poem written in Friar's Carse Hermitage there aie several editions, and one of these* has nothing in common with the printed poem but the four first lines. The poem that is published, which was his second effort on the subject, received considerable aU teratious in printing. Instead of the six lines beginning, Say man's true genius estimate, in manuscript the following are inserted. Stay ; the criterion of their fate, Th' important querv of their state, Is not, art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Wert thou cottager or king ? Prince or peasant ?— no such thing. 5. The « Epistle to R. G. of F. Esq. ' that is, to K. Graham of Finlry, Esq. also under- went considerable alterations, as may be collect- ed from the volume of Correspondence. This style of poetry was new to our poet, and though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost him more trouble than his Scottish poetry. On the contrary, « Tarn o' Shanter seems to hate issued perfect from the authoi's brain, 'lha only considerable alteration made on reflection is the omission of four lines, which had been inserted after the poem was linisued, at the end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles found on the ■ haly table,' aud which appear- ed in the fiist edit;on of the poem, printed sepa- rately. They came after the 6ixth line from the bottom of p. 216. o name would be unlawfu'. and are as follow : Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside o Wi' lies seaia'd liks a beggar's clout, * This is gi-.en in the Corresponded DIAMOND CABINET LIERAUY. These lines, which, independent of other ob- Jectxns, interrupt and destroy the emotions of terror which the preceding description had excited, were very properly left out of the print- ed collection, by the advice of Mr Fraser Tytler; to which Burns seems to have paid some deference. While ei Walks stately in the cooling shade ; And oft delighted lo es to trace The progress of the spiky blade ; While autumn, benefactor kind, With age's hoary honours clad, Surveys, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed, &c. By the alteration in the printed poem, it rosy be questioned whether the poetry is much im- proved ; the pcet however ha3 found means to introduce the shades of Dryburgh, tb.6 reiidence of the Earl of Buchan, at whose request these versas were written. These observations might be extended, but what are already offered will satisfy curiosity, and there is nothing of any importance that could be added. GLOSSARY. 1* ch and g* have always the guttural sound. The sound of .he Eng hsh d.pU bong oo monly spelled ou. The French «, a sound which olten occurs in the Scottish laan marked oo. or ill. The a in genuine Scottish word,, except when forming a dahlia followed by e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad Englis The Scottish diphthong «, always, and ea, very often, I The Scottish diphthong ey, sounds like the Latin ci. fnd like the French, e uiasculiu A', Ail- Aback, away, alonf. Abeigh, at a shy distance. Aboon, above, up. Abroad, abroad, in sight. Abreed, in breadth. Addle, putrid water, &e. Ae, one. Aff, off; Affloof, unpreme Afore, before. Aft, of i, Aften, often. Agley, off the right line; w Aiblins, perhaps. Ain, own. Airle-penny, Airles, earnest Aim, iron. Aith, an oath. Aits, oats. Aiver, an old horse. Aizle, a hot cinder. Alake, alas. Alane, alone. Akwart, awkward. Amaist, almost, Amang, among. An', and ; An, if. Ane, one ; and. Anilher, another. Ase, ashes. Asklent, avquint ; asl'_:-'. /■steer, abroad ; Btinriu... Athai athw Aught, possession; as, In a Biy a«j my possession. Auld lang syne, olden time, days years. Auld. old. Auldfarren, or, auld far rant, sagaci Ding, prudent. Ava, at all. Awtu', awful. Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. Ba% Ball. Backets, ash boards. Backlins earning, coming i Hack, returning. Bad, did bid. Baide, endured, did stay, the bell; a child. Bang, to beat ; U Baruie, diminutii Baretit, barefoot e Baruiie, of, or lik Batch, a crew, a Bats, bots, Baudrons, a eat. Bauld. bold, Bawk, bank, Be, to let be ; to Bear, barley. Beet, to add fuei B id, bald. Belyve, by and b Ben, into the sne Benlouiond, lOL£li Belhankit, grace after meat. Beuk, a book. Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; Jiiel or B.eld, shelter. Bien, wealthy, plentiful. Big, to build. Big K in, buildinffj a house. Biggit, built. Bill, ahull. BURNS. -GLOSSARY. Bit. crisis, nick of Cme. Kizz, a buttle, to buzz. ii:a tie, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term ( Blastit, blasted. Bate, bashful, sheepish. liialheri bladder. Mladd, a flat piece of any think ; to sh Blaw, to blow, to boast. Bleerit, bleared, fere with rheum. Blesrt and Win', bleared and biiud. Bleezing, blazing-. Bleilum, an idle talking fellow. Blether, to talk idlv ; nonsense. Bleth'rin', talking idtj . Bli.ik, a little while ; a smiling look ; I kindly ; to shine by tits. Blinker, a term of contempt. Blinkin, smirking. Blue gown, one o:' those lecrcrs, who Dually, her, a brother. Brock, a badger. Brogue, a bum ; a trick. Broo, Lrolh ; a triek. "roose, broth; a race at country v.eddi who shall first reach the bridegroom 'a hou.- I on returning from church. owster-vvives, ale-house wives. Brugh, a burgh. Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. Brunt, did burn, burnt. Brust, to burst ; Burst. Su-cLan. fullers, the boiling of the sea anion, the rocks of Euchan. uckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. Bughi, a pen, Btightin-time, the time of collGCtinrr the sherp n the pens to be milked. Buirdlj , stout ruude ; I road made. " j-clock, a humming beetle ma; flies "u Bluid, blood. B!u:i:ie, a snivel! Blype, a shred, Bock, to v a badge. : r iargVpicce': er " 0n ' > gush !iilerm:;tci:'Jj Hunker, a windo Uurdies, diminut e, did besr. Eocked, gushed,, Bcdle, a small gold coin. Bogles, spirits, btbgoblins. Bonnie or Bonny, handsome, beautiful. Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, small jannock, or loaf made of oat-uieal, Boord, a board. Boorlree, the shrub elder; planted much of old in hedges or barn-yards, &c. Boost, behaved, o must needs. Bore, a hole in the wall. Botch, an angry tumour. Bousing, drinking. Bow-kail, cabbage. Bowt, bended, crooked, Brackens, fern. Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope of bill. Braid, broed. Kraiiule-';, reeled forward. Bi-aik, a kind of harrow. Braiudge, to run rashiy forward. Brak,- bruke, n)ade insolvent. Branks, a king of woode;. curb for horses. Brash, a sudden iimea. Brats, i Burnt! Buruie, oiminuti Buskie, bushy. Buskit, dressed. Busks, dresses. a bustle : Buss, i Brawly or Bra * lie, very w heart ly. a morbid sheep , diminutive of breast. , did spring up or forward. Brecka i, fern. n invulnerable or irresislib Breeks, breeches. Brent, smooth. lire win , brewing. Brie, ji Brig, a Urunst ne, brimstone. Brisket the brea&ti the bosom. of birds, rivulet, burn the win tive of Luin. But, bot, ilh ; i ben, tbe c By hiniseli, lunatu B\ke, a bee-hive. Byre, a cow-stable ii enclosure for calv Canie or Ctm.ie, gentle tie or Cauty, ct.ceri Cantraip, a charm, a s Cape-stane, cope-stone Careerin, cheerfully. Carle, an old man. Carliu, a stout old wot Cartes, cards. Caudron, a caldron. Cauk and ksel, chalk a Caulc. Caup, : n drinkin Chap, a pei&oii, a : Chanp, a stroke, a Cheeki:, cheeked. Cbeep, a chirp; U Chiel or Cheel, a y BLltN 9. -GLOSSARY. Chim la or Cliimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. Cbiiii'c. lug, (lie fireside. Cluttering, shivering, trembling. Chock, n, choking. Chow, to chew : Cheek for enow, side by siue. Churn*, fat-face -!, Clachan, a suiaii village about a church ; a hamlet. Ciaise or Claes, clothes. Clahhing, clobing. Claivers, nonsense : not sense. Clao, clapper of a mi'.!, Clarkit, wrote. Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. Clatter, to tell idle stores ; an idle story. Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. Oat, to clean ; to scrape. Clnuted. scraped. Cavers, idie s'ories. C aw, to tcratch. Cleekit, having caught. Cli k.n, jelkiug, clinking. .i, he nhu rings the chv Clips, shears. Clishtuaclaver, idle conversation. Clock, 10 hatch ; a beetle. Clot . i:J Clout, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. Clootie, an old name for the devil. Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. Cluds, clouJo. Coasin, wheedling. Coble, i fishing boat. Coekernony, a iock of hair tied upon a girl's head ; a cap. Colt, bought. Cog, a wooden dish. Co;-gie, diminutive of cog. Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch. i genera! and sometimes a particular efor Coiliesbangie, quarrelling, an uproar. Cood. the cud. Coof, a blockhead, ninny. Cookiti appeared and disappeared by Gts. Coost, did cast. Coot, the ancie or foot. Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish: — also, those fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are said to be coolie. Corbies, a species of the crow. Core, cor-^s ; party ; clan. Corn'd, fed with oats. Cotier, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- tag* Couth , kind, loving. Co.ve, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ; lo fright j a branch of furze, broom, &c. Cowp, to barter ; tumble over ; a gang. Cowpil, tumbled. Cozie,o.iug. Coziely, snugly. Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. Cr-.tek, conversation ; lo converse, : Crackin, conversing. ! Craft, or croft, a field near a house (m old husbandry). Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. Crankous, fretftl, captious. Cranreucb, the hoar frost. Crap, a crop ; to crop. Craw, the crow of a cock ; a rook. Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, to be crazed ; to be fascinated. Creepie-stool, (he same as cutty-stool. Creeshie, greasy, Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. Croon, a hollow aud continued moan; to make a noise like the coui-inued roar of a bull ; to hum a tune. Crooning, humming. Croucbie, cro-ik backed. Crcose, cheerf.ii ; courageous. Ov-usely, cheerfully; courageously. Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil. ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef, Crcweie-thne, breakfast time. Crowlin, crawling. Crummock, a cow with crocked horns. Crump, hard aud brittle, spoken of bread. Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. Curler, a player at a game on the ice, prac- tised in Scotland, called curling. Curlie, curled, whose hair fails naturally in ringlets. Curling, a well known game on the ice. Cuiniurring, murmuring; a slight rumbling Curpiu, the crupper. Custiat, tiie dove, or wood-pigeon. Cutty , short ; a spoon broken in the middle. Cutty-stool, the stuoi of repentance. 1> DADDIE, a father. Daffin, merriment; foolishness. Daft, merry, giudy ; foolish. Daimcn, rare, now and then ; daimen-icker, ar ear of corn now aud then. Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable-- Daiee or Daez, to stapify. Dries, plains, valleys. Daurt, dared. Dnurg or Jlaurk, a day's labour. Davoc, David. Da-Ad, a large piece. Dawtit or Dawtet, fondled, caressed. Dearies, diminutive of dears. Drarthfa', dear. Deave, , the great bible lhat lies in the hall. llae, lo hare. llaen, had, the par:icip!e. Haet, cent haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- thing. Hafi'et, the temple, the side cf the head. Hafilics, nearly half, partly. Hajf, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and mo^rs. Ua ?gis. a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- mach of a cow or sheep. Hain, to spare, to save. Hain'd, spared. Hairst, harvest. Haith, a petty oath. Haivers, nonsense, Lpeakinj without thought. Ha!', or Huld, an abiding place. Hale, whole, light, healthy. Haly, holy. Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October. Hame, home. Hamely, homely, affable. Han', or Haun', hand. Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c to wrap, to cover; to hop, Happer, a hopper. Happing, hopping. Hap step an* loup, hop skip and leap. Karkit, barkened. Ham, very coarse linen. Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dress cor act with propriety. Hastit, hastened. Hand, to hold. Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. Haur!, to drag ; to peel. Hauriin, peeling. Haverel, a halfwitted person ; half-witted. Havius, good manr.trs, decorum, good -er.se. Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face. Heapit, heaped. Heaisome, heahhful, wholesome. Hearse, hoarse. Hear't, hear it. Heather, heath. Hech ! oh ! strange ! Iiecht, promised ; to foretell something that is to be got or given; foretold; the thing foretold ; offered. Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number cf sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, ilsjc, &c. Heeze, to elevate, lo rai = e. Helm, the rudder rr h- !m. Herd, to lend flocks ; cue who tends flocks. Herrin, a herring. Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunder birds' nests. Herryment, plundering, devastation. Hersel, herself; also a Herd of caltle, of any sort. Hef, hot. Heuj;h, a erng-, a coalpit. Hilch, a hobble; to halt, Uilchin, halting. Kim-el, himself, Hiney, honey. Hing, to hang. Hirple, lo walk crazily, to creep. Hissel, so many cattle as one person can at- Hasiie, dry ; chapped ; barren. Hitch, a loop, a knot. Hizzie, a hussy, a young girL Hcddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- ing on a cart horse; humble. Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, drawn across the rink. Hcg-s heather, a kind of horse play, by justling with the shoulder? tojustle. Hool, cuter skin or case, a nut shell ; a pease, cod. Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. Hoolie ! take leisure, stop. Hocrd, a board ; lo hoard. Hoorriii, hoarded. Horn, a spoon made of born. Hornie. cr.e of the many names of the devil. Host, or hoast, to cough ; a ccogh. Ho?. tin, coughing. Ho-ts, coughs. Hot eh 'd, turu'd topsyturvy ; biended, mixed. Hou»hmagandie f fornication. Hculet, an owl. Housie, diminutive of house. Hove, to heave, to sweli. Hoved, hea\ed, 6weiled. Howdie, a midwife. Howe, hollow; a hollow or dell. Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. Howk. to dig. Howkit, digged. Howk n, digging. K-.-.v «rl. Hoy, b Key's, urged. Hoyse, to pull upwards. Hov'e, to arable crazily. Hugrhoc, diminutive of Hugh. Hiiicheon, a hedgehog. Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. Hushion, a cushion. 1 I', in. Icker, an ear of c^rn. Ter-oe, a great-grandchild. Ilk, or Ilka, each, every. Ill-wiibe, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. Ingine, gerius, ingenuity. I'igle, fire ; fiie-place. Ise, I shall or will. Ither, other ; one another. JAO, jade ; also a familiar term atcong coua try folks for a giddy young girl. Jauk, to dally, to trifle. Jaukin, trifling, dallying. Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk as agitated BURNS — GLOSSARY. let, a jerkin, or short gov; i a jilt, a giddy girl. , to jump ; slender in !he Jink, img ; ~^:-, sprightly turns quickly ; giri; a wag. Jiukin, dodging. J irk. a jerk. Jccteleg, a kind of knife. Jouk, to stoop, to bow ihe head. Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the swinging motion and pealing sound of a Junute, tojustle. KAE, a daw. Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth. Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. Kai-i, fowls, ic raid as rent by a farmer. Kebbuck, a cheese. Keck'.e, to g'ggle ; to titter. Reek, a pec-p, to peep. Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said lo haunt fords and ferries at night, especially Ken, to kuow ; Kend or Kenn'd, known. Kpiinin, a sma'l matter. Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. Ket. matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool. Kilt, to truss up the clothes. Kirainer, a young girl, a gossip. Kin, kindred ; Kin', kind, (adj.) King's ho :d, a certain part of the entrails of an ox, &C. Kintra, country. Kintra Cooser, country sta'.lion. Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. Kirseu, to clirislen, to baptize. Kiit. a chest ; a shop counter. Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread; to serve for soup, gravy, &c. Kith, kindred. K.ttle. to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. Knt in, a young cat. Kiult'.e, lo" cuddle. Kiuttlin, cuddling. Knaggie, like knags, or points of rrcks. Knap, to strike smartly, a sni;.rt blow. Knappin-hamm-r, a hammer for breaking Kuowe, a small r.und hillock. Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. Kyte, the belly. Kytlie, to discover ; to show cne s 7, AD DIE, diminutive of lad. Laggen, the angle between the side and lot- toni of a wooden uisb. Leigh, low. Lairing, wading, ana sinking in snow, mud, La'lans, the Scottish dialect of the English Lambie, diminutive of lamb. Lampi', a kind of shell-iisu, a limpit. Lane, lone; my lane, tby lane, &c. myself ■eiy. Lang, long ; To think lang, to long, lo weary Lap, did leap. Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. Laverock, the lark. Lawic, shot, reckoning Lawlan, lowland. Leu's z. is: Leal, loyal, true, fa Lea-rig, grassy ridg Lear, (pronounced 1: Lee-lang, livelong. Leesome. pleasant. Leeze-me, a phrase Leuk, Libbet. gelded. Lift, the sky. Light 1 a ballad ; a a kept rnpel. Limp't, limped, hoblled. Link, to trip along. Linkin, tripping. Linn, a waterfall ; a precipice. Lint, flax ; Lint i' ihe bell, flax in flower. Lintie, Liniwh^te, a linnet. Lploch, properly a coarse ciolh ; b'.ti used a.i an adnoun for coarse. Rarely, excellenlly, very well. Rush, a rush ; ra-b-buas, a UsuJi of rus! es. Ration, a rat. Rauc'.e, rash ; stout ; fearless. Raueht, leached. Ea^, a row. Rax, to s'reich. Ream, cream ; to cream. Reaming, brimful, frothing. Reave, rove. Reck, to heed. Rede, counsel ; to counsel. Iv?d-wat-shod, walking ia blocd over ihe shoe- tops. Red-wud. stark mad. Ree, hair drunk, fuddUd. Reek, smoke. iteekin, smoking. Reekii, smoked ; smo'.cy. SemeaJ, remedy. Requite, requited. Rest, to stand restive. Reail, stood restive ; s=un'ed ; withered. Re=tricked, restricted. itew, to repent, to compassionate, Ri^f, Reef, plenty. R:ef randies, sturdy beggars. Rig, a ridge. Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain tVat crosses she saddle of a horse to support the spok.-s of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless. Rin, to run, to melt ; Rinnin, running. Rink, i he course of the stones ; a term iu curl- Rockm, spinning on the rock, or c\? Rcod, .stands likewise, for the plural r ■ Roon, a shred, u border cr sel Roosiy, : o commend. Rrun", round, in the circle of neighbourLcie', lioupet, hoarse, as with a cold. Routhie, plentiful. Row. to roli, to wrap, Koh'i, rolled, wrapped. Raw!;, ;o low, to beliow. licw h, or Routh, plenty. Row tin, lowing. Rczel, rosin. Rung, a cudgel. Runkled, wrinkled. Runt, the s:em of co : ewort or ctibb.tge. Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called « Ryke, lo 'reach. Sark, a shirt ; a shift. Sarkit, provided in thirls. Saugh, the willow. Saui, soul. Scaith, to damage, to iniure; injury. Scar, a c:iff. Scaud, to scald. Scauld, to scold. Scaur, apt to be scared. Son, a cake of bread. Sconner, a loathing; to loathe. Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, Jic, Screed, to tear; a rent. Scrieve, to glide swiftly along-. Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftl.. Scrimp, to scant. Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. See'd, did see. Sen', to send. Seu't, I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send i:. Servan , servant. Settlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be fright- ed into quietness. Sets, se'* off, goes away. Shackled, distorted ; shapeless. Shaird, a shred, a shard. Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting the tail of a dog, 4c into, by way of mis- chief, or lo frighten h'ra away. Shaver, a humorous wsg ; a barber. Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hcliow. Sheen, bright, shir.inir. Sheep shank; to think one's self cae sheep- shank, to be conceited. Si e.ra-moor, Slier. ff-moor, the famous battle feueht in the rebellion. A. I). 1715. Shcugh, r. ditch, a trench, a sluice. burns.— : Shiel. a shed. Sn.ll, shriil. Skcg, a shock ; a p«=h eft 3t c Skoal, a shovel. Shoon, Hies. Shore, to offer, to threaten. Shor'd, cfien.■ c- Skaith. see Scailh. Skellam, ■ vrerthiess ftlluw. Skelp, to srike, to slap ; to walk wiih a smart tripping step ; a smart stroke. Skslp e-i'.ir.mcr, a reprsaciifui Serin in female Sk-.lpin, stepp'n?, walk! r. Skies. ., or >k„- gn, prouu, nice, bighmetiled. ek, to cry shrilly. Skii iag, shi ek _, ciying. shr eked." I ; to run as.ca', -poo fu'., a small quantity of euy lh;ng liquid. Sow h, to trj over a tune with a iow wh'olle. Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. Spae, to prophesy, to divine. Spaol, a limb. Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. Spaviet, having the spavin. Spean, Spane, to wean. Sp.at, or Spate, a sweeping torrent, after r«;n or thaw. Speel, to climb. Spence, the country parlour. Spier, to ask, to inquire. Spier't, inquired. Splatter, a splatter, to splatter, Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. r '.hie, ;o clamber. Spratlle, to scramble. Spreckled, spotted, speckled. Spring, a qu ck air in muse ; a Scot'ish reel. Sprit, a totigh rooted plant, something like Sprittie, fail of spirits. Spunk, lire, met:le ; wit. Sp«" ikie, met. nis fatuus. tie, a stick esome, fiery ; w , used in miking 11 o'v.'sp, or oatmeal pad- Sq" : er, ta Bii a party, ter in water, :; l N-- tile, to spr n, a screech , III . cream. S.'-ck, a rick of corn, hay, &c S'-a^g e, lha d.nmiaive of stag. Stalwart, . Tout, the blast of a born or trurn a horn, &c Tow, a rope. Towraond, a twelvemonth. Towzie, rough, -hagzy. Toy, a very old fashion of female Toyte, to toiler like old age. Transmogrified, transniigra'.ed, ui ed. Trashtrio, trasn. BURNS GLOSSARY. Wamefu', Tri rickie, full of tiisks. spruce , excellently. Trow, to believe. Trowth, trutli, a p°tty oah. Tryste, an appointment , a f i Trysted, appointed ; To tryst Tn% •led. , uncouth ; very, very great, Uncos, news. l T nkenn'd, unknown. Unsieker, unsure, unsteady. Unskaith d, undamaged, unhurt. Unweeting, unwitt ngly, unkuowir Upo', upon. Urchin, a hedgehog. Viltle, corn of all kinds, food. WA' wall ; Wa's , walls. Wabsler, a weave Wad, would; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. Wadna, would no Wae, wo ; sorrow fill. Waffu' woful, sc rrowful, wa lin^. Waesucks ! or wa es me! la, Waft, the cross thread t hat goes from the shuttle through the web wc Wair, to lay out, d. Wale, choice ; to choose. Waled, chose, ch Walie, ample, lar ^jolly also an interjection of distress. ibelly-f.11. , restless. Wanchancu Wanrestfn', Wark, work. Wark-lume, a tool to work wilh. War:, or Warld, world. Warlock, a wizard. orldly, eager on amassin, 3. warrant ; to warrant. Warst, worst. Warstl'd, or Warsl'd, wrestled. Wastrie, prodigality. t, wet; I wat, I wot, I know, ler-brose, bro=e made of meal mply, without the addition of n Wattle, a twijr, a wond. Wauble, to swing, to reel. Waught, a draught. , thickened a AVaukrife, not apt tc Waur, woi fullers do cloth. V"a rsted. r VVeanie. a child. or Weary; many a weary bod i ditferent person. Weason, weasand. slocking. See Stocking-. Wee, little; Wee things, little ones; Wee b ia.ll matter. Weel, well; Weelfnre, welfare. Weird, fate. e shall. Wha, wbo. Whalpit, whelped. Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of cbees bread, &o to give the strappado. Whare, where ; Whare'er, wherever. pp. to fly nimbly, jerk; penny whee ail beer. Whatreck, nevertheless. Whid, the motion of a hare, running but l) fr.ghted; a lie. VVhiddin, running as a hare or cony. is, whims, fane es, crotchets. Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling a pendages. Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. Whisht, silence ; to hold one's Whisht, to silent. Whisk, to sweep, to lash- Whiskit, lashed. Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. Whun-stane, a whin-stone. Wicht, w: cf a sup* Wick, to strikeaston Wicker, willow (the Wiel, a small whirlpool, ht, powerful, stror icr genius. oblique direction ; aller sort). ng term for rved ; avoiding BURNS. -GLOSSARY. indering. Wimpl'f, meanderpd. VViinplin, waving, me; Win, to Win, to winu. Win't, winded as a bottom of vai ! Win's, winds. N\ 11 ..'il; n mock, a window. Winsome, hearty, Taunted, gay. Wintle, a stagger. ng motion; to Withoutten, without. Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appcila- Wons, dwells. Woo', wool. Woo, to court, to make love to. Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the knee with a couple of loops. Wordy, worthy. Worse , worsted, Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wender. Wrack, to teaze, to vex. AVraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition ex- actly like a living person, whose appearance is said to forbode the person's approachiug Wumble, a wimble. Wyle, to beguile. Wjliecoat, a flannel vest Wyte, blame; to blame. Yearlings, born in the sani Year is used both for singui Yearn, earn, an eagle, an Yell, barren, that gives no year, coevals. ar and plural years, osprtiy. milk. Yerki't, jerked, lashed. Yestreen, yesternight. Yett, a gate, such as is usu into a farm -yard or held. YU1, ale. Yird, earth, Vokin, yoking ; a bout. Yout, beyond. "* oursel, yourself. illy at the entrance '4. A i Y 3 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS mil mi in II i 014 389 731 A